The truth in her words burns like acid, but not for the reasons she thinks. Yes, I'm back in their world, playing their game—but this time it's different. This time, I'm not their puppet dancing on golden strings. I'm a soldier in enemy territory, watching, waiting, searching for the weakness that will bring their empire crashing down.
A flash of red catches my eye—a striking contrast against the sea of meticulously styled blondes and brunettes. My heart stutters, then accelerates as the crowd parts. For a moment, I think I'm hallucinating, my mind finally breaking under the weight of pretense and loss.
But no. She's real.
Isabella moves through the throng of socialites like flame through paper, each step purposeful and unhurried. The emerald green dress flows around her curves, so different from the paint-splattered jeans and oversized shirts I remember. Her hair blazes under the chandeliers, a burning halo that sets her apart from everything else in this sterile world of wealth and pretense.
Jessica's nails bite deeper into my flesh. "Ares," she hisses, but I barely hear her. I can't tear my gaze away from Isabella as she approaches, that familiar determined tilt to her chin sending electricity crackling through my veins. The very sight of her here, in this den of vipers, makes my chest constrict with equal parts terror and wild hope.
She stops beside us, and the world tilts on its axis. Up close, I can see the slight tremor in her hands, the only sign that she's as affected by this moment as I am. Her eyes meet mine, and nine weeks of carefully constructed walls crumble to dust.
"Excuse me." Her voice slides through the music like silk over steel. "Mind if I cut in?"
The orchestra plays on, but the air between us crackles with unspoken words and dangerous possibilities. In this moment, surrounded by the elite of society, Isabella stands before me, not as the scared girl they once destroyed, but as a woman who refuses to be silenced. Every dream we whispered under starlight, every plan we made—they're all there in her eyes, burning with fierce determination.
And God help me, she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
Jessica's perfectly composed mask slips for a fraction of a second, genuine shock flickering across her features before her eyes narrow to poisonous slits. The familiar perfume that once suffocated me now barely registers—not with Isabella's scent of paint and watermelon cutting through everything else like a blade of truth.
"Actually, I do mind." Jessica's lips curl into a cruel smile. "Why don't you try the waitstaff? I'm sure they're more your... speed."
Isabella's laugh is low and dangerous, reminding me of late nights in her loft, of strength hidden beneath vulnerability. "Oh honey, if I were you, I'd worry less about my speed and more about your rapidly approaching expiration date." She glances pointedly at Jessica's death grip on my arm. "Desperation isn't a good look on anyone."
Jessica's fingers dig deeper into my arm, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. "Ares, darling, you should make her leave. Your parents—" She glances meaningfully toward their table where Mother has risen, face tight with fury. "Well, we both know what happened last time. I'd hate to see her friends lose everything... again."
The threat in her voice ignites something primal in my chest. I pry her clawing fingers from my arm.
"No, Jessica. You should leave."
I step back, breaking her hold completely, and wrap my arm around Isabella's waist.
Jessica's perfect mask cracks, her features contorting into something ugly and raw. "You can't be serious." When I don't respond, her face flushes an unflattering shade of red. "This is social suicide, Ares. Your mother will—"
"I don't give a fuck what my mother will do."
The whispers start immediately, rippling through the crowd like wind through tall grass. Jessica's heels click a staccato beat of fury as she storms off, leaving a wake of raised eyebrows and lifted phones in her retreat.
But I barely notice. Isabella slides into my arms like she belongs there—because she does, she always has—and the rest of the room dissolves into meaningless background noise. Her hands press against my chest, right over my compass tattoo, the heat of her touch burning through my dress shirt. Those emerald eyes capture mine, and I'm seventeen again, falling in love for the first and only time.
"Hello, Sainty."
My heart stumbles over itself, and my words follow suit. "What are you—I mean, how did you—" I swallow hard, trying to remember how to form complete sentences. "What are you doing here, Red?"
She grins up at me, all mischief and starlight. "Always wanted to crash a fancy gala. Play Cinderella with my very own prince."
"Planning to turn into a pumpkin at midnight?"
"Nah, more likely to turn your mother into one though."
My laugh feels foreign in this sterile place, but God, how I've missed this—missed her ability to make light dance through darkness. "How did you even get here?"
"A plane, Sainty. How else?" She nods toward the bar where Ethan raises his glass with a smirk. That's when I notice the subtle earpiece he's wearing, the way his eyes keep scanning the crowd. Something bigger is happening here.
"What—"
Her eyes soften, and she presses closer, her lips near my ear. "We're here to set you free."
Before I can process that, my mother materializes beside us like a vengeful specter, her Chanel perfume carrying notes of gardenia and pure venom. The perfect coif of her blonde hair gleams under the chandelier light as she fixes Isabella with a look that could freeze hell itself.
