The Secret Heir's Return

　　The pink slip landed on Isabella Davenport's desk like a death certificate.

　　She stared at it, her vision blurring at the edges. Five years. Five years of eighty-hour weeks, of missed birthdays, of bringing her boss coffee she didn't get paid to bring, of staying late while colleagues went home to their families. Five years of loyalty, and this was what it bought her.

　　A single sheet of paper.

　　"Isabella?" Margaret Chen's voice came from the doorway, soft with sympathy. Her boss of half a decade stood there, a designer handbag clutched to her chest like a shield. "Do you have a moment?"

　　Isabella looked up, her ocean-blue eyes rimmed with green her mother always said they shifted with her emotions, and nodded slowly. She folded the pink slip with careful precision, tucking it into her bag as if it were something precious instead of the evidence of her professional death.

　　"I'm so sorry," Margaret said, settling into the chair across from Isabella's desk. The office around them buzzed with the quiet panic of forty other employees receiving the same news. "You know this wasn't my decision. The investors"

　　"You don't have to explain." Isabella's voice came out steadier than she felt. At twenty-five, she'd learned that crying in front of people only made them uncomfortable. She saved her tears for the subway, for the privacy of her bathroom, for the moments when no one was watching. "I understand how these things work."

　　Margaret studied her for a long moment. Isabella knew what she saw: a slim woman with fair skin dusted in freckles, long brown hair pulled into a severe bun because loose hair was unprofessional, a face that looked younger than her years despite the exhaustion etched around her eyes.

　　"You're too composed for your age," Margaret said finally. "It's unsettling."

　　"I've been told that before."

　　A ghost of a smile crossed Margaret's face. "I didn't come here just to apologize, Isabella. I came to offer you something." She reached into her bag and produced a cream-colored envelope, thick and expensive. "I made some calls. Thorn Enterprises is hiring a personal secretary for their CEO. The position hasn't been advertised yet. This is a letter of introduction from me."

　　Isabella's heart stuttered. Thorn Enterprises. The Thorn Empire. Skyscrapers and private jets and the kind of money that made other rich people jealous.

　　"I can't" she started.

　　"You can, and you will." Margaret pressed the envelope into her hands. "You're the hardest worker I've ever employed. You deserve better than what happened here. Take the letter. Go home. Process. And when you're ready, you show up at Thorn Enterprises and you don't leave until they hire you."

　　Isabella's fingers trembled against the expensive paper. "Margaret, I don't know how to thank you"

　　"Thank me by succeeding." Margaret stood, smoothing her pencil skirt. "And Isabella? Whatever's waiting for you at home? Deal with it. You've been running on empty for months. I can see it. Sooner or later, everyone else will too."

　　She left before Isabella could respond.

　　For a long moment, Isabella sat motionless, the envelope warm in her hands. Thorn Enterprises. A fresh start. A chance to disappear into work the way she always did when life got complicated.

　　Her phone buzzed.

　　Priscilla: Please come home. I need you.

　　Isabella exhaled slowly. Priscilla always needed her. That was the nature of their friendship Isabella the steady rock, Priscilla the beautiful disaster. They'd been roommates since college, an unlikely pair: the antisocial workaholic and the party-girl model. But somewhere along the way, Priscilla had become the sister Isabella never had.

　　Whatever's waiting for you at home? Deal with it.

　　She shoved the envelope into her bag and stood.

　　The apartment door was unlocked.

　　Isabella frowned, pushing it open slowly. The living room was dark, curtains drawn against the late afternoon sun. Empty wine bottles covered the coffee table at least four of them. Clothes were scattered across the floor like breadcrumbs leading to some terrible discovery.

　　"Priscilla?"

　　A muffled sob came from the bedroom.

　　Isabella moved faster now, her work flats silent against the hardwood. She pushed open the bedroom door and found Priscilla curled on the bed, mascara streaming down her perfect cheekbones. Even in devastation, she looked like she belonged on a magazine cover dyed blonde hair fanned across the pillows, legs for days, the kind of bone structure that made ordinary women weep with envy.

