Chapter 21
Chapter
Twenty-One
ADAM
I overheard Isabelle’s phone conversation.
I don’t feel good about it.
But in a way, I feel very good about it.
I’m not patient when it comes to Isabelle, and she was taking longer than I expected to arrive in the study, so I went to check on her and…maybe eavesdropped more than I should have.
Isabelle’s friend, Jen, kept saying that we should kiss. I think I like this friend of hers. And apparently, Isabelle has been “dragging” Jen to every one of my movies over the last few years. Isabelle never seemed like a fawning fangirl, but maybe she knows how to keep her composure. Or maybe I really did frighten her when we first met. Either way, I’m flattered.
Isabelle didn’t say anything about wanting to kiss me, but if her friend’s words were any indication, she wouldn’t be opposed. And she didn’t say that she didn’t want to. Just that she didn’t think I would want to.
Well, I do.
More than she knows .
Jen’s comments about Isabelle’s sisters were interesting, as well. She called them shallow, self-obsessed, and narcissistic. From the few interactions I’ve had with them, I’m not surprised to hear those descriptors. Is that what I expected from Isabelle, as well? Is that why I was so rude to her in the beginning? Granted, in general, I’ve always been more…let’s call it ‘direct.’ I don’t see the point in dancing around everyone’s feelings. I know what I want, and it’s quicker to get there right away.
But Isabelle won’t take that, and I respect that even more. She’s challenging me to be more considerate.
Like my mother.
Lionel is right; no one has challenged me since my mother passed away. I miss her dearly—the reason why I won’t spend much time in the theater—but Isabelle is filling some of the gaps her loss has created.
The more time I spend with her here in the castle, the more I realize I want to spend time with her outside the castle, as well.
Isabelle enters the study, wearing another of my sister’s dresses. It fits her frame, showcasing her curves, but the length hits an awkward spot on her calf. I only know this because Lily has her dresses custom-hemmed to touch her ankles. Her feet are covered in bunny slippers, which make me smile more than I should.
“You should have the tailor make you a dress,” I say in greeting. “I’m sure you’d enjoy wearing something that actually fits.”
She looks down at her dress. “Does it look that bad?”
“No,” I say quickly. “But a dress that fits you properly would be more enjoyable.”
“I guess.” She shrugs. “It’s not like I’ll be here for a long time. But it would be a cool memento to take home with me.”
A pang hits my chest at her mention of leaving soon, but I just nod. “Speak to Brigette and let her know to have the tailors meet with you.”
“Sure.” A sly smirk fills her face. “I need an occasion for this dress, though. Maybe you should bust out a tux and we’ll have a party.”
She’s teasing, but something about her makes me want to play along. “Maybe we will.”
She grins, then takes a seat next to me in the other wingback chair in front of the fire. “So. What are you thinking as far as interview prep?”
“Well, you never know for sure what these interviewers are going to ask. But there are a few basic answers you should have prepared, and many times you can spin their questions back to those answers.”
“Interesting.” She straightens in her seat. “Well, I’ve got all my favorites ready to go. You know, color, season, food–”
“Hang on, hang on,” I say, unable to hold back the laugh that erupts. “You’re not interviewing with Teen Beat, are you?”
“Uh…I don’t think so.”
“Unless you’re a seventeen-year-old heartthrob, it’s unlikely that you’ll ever be asked what your favorite color is.”
“Oh.” Her eyes flit down to her hands, and I feel a bit ashamed for making her doubt herself. She needs confidence right now, not embarrassment.
“But let’s warm up with those questions for fun, hey?”
One side of her mouth lifts in a grin. “Sure.”
Her grin warms my chest. “All right, let’s try again. So, Isabelle, what’s your favorite color? And why?”
“I love yellow. I love anything that has to do with the sun, especially since I take a walk every morning and every evening. Yellow, like the sun, makes me happy.”
I nod. Not bad. “And your favorite time of day?”
“I love mornings. The day is always so full of possibilities. Evenings are difficult for me, you know. Wait, I probably shouldn’t say that in an interview. That’s a little embarrassing.”
“And that’s why we’re practicing,” I say. “You want to figure out your boundaries for public information. Some celebrities don’t even share their true favorite color, they just make something up to keep their entire lives private.”
“Huh. Interesting.” She shakes her head. “I think I’m happy to share some pieces of my reality. My favorite color doesn’t seem like an invasion of my privacy. But other things, like watching movies every night, is a little too…intimate.”
But I know about you watching movies every night , I think. I get to know some of those personal parts of her.
I change the subject. “What’s your middle name?”
Now her whole mouth lights with a grin. “It’s Rose.”
“Oh.” And now I can’t stop my mind from turning. Rose, like my mother’s favorite flower. Rose, like the figure she almost broke in the office. Rose, like the flowers that grow outside this castle in the summer.
Our eyes lock, the moment charged, as she watches me process that piece of information. I feel unusually vulnerable in this moment and decide to break it with some levity. “Is that made up, or is that the truth?”
“Truth.” She doesn’t seem uncomfortable, more curious at the reaction she elicited in me.
I gather myself, ready for another question. “How about…nicknames?”
