Consider it done.

What the hell had possessed her to be so stupid?

Scowling, head stuffed in the oven, Isobel scrubbed furiously at the final, stubborn patch that refused to relent. God dammit. Shayne's phone call yesterday afternoon had caught her in a moment of profound weakness; otherwise she wouldn't have made such a crucial mistake that led to a fierce cleaning frenzy on the back of a fourteen hour work day, and almost no sleep the night before.

Marco—the Golden Prince—under her roof for three months.

Consider it done.

She was about five minutes away from chiselling those simple little words on her tombstone.

The doorbell chimed musically and Isobel's dragged her head out of the oven, tossing her destroyed sponge into sudsy water. The kitchen floor scattered with an array of cleaning products. None of which had made a dent on that infernal black spot.

Slapping the oven door shut, she hurried to the front door and leaned on tip toe to peer out the peephole. Cursed.

Unlocking the door, she pulled it open. "Nneka, what are you doing here?"

Nneka's smile dimmed, and she waved a glove in Isobel's direction, motioning from head to toe. "Everything okay?"

"Yes." Isobel swiped at her hair and remembered to pull off her gloves a second before filthy latex touched her face. Dressed in worn sweats, stretched out t-shirt and ugg-style slippers, she looked more like a hobo than she did an on-camera news professional. "Just tackling some...chores."

"May I come in?" Nneka brushed her hands over the folds of her skirt, brightly colored paisley in purple and gold over turquoise. Winter through summer, her wardrobe was always bursting with vibrancy. Even on her off days she always dressed like she was minutes away from stepping on-air. Which only made Isobel's sweaty, stained t-shirt and oversized sweats all the more glaring.

"Mhmm." Bouncing on her toes with restless energy, Isobel widened the door so her boss could enter her sparkling home.

Strolling into the living room, Nneka shucked off her coat and sat down on the couch as Isobel lowered to the arm rest of her father's chair. "I wanted to catch up with you about yesterday's meeting, but I got slammed by both Paulson and Chan decided today was the perfect time to get on my ass about budget meetings." She crossed a toned leg, flashing fuchsia pumps. "Navid told me you were upset."

Isobel huffed out a breath. "Why would he say that? I'm fine. Everything's fine."

Her head listed to the side in sympathy, hair coiled into thick curls around her smooth, dark face, still flawlessly done even after ten hours out of the makeup chair. "No it's not."

No, dammit, she wasn't. And at this point, stripped of her armor, and her nerves worn down to a frayed nub, Isobel was tired of pretending otherwise.

"Fine—you win." Aggrieved, she tossed the wad of latex gloves to the coffee table between them. "It's not. I'm pissed. Troy railroaded me at yesterday's meeting, and neither of you said a word in my defense." She faced Nneka, thrust out a disappointed chin. "I thought we were a team."

"We are. You know I believe in you, what you're doing with PA is remarkable." Nneka folded her hands in her lap, and leaned forwards. "As hard as it this maybe for you to understand, we're a network. And a network is a bureaucracy built on the whims of sponsors and media executives who feel there's merit to what Troy brought to the table."

Isobel's scowl deepened as she crossed her arms. Shoulders hunched. "I just would've appreciated a head's up before my knees were cut out from under me in front of the whole production team."

Nneka flagged a hand. "Fair enough. I should've said something sooner, I dropped the ball and that's my bad." A hard knock punctuated her apology. And both women whipped their gaze to the door.

A door Isobel made no move to answer.

Nneka raised a brow. "Are you expecting company?"

Panic slicked her skin like a cold sheet of ice. Isobel jerked to her feet, and fumbled her phone out of her sweat pants pocket. Marco wasn't supposed to be here. Not yet. Not this early. "I...I wasn't. I'm—not for another two hours." Hurrying to the window, she flicked open the curtain and felt Nneka settle at her shoulder. She frowned at the sleek town car. The driver was currently hauling out luggage from the trunk.