　　"What happened?" Isabella sat on the edge of the bed, her hand finding Priscilla's. "Are you hurt? Did someone"

　　"I'm pregnant."

　　The words landed like stones in still water.

　　Isabella's hand stilled. "What?"

　　Priscilla's brown eyes flooded with fresh tears. "I didn't know who else to tell. I took three tests. They're all positive. I'm pregnant, Bella, and I don't" Her voice cracked. "I don't know who the father is."

　　Isabella processed this information with the same careful composure she'd used with Margaret. Her best friend, the model whose career depended on her body, was pregnant with an unknown man's child. It was the kind of disaster that could destroy everything Priscilla had built.

　　"Okay," Isabella said slowly. "Okay. We'll figure this out. We'll"

　　"I'm such an idiot." Priscilla sat up, clutching a pillow to her chest. "You warned me. All those parties, all those men. You said something like this would happen, and I didn't listen, and now"

　　"Stop." Isabella squeezed her hand. "We're not doing blame. We're doing solutions. Have you seen a doctor? Do you know how far along you are?"

　　Priscilla shook her head. "I just found out today. I couldn't even" She broke off, fresh sobs overtaking her.

　　Isabella pulled her close, the way she always did. This was their pattern: Priscilla fell apart, Isabella put her back together. It had worked for seven years. It will work now.

　　"I'm going to take care of you," Isabella murmured against her friend's hair. "We're going to get through this. I promise."

　　Priscilla clung to her like a drowning woman.

　　Later, after Priscilla had cried herself to sleep, Isabella sat in the dark living room and pulled out Margaret's envelope. Thorn Enterprises. A fresh start. A chance to rebuild everything that had crumbled today.

　　Her phone buzzed again.

　　Jonathan: Can't wait to see you tonight. I have something special planned.

　　Jonathan. Her fiancé. The one bright spot in a life that had been mostly work and worry. Three years together, six months engaged, and he still looked at her like she'd hung the moon.

　　Isabella smiled despite everything. At least she had him. At least some things were still right.

　　She typed back: Long day. Can't wait to see you too.

　　Then she tucked her phone away and started planning a surprise party for Priscilla. Her best friend loved parties more than anything in the world. If anyone needed cheering up, it was her.

　　Isabella would make it perfect. She'd invite all their friends, decorate the apartment, and make sure Priscilla had no idea until she walked through the door. It was the least she could do.

　　She reached for her laptop and began making lists.

　　Three hours later, the plan was complete. Isabella stretched, her neck cracking from hunching over the computer. Priscilla was still asleep. Jonathan had texted that he'd be late for a work emergency, he said. Isabella understood. She was used to late nights and canceled plans.

　　She was just about to close her laptop when she heard it.

　　A noise from downstairs.

　　The apartment had two floors, living areas below, and bedrooms above. Their housekeeper, a high school student they hired to clean twice a week, had been suspected of sneaking friends in when they weren't home. Isabella had never caught her, but she'd suspected.

　　Tonight, she would catch her.

　　She moved quietly down the stairs, her bare feet silent on the wood. The noise grew louder, a rhythmic sound she couldn't quite place. Coming from the living room.

　　Isabella rounded the corner.

　　And the world stopped.

　　On her couch, tangled in the blankets she'd bought at a Brooklyn flea market, were two people. The woman had unmistakably dyed blonde hair, endless legs, and a face that launched a thousand magazine covers.

　　Priscilla.

　　The man was on top of her, his tousled blonde curls catching the light from the television. He turned at the sound of Isabella's gasp.

　　Jonathan.

　　His dark eyes went wide with horror.

　　"Bella," he started.

　　But Isabella wasn't looking at him anymore. She was looking at Priscilla, who met her gaze with something that looked almost like defiance.

　　"I'm sorry," Priscilla said quietly.

　　And Isabella understood at that moment that she wasn't sorry at all.