The Perservering Woman

Prologue

January 2024

THE PROCESSION OF cars following the black hearse into St. Paul’s Presbyterian Cemetery was thirty long. Slowly, the cars made their way through the cemetery to Mrs. Emily Johnstone’s final resting place. A few minutes in, the hearse stopped before the mausoleum Isabella had built for Mrs. Johnstone’s last resting place.

The mausoleum, constructed of white marble, stood tall amongst the headstones jutting from the snow-covered ground. Above the entrance door, a hand-carved angel strummed a gold lyre. On opposite sides of the door, colourful orchids speared from tall white urns. It was a grand structure, but Isabella Farfalla believed it was what Mrs. Johnstone deserved.

Mrs. Johnstone was much more to Isabella than the bank manager, who decades ago gave a young, naïve girl the opportunity of a lifetime. Emily Johnstone was a friend and mentor. Because of Emily Johnstone, Isabella owned and managed the worldwide renowned billion-dollar Isabella Farfalla Fashion empire.

Because of Mrs. Johnstone, the fashion-conscious sought Isabella’s designer clothes, handbags, shoes, accessories, and perfumes. Mrs. Johnstone’s foresight had made it possible for celebrities, the elite, and royalty to want to be seen in Isabella Farfalla’s original design.

Isabella’s elegant, graceful designs had walked down the red carpet, appeared on various theatrical stages, and worn at galas, Hollywood award shows, first ladies, and royalty. Isabella’s designs and gold butterfly logo were as recognizable as Gucci’s interlocked “G” s and Chanel’s bold interlaced “C” s.

As much as Isabella’s husband, Antonio Sabatini, and Sal Mesi, her biological father—who appeared in her life decades later—ultimately had a hand in her success, Emily Johnstone believed in Isabella enough to approve the loan that helped launch her company.

Opening the car door, Isabella stepped out. The air was crisp, and cooler air prevailed, but the drizzle of snow that fell melted under the late morning’s bright sun.

Filling her lungs with air, Isabella raised the collar of her coat. Her long, glossy mink hair was a dark contrast against the cream-coloured mohair coat. She wore black knee-high boots with a high spiked heel and pointed toes.

Isabella’s brown, red-rimmed hazel eyes were shaded behind dark Farfalla sunglasses. At sixty-five, her olive skin remained mainly untouched by the many hardships she’d faced. Maybe more than most had dealt with, but perseverance made Isabella come out a survivor in the end.

Closed doors led to open ones was Isabella’s philosophy. That creed helped Isabella overcome homelessness after her father’s death at the unfair young age of forty-one left her with mounting bills. Isabella’s philosophy helped her survive bankruptcy, betrayal, blackmail, and the stalker who ultimately traumatized her and stole her dignity and life.

For twenty-one difficult years, Isabella doubted her daughter’s origin, and the doubt remained at the heart of her marriage for as long. Keeping the secret internalized and keeping it from Antonio, her husband, was the hardest thing Isabella had done.