Son of a...the blazing curse died on her tongue as her heart leapt from her chest to rattle inside her skull like a pair of tumbling dice. If Marco stepped out of the car and Nneka got a good look at him, all of Shayne's efforts to smuggle her brother into the city would go up in smoke.

Nneka might be a colleague, and a friend, but she was a news woman, and this would be a story too juicy to pass up.

The Golden Prince crashes at local media maven's home.

The papers, and media would be rife with scandal.

The hand beat the door again.

Fuck!

"Out of towners? Family?"

"No—" Head spinning, Isobel grasped at the first available straw. "I've rented out the guest room. Airbnb."

"Huh, didn't take you for the type who'd feel comfortable sharing your home with a stranger. Looks like they're staying for a while." Releasing the curtain, Nneka folded her coat over her arm. "But I guess that explains the cleaning."

Forcing a smile, Isobel scurried to the door as a first beat down a third time, a little more impatiently. Theresa Montero, Marco's assistant, stood on the threshold. Blonde hair cut to her shoulders and lake blue eyes shifted from Isobel to Nneka and back again. "Are you Ms. Morgan?"

"Yes." Blood drained from her cheeks and she wiped clammy palms against her thighs. "I'm sorry, the Airbnb didn't tell me you were arriving earlier than expected." Thankfully Theresa was adept at handling herself in all manners of circumstances, she didn't bat a single massacred lash.

"I better get going," Nneka said, scooting around Isobel and planted an airy kiss on her cheek. "We'll finish this discuss in my office on Monday."

Theresa waited until Nneka was out of earshot before asking, "Who was that?"

"My boss." Isobel watched her sashay down the front path with a measure of panic and relief.

Theresa raised an accusatory brow. "You work in television."

"Yes." God help her, if Marco stepped out of the car as Nneka swept by? But by some small mercy, Marco stayed hunkered in the back seat, otherwise obscured by tinted windows.

"And you didn't think it wise to keep all forms of press away from your home today of all days?"

"I would have," Isobel said with a tight smile, "if you'd called to tell me you'd be early."

Theresa uncrossed her arms in concession. "Yes, I'm sorry, but I had to I rebook us for an earlier flight and tried to reach you but it seems we experienced connection issues on the plane," she said as the airport limo driver dragged the suitcases from the curb and stacked them on the landing.

The back door of the limo cracked open and her heart kicked to a stop as Marco stepped out. Dressed in jeans a baggy hooded sweatshirt, wide, dark sun glasses and a ball cap tugged over his wavy golden hair, Marco walked towards her—a stranger.

She didn't know this man, or the shape of his mouth set in a hard line behind brass scruff that hadn't seen a razor in at least a month. He moved with a hint of a limp, and his normally proud shoulders were bowed inward in a sort of don't fuck with me manner she was unaccustomed to seeing on his frame.

He wore it like a stolen coat, three sizes too big and hanging off him like cheap date.

But that didn't stop the flutter in her belly, or the rise of heat in her cheeks.

As always, his effect on her was staggering and immediate. She could scarcely breathe as his hand, long fingered and wide palmed, reached up to pulled the glasses from his face revealing his arresting steel blue eyes. They shone with heat that brought out the threads of smoke in them.

A hand floated to her belly and pressed there as twin pangs erupted deep inside of her. There go my ovaries.

Mortified, Isobel widened the door for Marco and his assistant to enter her home. God help her, she hadn't even had a moment to open the windows to air out the acrid, chemical scent of cleaner and furniture polish, let alone shower or put a comb through her tangled hair—currently knotted atop her head like a rat's nest.

Please, she thought with a bracing breath, please, kill me now.

Theresa shucked off her coat, a heavy camel colored trench that likely would've cost a month's mortgage, and handed the driver a folded bill as she gave him instructions for the bags.

"Upstairs, first door on the left," Isobel added as he lifted the first step and trudged up the front hall stairway.

"Bathroom," he said with more gravel then voice.

Isobel flicked a hand beyond the staircase. "Top of the landing. Do you need—?"

