15. Isolde
Isolde
“Can I ask you something, Blue?” Luis eyes me using the rearview mirror.
Tristan normally shoots him a glare anytime he tries to ask me questions when we’re in the car, but I don’t mind. I like Luis’s questions. They’re entertaining.
He reminds me of Abe in a lot of ways.
He gasped earlier this evening when I exited my building. “Fucking hot!”
My face turned scarlet, but I knew he wasn’t coming across in a gross way. Luis is a wingman, through and through.
Adeline curled my hair loosely before changing into a black dress and fluffing up her hair. We offered her a ride, but her own security team had her covered.
“Text me if you need to,” she said, leaving behind a large majority of stuff she brought. I’m about to have an overflowing closet.
“Same to you.” I caught her eye. “Especially if the guy ends up being a wanker.”
A smile broke out on her face, but I caught a more mature Adeline staring back at me. “Don’t worry, I can take care of that on my own.”
She blew a kiss to Luis, who clapped his hand over his heart in boyish delight. Now we’ve been stuck in traffic because when isn’t this city in a constant state of gridlock.
From the backseat of the SUV, I nod at Luis to go on.
“Do you like Greggs?”
My mind takes time to calibrate.
“It’s just I’ve been researching England, and everybody keeps saying Greggs is like the shit. Like people from the north go crazy for it.”
I’m unable to fight a smile. The car trudges along, the sunlight gone.
“I fucking love Greggs,” I admit, copping to the stereotype.
“I’m sorry we don’t have it,” Luis says. “But anytime you want to go to Pret a Manger, you just let me know. I’ll get you there as soon as possible.”
Laughter bubbles out of me, he’s so boyishly endearing with his declaration. The pricks of water at the corner of my eyes hit me like a truck, ramming into me.
Luis notices. “You okay, Blue?”
I’m rapidly blinking. My flushed cheeks are a result of the baby pink blush Adeline patted onto my cheeks.
“Blue?”
“Yeah.” Things blur outside the car window, my mind suddenly dizzy.
All those years ago, I showed up in New York City, and I didn’t miss England. I didn’t miss the shitty fights with my mum back in Yorkshire. I didn’t miss the constant money worries just so I could keep paying for a shitty flat in the shittiest parts of London.
I miss my sister.
Tightness constricts my ribcage.
I don’t miss the crowded trains I’d take to visit her in Oxford. Or her stuffy friends or the way people judged me against her. I was the sister too northern and too stupid in comparison to Sammie’s intelligence.
But I miss my sister.
I miss Greggs, of all fucking places.
And I miss Ren, who is off in Alaska with her boyfriend, who will naturally replace me as her best friend.
Why the fuck is Luis being so goddamn nice, offering to take me to a Pret of all places? Like it’s the one final piece of England that I’ll ever get.
“Blue, I didn’t mean to upset you.”
My jaw is sore, my throat tingling. “Nah, you’re all right. I got something in my eye. Mascara, you know."
Luis loosens his grip on the steering wheel, though he doesn’t stop watching me via the rearview mirror.
“You ever been to this part of town?” I ask, forcing my voice into something natural.
“Not really,” Luis says before launching into a list of his preferred bars.
Harry is at the curb, waiting for me.
“You really didn’t have to,” I tell him while slipping out of the backseat before saying over my shoulder, “Thanks, Luis.”
“Remember the panic button,” he replies, shooting me a serious look.
I slam the door shut, a response not to him, but rather his cousin. Panic button, my ass. I’ll be fine.
Harry offers me his arm. “You look wonderful, Isolde.”
I hook my elbow through his, wondering how long we’re going to walk around like a couple from a Jane Austen book.
“We’ve got a booth.” He points to a far corner. Since it’s a Wednesday night, most people are still in business smart, their work bags beside them, but it’s still pretty full. “I’m grabbing drinks. You want a pint?” He grins knowingly.
“Thanks, next round is on me.” Harry is sober, so I’ll get him a Coke.
Hadrian is in his navy suit, sitting in the shadows thanks to the dim light. He’s already got an empty bottle in front of him.
He looks absolutely miserable.
“Hey.” I slide in across from him. “Happy birthday. Next round is on me, so whatever birthday shots it’ll be.”
The dim lighting has an eerie effect on him. A pale pallor makes him look ill. His hair is mussed, the dark locks slightly curlier than I’ve ever seen them.
