Inside the warmth of the house, Isabella closed the book with a gentle thud, her eyes lingering on the final words. She watched over Jonathan, whose breathing had settled into a steady rhythm, a peaceful contrast to the world outside. With a tender kiss on his forehead, she wrapped him in the comfort of the quilt. Jonathan was more than a charge to her; he was the grandfather she had chosen in her heart, and her affection for him was as deep as the night sky.

  Gathering her belongings, Isabella's gaze fell upon Ledvic, who was engrossed in the flickering images on the TV screen. The absence of Linda sent a shiver down her spine, amplifying her fears. Linda's presence was a shield, albeit an annoying one, against Ledvic's unpredictable nature.

  With a thought to slip away unnoticed, Isabella's heart skipped a beat as the TV blinked into silence. "Stop there, Isabella," came Ledvic's voice, a command that rooted her to the spot. She didn't dare turn to face him, but the sound of his footsteps was a chilling melody.

  "Aren't you afraid of going alone?" he inquired, his tone dripping with a confidence that he likely found alluring. To Isabella, however, it was nothing short of terrifying. "No... normally I used to go at this hour...and I'm used to it, Young Master. Thanks for your caring, but I have to go home now!" she replied, her words a cascade of urgency.

  In an instant, Ledvic's hands were upon her, his strength pressing her against the wall. His eyes, dark and fathomless, bore into her as he brushed aside the strands of hair that veiled her face. Fear gripped Isabella's heart, her pleas for release swallowed by his indifference.

  The sudden cry of "Young Miss!" offered a fleeting hope. Ledvic's attention snapped away, and Isabella seized the moment, pushing past him with newfound strength. As she fled into the night, Ledvic's anger found its mark on the wall, his plans thwarted by her escape.

  Isabella's flight was a blur of fear and exhaustion, her throat parched and her temple throbbing with each heartbeat. Collapsing on the street, she allowed the tears to come, her sobs a lonely echo in the darkness.

  Then, a voice broke through her despair. "Miss... miss..." Lifting her eyes, Isabella beheld a figure offering water and a medical kit. "Drink this water and help yourself with the wound, Miss. I'm in a hurry," the stranger said, leaving the items within her reach.

  As the figure vanished into the night, Isabella pondered the mysterious kindness. "Could he be an angel?" she wondered, unaware that this angelic intervention was orchestrated by none other than Benjamin Charles.

  Why had Benjamin Charles sent his men to aid her? Was it out of love or some unfathomable motive? Even Benjamin himself could not fully understand his actions, but for the moment, his thoughts were clouded with disdain: "I hate girls like her."

  And so, the night unfolded, a tapestry of fear, courage, and enigmatic saviors, each thread weaving the intricate story of Isabella's fate.

  •••••••••

  In the dim light of dawn, Isabella's world was a canvas of shadows and whispers, painted with the enigmatic strokes of a stranger's kindness. He was a specter, an ephemeral presence that flickered into her life, leaving behind nothing but the gentle touch of an angel. Yet, unbeknownst to her, he was a harbinger sent by the enigmatic Benjamin Charles, a man whose name was whispered in reverence and fear.

  Tucked away behind the skeletal frame of an abandoned building, a car sat in silence. The man who had bestowed upon her the gifts of healing—a medical kit and the life-sustaining elixir of water—slipped into the driver's seat, his role shifting seamlessly from savior to chauffeur. His gaze caught the reflection of his formidable employer in the rearview mirror, a man shrouded in the tranquility of closed eyes and unspoken thoughts.

  "Sir, I did what you told me to," he announced, his voice a tentative ripple in the stillness. A hum, low and resonant, was the only acknowledgment from his boss, a subtle cue that set the wheels of fate in motion once more.

  "How long can you keep on acting like this? Soon... soon you will be caught," Benjamin murmured, his words a soft caress against the silence, laden with the weight of inevitability.

  Meanwhile, Isabella tended to her wounds with the grace of a wounded fawn, the cool water soothing her parched throat. Gratitude swelled within her, a tide that longed to reach the shores of her mysterious benefactor. Yet, he was a fleeting shadow, gone before she could utter a word of thanks. A vow crystallized in her heart—to express her gratitude when destiny would next weave their paths together.

  Her journey home was a pilgrimage to a shrine of memories, a modest abode that cradled the echoes of a life once shared with her beloved parents. The door creaked open, a familiar sound that whispered comfort and solace. She cleansed herself of the day's tribulations, the water washing away more than just the grime of the physical world.

  Exhaustion draped over her like a heavy cloak, but the call of knowledge was a siren song she could not ignore. The lessons of the day beckoned, demanding her attention for hours, until the clock struck the witching hour. The darkness was a void she dared not face alone, and so a solitary lamp stood vigil as she surrendered to slumber, its light a feeble shield against the phantoms of her fears.

  In the shroud of night, a sentinel's vigil over Isabella's sanctuary was interrupted by the summoning of his mobile device. "Sir, I think she went to sleep. Do I have to watch her at night too?" he inquired, his voice a thread in the tapestry of the night.

  "No need, but continue during the day tomorrow," came the response, a decree that severed the call and left the watcher to ponder the enigma of the girl named Isabella.

  Dawn's embrace brought with it the rituals of the morning. Isabella rose with the sun, her day unfolding with the meticulous choreography of chores and culinary creations. The bristles of her toothbrush danced across her teeth, and the sizzle of breakfast filled the air. A yellow tiffin box, a relic of maternal love, cradled her lunch, its hue a poignant reminder that coaxed forth unbidden tears.

  Time, ever the stealthy thief, whisked away the minutes, and Isabella found herself hastening towards the hallowed halls of learning. Yawns escaped her lips, betrayals of a body that yearned for rest despite the generous hours of sleep it had been granted. "Didn't I get seven and a half hours of sleep? Why am I so sleepy again? I'm such a lazy girl," she chided herself, her steps a rhythmic counterpoint to her internal monologue.

  The college was a hive of murmurs and sidelong glances, a tempest of gossip that Isabella chose to navigate with the calm of an unfazed observer. She entered the classroom, a theater of whispers where every eye seemed to cast judgment upon her. Curiosity gnawed at her, yet she chose the sanctuary of silence, taking her seat amidst the storm of stares.

  Helen, the harbinger of yesterday's encounter with Gia Holmes, approached with the deliberate force of a tempest. Her hands slammed down upon Isabella's desk, a declaration of confrontation that sent a jolt through Isabella's frame. Laughter erupted, a cruel chorus that mocked her startled reaction. "I didn't know you were a scaredy cat," they taunted, their mirth a bitter symphony.

  "Stop with your innocent acting. We all know you are an abandoned one. You said you were from the Grey family, and yesterday when I had my Dad's people search about you, they said you were adopted since they didn't have a child. So of course, you are the child of your bastard parents, maybe some slut or playboy's kid," Helen proclaimed, her words a venomous blade that sliced through the air, drawing forth a cacophony of laughter from the audience.

  Isabella, a statue of stoic sorrow, sat with her gaze cast downward, her fingers entwined in a ballet of anxiety. Tears, those silent rebels, waged war against her resolve, and in the end, they claimed victory, cascading down her cheeks in a silent testament to her pain.

  "So biologically, you are a bastard's kid, and thus you are not to be mentioned with the name Grey behind your name," Helen declared, her voice a gavel that sought to pass judgment upon Isabella's very identity.

  Isabella lifted her head, her eyes meeting Helen's with the quiet strength of a storm brewing on the horizon.