Bracing the newel post, he practically recoiled when she moved to touch him. "M'fine." Marco swayed with a grumble, and lurched up each step with the determined focus and effort of a drunk trying to pass a sobriety test.

"He seems...medicated."

Theresa sighed. "That's because he is." Reaching into her large tote, she withdrew and rattled a small toiletry bag. "His prescription medication is all in here, carefully labeled. And here's a chart with detailed instructions for you to follow in the event no one is around to administer," she added, stalking towards the kitchen, she plunked a thick file on the island. "Under no circumstances is he allowed to handle his pills—in fact, best if you keep them tucked somewhere out his knowing. He's due for another dose in about an hour, along with a sleeping pill."

"Alright, miss, all the suitcases have been put away. Are you ready?" The driver stopped by the door and cocked his wrist.

"Yes, let's get going."

"Wait. Wait—" Isobel's eyes glazed as Teresa moved towards the doorway as the driver stepped out to return to the car. "You're not staying?"

"Can't," she said, sliding back into her wool trench coat. "I have a decoy reservation made at an upscale hotel under a pseudonym, of course. In case any press start sniffing around. I need to check in and make a few calls." She dragged her hair over the collar, and wrapped her scarf into a loose knot. "I'll be by first thing in the morning around eight before the nurse is scheduled to show up."

Theresa was gone before Isobel could find her voice, and blood drained from her face as the door whispered shut.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

Having Marco in her home was one thing—but alone? Alone?

Shaken, Isobel staggered to the wall, braced it with long, steadying breaths that wove between skin and bones like a needle, holding her together by a thread. A single, solitary thread.

The last time she'd ever been alone with Marco was...Jesus—five...six years ago? She'd started her first year of university, and had gone to New York to visit Priya during her winter semester. Priya's parents were supposed to attend some charity fundraiser, but had to bow out at the last moment and offered the tickets to them.

Giggling, and excited about the prospect of attending the illustrious event, they'd spent the day shopping in Manhattan—compliments of Priya's step father's generosity, and strolled the red carpet, arm in arm like a couple of celebrities during a premier.

Awed, she'd circled the lavish room of New York City's Library. The stunning arches lit pale champagne tinted with red, the room swilling with the cities elite. A unique and memorable venue for NYJL's annual Winter Ball.

A large annual fundraiser held by an organization of women committed to promote volunteerism, developing the potential of women, and improving communities through the effective action and leadership of trained volunteers. With more than five hundred guests in attendance, the black tie gala was the place to see and be seen.

She'd lost Priya who had pinned a Supreme Court justice at her table to chew her ear off about law school and showed no signs of budging from the woman's side, and remembered the shock that ripped through her as she caught sight of him across the other end of the room in a tuxedo that cut to his body like he'd been born in it. She'd known he was stateside for some thing or another, but not in New York.

Marco had beckoned Isobel over with a wave, introduced her the group of financial royalty he was standing with, all of whom she'd immediately forgotten. With his hand resting at the small of her back, all she'd been able to coherently do was breathe and keep standing least her knees buckle from that simple touch—even though there was nothing simple about it.

The graze of his fingers was like lightning. His presence as gentle as a hurricane.

Someone then made a joke about the shame of leaving a young girl standing alone by a dance floor, and he'd gallantly asked her to dance.

Dazed, she let him take her by the hand and he'd led her to join the swaying sea of elegantly dressed bodies.

Standing this close to him, Isobel felt like she'd been sucked into a vortex. A maelstrom of sensory overload. Tall, and powerfully built thanks to his athletic rowing, trapped in the walls of his arms and his scent and warmth, Isobel felt drunk. Intoxicated as her heart sprinted in her chest.

Desiree's kissing you close swelled around them, the lighting had changed his stormy blue eyes to deepest silver, and enhanced the tawny shade of his hair. And then he'd smiled, slow, easy and devastating.

One dance. One moment.That was all it took for her the rest of her heart to betray her completely, tumbling for Marco in a way it never had for Kyle. Or ever would again for anyone else.

She'd never forget it as long as she lived. Each second was scored into her soul like a brand.