“This is the guy,” I’d asked my sister all those years ago.
Sammie’s ghost hears my thoughts. She shoots me a look, sitting beside Hadrian in the booth, her face muted with pain.
Despite everything, she really did like him.
She knew that whatever demons he got himself tangled up in, it wouldn’t do him any good.
“Look, for Harry’s sake, let’s act like we’re friends again.” I lean back in the hard booth, the seating void of the normal cushions. There’s writing all over the table and chairs. I’d think the bar would skew for a younger crowd if it weren't for the mixture of the patrons’ ages.
“Agreed.” Hadrian tips his beer to his lips, belatedly remembering only dredges are left.
Harry swoops in at the right time, gifting him with a new one.
“Thanks.” I take the offered beer. Harry climbs into the booth next to me. The music isn’t so obnoxious that we can’t speak to one another, but that somehow makes it worse. Because it means we have to actually speak to one another.
“How is work?” Harry asks me.
“Shit. I’ve been sidelined.”
Hadrian snorts. Harry shoots his brother a look.
“You?” I ask him.
Harry and Hadrian both work for their father. For generations, the Hallows have owned some fancy conglomerate. It started overseas, in England to be precise, before William moved to the US. He grew up in London, where he probably learned to hate the Stuarts.
“It’s not been bad.” Harry leans his elbows on the table at complete ease.
He’s older than Hadrian, but is like Dimitri Zimin who often defers to Lev. I know Hadrian has climbed up high at the family business, likely more of a hardass than his own father. Harry never shows a hint of a grudge or jealousy that his baby brother is a step above him on the corporate ladder.
“So. . .” Harry stirs his straw around his soda. It’s bad news if he’s struggling to come up with conversation. “Things going okay?”
“I still got a bodyguard, don’t I?”
I regret the bluntness when a shadow sweeps over Harry’s face.
“Things are all right,” I quickly amend. “Everything will work out.”
“Will they?” Hadrian drawls. It’s the most words he’s spoken since I sat down.
“Yes, they will,” Harry says on my behalf.
“Isolde drew the ire of a madman,” Hadrian says. “And she’s being her usual stubborn self.”
“Sounds like somebody else I know.”
“Sounds like who?” A woman appears at the edge of the table.
I catch sight of blonde hair and blue eyes, but despite sharing those two traits, we couldn’t be farther from one another.
The tall woman curiously eyes me. “Hi.”
Hadrian lets out a sigh, scooting over. She sits down, unbothered by his bubble of grumpiness.
“Morgan, this is Isolde,” Harry introduces. “Our stepsister,” he explains.
I nod. “Hiya.”
Morgan is stunning. A tight skirt shows off gazelle legs. She’s got thick, dark eyelashes and thick, long hair. The light might be dim, but her makeup is pretty, straddling that fine line of soft but smoldering.
“Nice to meet you.” She holds out a hand, and I take it, choosing to believe she takes after Harry. Out of the periphery of my eye, I notice Sammie’s ghost won’t stop staring at the woman.
“Same.” I shake her hand.
She settles back in her seat. “Alex is getting drinks,” she tells Hadrian and then adds to me, “My fiancé.”
“Nice,” Harry says and then looks around the booth, which is already feeling cramped.
Morgan waves his concern away. “We’ll make him stand. Or we can crowd around.”
She leans into her stepbrother. They must be on friendly terms because he rolls his eyes but allows her to tease him.
I’ve always known Hadrian has two younger step-sisters, twins. They belong to Andrea Petrova, but I’ve never come face-to-face with either of them. I’ve only heard Harry’s whispers and Sammie’s stories about the family’s blended dynamic.
I can’t help glancing at Hadrian. His face is even more muted now that his sister has joined.
“Birthday boy.” Morgan’s fiancé sets down a couple of drinks. He hands over a shot to Hadrian. “Don’t argue with me, mate. I don’t want to hear anything about shots being childish.”
“Drink up,” Morgan says, humor warming her words. She’s got a bright, happy thing going on.
Because they are the same level of stunning, I can’t help but compare Morgan to Adeline.
There’s a warmth to the latter, a serious edge.
It might not be a fair impression, but Morgan lacks a type of gravity.
Even Harry, with his pleasantness, it’s easy to spot the hard edges of where his flesh has now healed into scars along his wrists.
