My Sweet Isabella (The Ambassador Trilogy #3) (13 page)

I grabbed my cane and hobbled to her. I wanted to hold her and kiss her to settle her down.

“Don’t you dare come near me?” She screamed at me, throwing up her hands. Her lips were quivering, and she had a vicious look in her eyes, I had never seen before.

“Isabella, please understand. I’m doing this because I love you.” The pain in my leg was so intense the need to sit down took over me. I couldn’t sit down. I felt the world spinning.

“Fuck you, Fabrice. Fuck you. Don’t you dare come to my condo or my parents’ house. You stay away from me. When you come back to Washington, forget you ever knew me. I don’t want you anywhere near me.” Her sobs would haunt my lonely nights. I could not bear to hear the despair and utter sadness in her cries. Oh God what had I done to us? I promised to never to hurt her. I told her I would be there for her always. I never wanted her to cry because of me. As much as I was dying inside, the thought of her being shot, held hostage, or raped by one of these motherfuckers made me think of nothing else. That thought pushed me to give up the one true thing in my life. These fuckers were still hurting me now. A slow torturous hurt that would not stop until the danger was over and I could be honest with her while I begged for her forgiveness. I prayed her forgiveness wouldn’t come too late.

Wiping the tears from her face and trying to breathe, she took her ring off her finger and placed it on the dresser. I watched as she picked up her suitcases and walked out the bedroom without looking at me. As I sat on the bed, to upset to get up, I heard the front door shut and I knew she was gone. If I had been able, I would have chased after her and brought her back. If I had been able, none of this would have happened and those fuckers would all be dead. I looked out my bedroom window and watched the car pull out and move slowly down the driveway, I could see her in the backseat. She was still crying. I hung my head and attempted to make sense of what I had done. It was too much. I would never be able to make sense of it.

T
he
vodka slid down my throat and to my stomach with a slow burn. I was drowning in self-pity and depression. The vodka helped eased the pain of not having Isabella with me. She had been gone for a week now. The ache of my loneliness was severe. I worked during the day and drowned my sorrows at night. I didn’t sleep, I paced, yelled, and fought to keep myself together.

Gustan and the security team, insisted that I should stay inside the house. Fuck him and everyone else. I didn’t care. Let the motherfuckers shoot me. This time I hope they blew my head off.

Outside was the one place I was somewhat comfortable. I needed to be outside where I could breathe. Rain or shine, day or night, I sat outside. Going in the house reminded me too much of her. Isabella was everywhere. The scent of her still lingered in the air, the sheets, and in my closet. The bathroom still held her toiletries. I couldn’t throw them away. The fresh flowers she would put in vases around the house lay dying. The lavender she loved to pick was dried up in a vase with no water. The cleaning lady knew not to touch them. I already informed her they were not to be touched. She looked at me like I was insane. I didn’t give a shit. I had half a mind to let her go as well. Nothing needed cleaned. I didn’t eat, I wore the same clothes every day, and I could wash them myself. I didn’t want anyone in my house anymore. The house was a tomb of memories.

I hadn’t talked to her. She wouldn’t answer my calls, texts, or emails. I knew she was safe because, like Romain, I had someone following her. She flew home and the last I knew she was back at her parent’s house. My parents had stayed a couple of days with me and left earlier in the week. I told them what happened, but I didn’t tell them why Isabella went home. They were under the impression I let her go because I was depressed and wanted her to be happy. I didn’t mention Andrea or my brother. I made my wishes clear to them that I wanted to be alone. I was a miserable asshole and the way I felt showed with everyone, including them. I snapped at my mother one morning when she insisted I eat. I had never done that before. She insisted I would wind up back in the hospital and I needed to eat. I couldn’t tell her I didn’t care. I had given up. I yelled at her and told her to mind her own business. After that, my parents steered clear of me and packed their bags within the hour, to go back home. I was fine with that. I needed to be left alone.

Gustan and I met every morning and went over the reports. I had not seen Pierre and I didn’t tell him Isabella had left. He has called me several times, but I haven’t returned his calls. As the weeks passed there was no sign of Andrea Noir yet, and there was no new information about her. My brother had stayed in Rome, and I talked to him on the phone when he called, trying to act as normal as I could. I wanted to tell him to leave me alone, to fuck off and die, but no red flags they said. I held him to blame for loosing Isabella. If he hadn’t been fucking a terrorist she may still be with me. This bastard constantly fucked with me one way or another. This is precisely why I didn’t want him back in my life. Yet, I had to act as normal as possible. I didn’t tell him Isabella was gone and I asked my parents not to tell him either. I wanted to see if he mentioned her leaving. He never did. He mentioned nothing about Andrea missing which raised my concern he knew where she was. I even went so far as to ask him when I would meet her and he said she was off in Paris on business. That had proven to be not true. There was no phone calls or text messages from his phone to hers. Gustan had checked and double checked. I still wasn’t buying anything yet.

My gunshot wound was healing, and the pain subsided more each week. My thigh was bulking up slowly and starting to resemble my old leg again. I was still doing physical therapy every day and extra at night to speed up the healing process. The scar on my leg was constant reminder of what I gave up, what I would not have again, and how I had no will to live anymore. It was nothing like the scar I carried on my heart and soul. The pain of losing her had me crying out in what little sleep I was able to get. That scar had me thrashing in bed, sweaty and wishing I was dead.