“Well, my best friend, Jen, calls me Izzy. That’s been my nickname growing up.” She pauses. “But I found out recently my mom called me Belle.”
I furrow my brow. “How did you find that out?”
She bites her lip. “Off the record?”
I nod in confirmation.
“I was going through my dad’s garage recently, trying to find some of my old yearbooks, and I found my baby album. A picture of me and my mom fell face down on the ground, and I saw my mom’s note on the back. ‘Belle is six months and waves at everyone she meets.’ I started pulling out more photos, and they all had my mom’s looping handwriting on the back, detailing what I was doing. ‘Belle is seven months and tried avocado for the first time.’ ‘Belle is nine months and has started fake crying so I’ll hold her.’” She has a wistful smile on her lips. “I guess we should have known I’d be an actress.”
“But your father never told you?”
She shakes her head. “I never knew that was her nickname for me.”
I swallow. “Belle,” I say, almost a whisper. “It suits you.”
She holds my gaze, the moment charged with meaning. I clear my throat, looking down at my hands. “So, uh, tell me when you decided to finally pursue acting as a career.”
Her shift to professionalism is impressive, almost as if she were expecting me to ask this question. “Well, my dad is a manager for actors. I’ve been around Hollywood my entire life, and even though he tried his hardest to keep me from wanting to act, it’s like a pull I couldn’t resist.”
“What specifically pulled you to acting?”
She twists her lips to the side of her mouth. “I’ve lived my life in the background. My two older sisters have been professional models for as long as I can remember, and I’ve always just been…there. But my imagination is one of my strongest traits. So instead of wallowing, I’d sit in the corners, imagining I was a princess surveying my kingdom, or a peasant girl watching the aristocracy, and I’d fully embody that character, immersing myself in this imaginary world. It’s become a game I still play. When I got into high school, I realized that what I was doing was acting. And after college, I decided I’ve waited too long to live the life I deserve. I’ve been practicing my whole life for this career, and it’s been a journey to get here.”
I’m stunned speechless. Her heartfelt expressions are pieces of her soul, entering into my mind and drawing me to her in ways I haven’t felt with others before.
But she misinterprets my silence. “Too much? I should’ve known to say something less personal.”
I swallow hard. “A little, yes.” She’s right. That story, while enormously impactful to me, is too personal for an interview. “You could just say you always loved playing pretend as a little girl, and it’s become part of you.”
She nods. “Is that what you say in interviews?”
“More or less.” I narrow my eyes at her. “Well, you should know. Haven’t you seen my interviews?”
“Oh, I don’t really follow much of what you do.” But her eyes betray her words, not meeting my gaze and darting around the room.
“Mm-hmm,” I muse. “Well, typically I say that I’ve always loved movies and stories, and once I got to an age where I could pursue my own interests, acting came naturally.”
She raises a brow, looking directly at me. “But that’s not the whole story.”
I shake my head. “No.”
She waits patiently, biding her time. “So, what is the story?”
She shared a piece of herself with me. It only feels natural to return the favor. “Growing up, I was always the one in charge of my siblings, responsible for keeping them in line. The best way to do that was to put on plays. I’d assign each of us a role—naturally, I was the dashing hero?—”
“I would expect no less,” she says with a smile.
I incline my head to her. “And then we’d perform these plays for my mother. Her eyes would light up and she’d always give a rousing standing ovation. ”
“But you didn’t want to act when you were younger? You waited until, what, five years ago?”
I nod. “It was…” My voice trails off. I haven’t spoken this next part out loud. But Isabelle waits patiently, and I swallow down the pang. “After my mother died, I realized I didn’t want to do what was expected of me. She would have loved to see me act, but I was too worried about my father’s and siblings’ expectations. I was supposed to be the one to take over Stone Technologies. My father had been training me my whole life for it. But when she passed, I just…left.”
It’s the first time I’ve spoken specifically about my mother’s passing to Isabelle. She doesn’t flinch; perhaps she already knew. And she lost her mother, as well, although hers was at a much younger age. But it’s a bond we share, the thread we shared with Theo earlier, one that is uncommon to most.
Isabelle places her hand on mine. I look down at our joined hands, but the warmth I feel can’t be seen. For the second time, I feel like my left eye is starting to see again. I blink a few times, keeping my gaze on our joined hands, trying to determine if my sight is back without looking like a maniac.
“I’m glad you decided to act,” she says, breaking my attention. “But I’m sorry for the circumstances that led to it.”
“Thank you,” I say softly.
She sits back, taking her hand with her. I want to reach out and hold it again. I want to touch her, to feel her near me. After months of living here, cutting myself off from most human interaction, I want to fill my senses with Isabelle. But I fear it’s too much.
And, apparently, I was wrong about my eye. It’s still dark.
“I thought I was supposed to be the one getting interviewed,” she says with a small smile, lightening the mood.
“Yes. I’m sorry about that.” I rub my forehead. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“Don’t apologize,” she says. “I have a feeling you needed to get that out.”
I look over at her again, warmed by her nonjudgmental attitude. Her kindness slowly melts away my icy exterior, and the more time we spend together, the more time I want to spend with her.
And I need to know if she feels the same.