“I’m Alex,” her fiancé greets, smiling. I can’t see his shoes from here, but I’m guessing he only wears Italian loafers. He’s probably never worn a T-shirt in his life. He’s posh, and he knows it.
“Alex is Hadrian’s oldest friend,” Harry helpfully supplies. “Known him since kindergarten.”
“That’s cool that you’re still friends,” I say. Even before I moved countries, I could say I went out of my way to avoid my former classmates.
“They went to university together too,” Morgan says.
I’m not sure why this information surprises me. “Oxford?”
No wonder Sammie’s ghost is being quiet.
“I went to King’s,” Morgan offers, and I’m further off-balanced. She studied at King’s University in London. “Did you go to Oxford or somewhere nearby?”
Her voice is casual, but I keep catching the glances between her and her fiancé. It makes sense considering Hadrian doesn’t exactly have many friends.
“I didn’t go to uni,” I say. She doesn’t hide her surprise, but at least she doesn’t wrinkle her nose as she guesses what social class I belong to.
I don’t have a degree, but all the money in my bank account is mine.
Morgan sits forward slightly, even more intrigued as to where I’ve come from.
Hadrian offers nothing. I could be a dick. And bring up Sammie. Harry and their father, William, know exactly who and what I am, but it looks like the Petrova side of the family wasn’t brought into the loop.
“Father Francois introduced us.” I nod at Hadrian, noting how he doesn’t say a damn thing despite his sister’s curiosity.
“Father Francois?” she asks.
“St. Agnes Cathedral,” I clarify. “Grief group.”
Morgan blinks. “Oh.”
So she does at the very least know of Hadrian’s dead girlfriend.
“Father Francois is amazing,” Harry says. “I’ve been helping him organize an outreach project—”
Harry’s voice drones out. Hadrian plays with the neck of his bottle. His green eyes appear darker.
It’s never occurred to me to feel sorry for Hadrian. It’s hard when he’s such a dick all the time.
I think his sister means well, turning up to celebrate his birthday. But I don’t think she’s the twin he’d have wanted to show up tonight.
He still loves her.
It’s not Sammie’s voice that I hear. It’s my own. Hadrian is twisted up in his lovesickness.
Deciding there are too many emotions at the table, I slip my phone out. Alex and Morgan have glanced at theirs all night, so I don’t feel bad typing out a message.
Isolde: I need a meeting.
Ben: AA?
Isolde: I want my contracts back.
Dots appear, but a response takes an awfully long time.
Ben: Ren’s not going to like that.
I’m tired of playing nice.
I think Ben senses it too. He knows I’ve got another option. I could cut out Fujimori’s. Cut out any middlemen. Customers could hire me directly instead of making requests through Ren.
Ben: Come by for lunch tomorrow.
My spine relaxes against the hard booth.
“Another round?” Harry asks.
“It’s my turn.”
The bar has only gotten more crowded, the city always in need of a desperate drink.
“You still haven’t told him about the Spider, have you?” Hadrian is in my ear.
My back pocket begins to burn like it did when I shoved the photo of Yelena there.
“Let me deal with it,” I tell him, nodding to a bartender, getting his attention. He doesn’t need to know that for the first time in months I might have a possible one-up on Cade.
“That would require you to deal with shit.” Hadrian slips out his credit card before I can stop him.
“You hate birthdays or something?” I hand him a drink.
His green eyes brim with darkness.
Most would assume it’s anger, but I’ve stood in front of violent men.
Harry is now chatting with Morgan and Alex. Harry’s smile doesn’t show his teeth. He doesn’t tip his head back or look animated. There’s familiarity, but not warmth.
“You ever want to talk,” I tell Hadrian, the irony of my offer clear to me, “I’ll listen.”
Hadrian doesn’t so much as blink. “Thanks for coming tonight, Isolde.”
I think it’s the first time I’ve ever heard him say the word ‘thanks.’
“Give this to Harry.” I pass over the Coke. “Tell your sister it was nice to meet her.”
There’s no need for me to stick around. Hadrian and I are better off being around one another in small doses anyway.
And besides—there’s a guy at the bar that keeps eyeing up a drunk girl. She’s wandered off outside, and my instincts rise when I watch him follow.
It’s been a while since I’ve killed a man. I’m not going to waste this outfit on nothing.