A week later a picture had surfaced online in the gallery of them dancing. Her eyes were closed and her brow resting against the line of his jaw. She'd looked...incandescently happy. Priya had printed it out for her on professional grade photography paper, framed it, and given it to Isobel--a gift and a secret shared between them.

Isobel had slept with that photo beneath her pillow for six months. She clenched her eyes shut in agonized shame. Sweet Jesus...

At the top of the stairs, Marco stumbled out of the bathroom, his face pale and hands unsteady. "Tre?"

"She's...gone," Isobel struggled around the lump in her voice. Pushing steel into her spine, and a smile across her face, she pushed up the stairs to join him at the top. "Everything okay?"

He blinked at her as if he was struggling to see her clearly. "Tired."

"Oh, right. Of course, you must be exhausted. Here, let me show you to your room." She almost reached for him again, but reigned in the impulse. It was the same with Da when he'd had his accident. Even when he was wrapped from shoulder to hip in a cast and struggling his way around a pair of crutches down the stairs, he'd barked and snarled at her every time she'd offered to help.

She'd worked herself into a sobbing mess until Cait told her about the time she'd broken her leg and was pent up for a month.

No one likes feeling dependant. Leave him alone and trust that if he needs help, he'll ask for it.

Leading the way, Isobel swung open the first door to the left and flicked on the lights. The driver had neatly stacked the suitcases by her closet, careful to keep them well out of the way.

Entering her bedroom, his eyes moved over the space—the muted yellow walls, and ivory duvet. "This is your room." He said it with such knowing certainty, as if he'd seen these walls, this bed, a million times over—near as often as she'd fantasized about him. Especially within the last two months...

Guilty blasted through her cheeks. "Yes."

His gaze swung to hers as she opened the doors on an antique maple hutch, the inside stacked with duvets, sheets and extra pillows. "You didn't have to do that. Give up your bed. I'd've been fine with the couch."

"For three months?" Isobel set down the extra pillows on the foot of the bed. "Shayne would kill me—and you. This room is closest to the bathroom, and the stairs. It also gets the most sunlight." She crossed to the windows and dragged away the cobalt blue curtains with grey chevrons. Her room overlooked the backyard, the large stately red maple, wide blue sky, and the ripple of houses.

Marco's shape moved across the glass, and a breath snagged in her throat as his hand brushed across her shoulder. For reasons she couldn't understand, she turned to face him, and was blasted by the intensity of his gaze. Though dulled with meds and sharpened with grief, there was the barest hint of tenderness, and finally a glimpse of the Marco she knew—the Marco who had claimed her heart all those years ago with a dance and a smile—peeked through.

"Thank you."

"Happy to help."

Off limits. Off limits. Off limits. It rang through her skull like a struck church bell.

Rule #18 - A Sister's family member is off limits – including cousins, brothers (step or biological), uncles, etc. without Sister's express permission.

Isobel released an unsteady breath. And dammit her knees were weakening. "I'll—I'll get your medication."

Walking away was a struggle, each step a feat of herculean strength. When she reached the door, Isobel gripped the door handle to keep herself upright and slid into the hall. Shutting the door behind her, she leaned back against it and willed her heart to settle.

He'd only been in her home for barely three minutes.

How was she supposed to survive this—survive him—for three whole months?

**AN**

Wooooooo talk about intense. I have been sooooooo excited to get these two on the page together. Congrats to those of you who picked up on the subtle hints I'd dropped in book one about Isobel maybe having a crush on the Golden Prince. 

;) You guys are pretty slick, and here I thought I was so sneaky and careful with my foreshadowing. 

Isobel is def in for a challenge few weeks. 

If you don't recognize the song mentioned - I've posted it above this chapter. Keep the tissues handy when you hit play. It's beautiful and tragic and will make you a sobbing, romantic mess of feels.  

Have you guys ever been in Isobel's shoes--wanting someone you can't have?  

Any bets as to how long until she cracks under the pressure?? 

And who do you think will make the first move???