The End of a Marriage (Colette and Matheo) novel Chapter 230

CHAPTER 23

At the breakfast table, Isla’s absence was notable, though not

unusual. Normally, Maggie would quietly prepare a plate and take it

up to Isla’s room, sparing her the effort of joining the morning

routine. But today, an unspoken agreement passed between Maggie

and Graham as they exchanged a glance across the table. Without a

word, Maggie rose from her seat, determination written on her face.

“I’ll go get her,” she announced firmly, leaving Graham to sip his

coffee with a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

Ten minutes later, Maggie returned, escorting Isla into the dining room like a prisoner of war forced to face her captor. Isla shuffled in, clearly displeased, her grumpy expression a stormcloud of

indignation. She slid into her seat with a dramatic sigh, her lips pushed into a pout that could rival the sulkiest child.

Her displeasure was as evident as the chaotic state of her hair, a wild

tangle of black and brown curls that framed her face in unruly defiance. She hadn’t even bothered to run a brush through it, an

obvious declaration of her protest against being dragged out of the

sanctuary of her room.

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From beneath her thick lashes, Isla shot a glare in Graham’s

direction, her dark eyes smoldering with annoyance. The combination

of her messy hair, pouty lips, and rebellious demeanor might have

been meant to deter him, but instead, it only amused him. No, more

than that–it charmed him.

For some reason, the sight of Isla sitting across from him, her

youthful face glowing with the freshness of the morning, made

Graham’s heart slam against his ribcage. Her pouty pink lips, framed

by a tangle of unruly curls, and her clear, makeup–free complexion

gave her an innocent, unworldly look that tugged at something deep

inside him. It was moments like these that made him acutely aware of

just how young she was–and how precarious this all could become if

he didn’t tread carefully. She was like a glass statue: delicate, fragile,

and requiring the utmost care. One wrong move, and he could shatter

everything.

“I’m not a child, Maggie,” Isla snapped, her voice breaking through

his reverie. She shifted her fiery gaze from him to the housekeeper,

her indignation now redirected. “Stop hovering over me like I’m going

to run off the moment you blink.”

Maggie, unflinching, planted her hands firmly on her hips and raised

an eyebrow in challenge. “I don’t know about that,” she said, her tone

carrying the seasoned authority of someone who had raised more

children than she cared to count. “For someone insisting over and

over again that they’re not a child, you’re doing a fine job acting like

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one. Pouting, stomping, and refusing to eat breakfast? That’s as

childish as it gets.”

Isla’s glare deepened, her lips pressing into a stubborn line. “I’m not

hungry,” she shot back, her voice laced with irritation. “That’s all I

said.”

Maggie gave an exasperated huff but didn’t relent. “Not hungry, my

foot,” she said, her sharp tone softened by the warmth in her eyes.

“You’re just being difficult because you didn’t get your way this

morning. Now eat your breakfast before I start spoon–feeding you like

you’re five years old.”

Graham couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at his lips, though he

quickly hid it behind his coffee cup. The exchange was almost

comical, Isla’s fiery spirit clashing head–on with Maggie’s no-

nonsense demeanor. Yet, beneath the humor, he felt a pang of

something deeper–an odd mix of protectiveness and guilt. She was

still so young, despite her fiery protests to the contrary. And if he

wasn’t careful, if he didn’t handle this right, he could hurt her in

ways neither of them could recover from.

But Isla, true to form, wasn’t one to back down so easily. She crossed

her arms over her chest and sat back in her chair, her defiance evident

in every line of her posture. “Fine,” she said, her tone dripping with

reluctance. “I’ll eat. But only because you won’t stop nagging me.”

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Maggie opened her mouth, ready to fire back, but Graham raised a

hand, a silent signal for her to step aside. With a quick nod and a

wary glance at the tension lingering in the room, she left them alone.

The silence that followed was thick, stretching between them like an invisible wall. Graham continued eating his toast and eggs, his

movements unhurried, while Isla sat across from him, fuming with all

the quiet intensity of a storm ready to break.

“You should try the baklava,” he said eventually, his voice calm and

soft, as though speaking too loudly might set her off. “One of my

clients sent it from New York. You might like it.”

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