Other than working at my home office, going to the doctor and physical therapy, Gustan was the only human contact I had for a while. I would sit outside in the French country air amongst the growing grapes and cry for her when I was alone. No one knew. Maybe Gustan did, but he never said anything. I would never let anyone know the despair I felt. Not only was my body a mess, but my life was now ruined without her.

I spoke once to Avery, who was more than pissed at me. I had promised I would take care of Isabella forever when she was in Paris, and I went back on my promise. She barely talked to me, and the call was short and very unwelcoming. I asked her how her heart was doing. She told me she was getting weaker and now with Cherise, her wife, who was ready to have a baby any day, she reconsidered another heart transplant. I was relieved to hear that. She said she would watch over Isabella and would get in touch with me again soon. I knew better. I phoned Isabella’s mother. I had to explain to her what happened. I didn’t want her to think I did something to hurt her intentionally. We had a long talk, and as I listened to her cry on the other end I told her a hundred times how sorry I was, how I didn’t want this, but I had to let her go. She cried, and I choked up when she said Isabella had not stopped crying since she had been home. I died inside again hearing that. I said I would stop in the restaurant when I could. She understood somewhat and promised to stay in touch. I had lost so many people when I lost Isabella.

~~~~~~~~~~~

With my injury healing, I tried to come across as the strong leader I used to be. I was still the French Ambassador, and whatever was going on in my personal life would have to be pushed aside for me to do my job. As the days passed, I was in more of a daze. My behavior became erratic, and Gustan was the one I took my anger out on now. He seemed unaffected with my constant burst of rage and ignored my tantrums most times. He never wavered or became upset with me. Maybe from his own experience, he knew what I was going through.

My physical appearance began to show the effects of the devastation of the injury and not having Isabella. I wasn’t eating, and I drank most nights to get through them without her. Vodka had now replaced the pain medication. My face became pale and haggard. I didn’t shave, and I barely showered unless I went to the Embassy. My mother, who stopped in to see me once a week whether I wanted her to or not, noticed my drastic appearance.

“My poor son, you look tired. If you were still a boy, I would take you over my knee for this behavior.” I shot her a look. I knew what she meant. We were sitting outside, and she wanted me to eat. She brought over my favorite foods in hopes I would devour them with a vengeance. I ate nothing, but promised her I would later. I noticed I lied more than ever. I’d never lied to my family before, but lying was what I did a lot lately.

“Mamma, I look like I’m seventy years old. I don’t care anymore.”

“Yes, you do. You care, Fabrice. You have given up. You think you aren’t the strong man anymore. You want to hide and be left alone, and you have no purpose to live without Isabella.”

My gaze left her face, and I looked down at the ground. My mother always knew me so well.

“I want to talk to her, and I don’t know how to reach her. Would you care if I called her?”

I shrugged.

“Sure, Mamma, but please don’t talk about me.”

“I won’t, Fabrice. That’s your life and your choice. What I will do is talk to her as my friend. You know she and I became good friends. I miss her.”

“I miss her too.” I could not speak any more. I walked out into the vineyards so my mother wouldn’t see me cry. The last time I cried in front of her I was ten years old, and my favorite cat died. That was the one time I let her see my feelings. I have not let anyone see me cry, except Isabella. During the funeral for my first wife, I kept myself together and didn’t show any emotion until I was alone. I was taught not to show my feelings to others. As a man, I kept them hidden as much as possible.

That morning was the last time she mentioned Isabella before I went back to Washington. She didn’t bring her up again, and I didn’t ask whether or not she talked to her. I didn’t want to know. The pain of knowing my mother spoke to her would hurt too badly.

On the day I heard I was able to get back to Washington, Pierre called to inform me he found the boy. The boy they threatened to shoot in the café was found in a little apartment in Paris with his parents. Pierre stopped to see him and his family and reported to me he was alive and fine. He said that his mother was not one of the dead, but was injured that day. Not from a bullet but from falling on her son and breaking her arm. Thank God. Apparently, Gustan shot the terrorist before they hurt her. My feelings of relief that that boy was sparred came over me. I breathed a sigh of relief hearing that one bit of good news.

Pierre picked up on my disposition.

“You don’t sound like yourself.”

“I’m not myself, Pierre. I took your advice and sent Isabella home.”

There was silence on the other end.

“You didn’t tell her why did you?” He was adamant that I didn’t tell anyone about Andrea or my brother.

“I don’t want to talk about Isabella, Pierre. No, I didn’t tell her anything. She’s just gone.”

“I’m sorry, Fabrice. This boy, wants to meet you sometime. Now wouldn’t be a good time until you are better both physically and mentally.” He was right. I didn’t want the boy to see me in the shape I was in. I didn’t want him to think my misery had anything to do with him.

“When I come back to Paris will you set up a meeting with him and his family?”

“I will certainly set that up. Let me know ahead of time and we will get you there.”

“Thank you, Pierre. That eases my mind somewhat.”

“I’m so sorry, Fabrice. I hope things get better once you’re back in Washington.” I didn’t say much more. I was two drinks into the phone call and wanted to go to sleep. I didn’t want to talk anymore. I had nothing left to say.

My parents stopped by to say goodbye to me as I packed. My father was also as devastated as my mother from missing Isabella. I explained to him as best I could, what happened and why.

“Fabrice, that girl lived for you. Why? Why would you push her away?”

“Because she needs better. With my life unrecognizable anymore, I couldn’t do my job and be a good person to her.” How could I get these people to understand why I did what I did? No one seemed to understand why.