23. Isolde
Isolde
“You want to officially move into my flat?”
His brow furrows. “No.”
My own brow furrows. “But you want to live together?”
“Yes.”
“Just not in my flat?”
“What in the hell is happening?” Sammie’s ghost asks, leaning up against a wall full of baby photos.
I like Tristan’s family. I like his dad, who’s shy and soft-spoken. His aunts laugh all the time.
I know all the strange looks I’ve received are because Tristan brought me. I’ve tried hard not to retreat into my shy self. To be as personable as I can because I want to make a good impression.
“They totally love you,” Sammie’s ghost says. And then she adds, “This guy totally loves you.”
My fingers curl around the beer bottle in my hand. My cheeks are red from the amount of people in the house. Not because of what Sammie’s ghost just whispered.
Love.
The thought floats through me. It swirls down into my belly, where it meets a mixture of excitement and dread. Because that can’t possibly be the case.
Tristan can get anyone he wants. He’s a total catch. We’re sleeping together because of convenience.
Sammie’s ghost lets out an aggrieved sigh.
“Why do you want to live together?” I blurt, something delicate in my chest vibrating. It’s got to be an economical thing. Rent in NYC is a bitch.
Tris stares at me. “You know why.”
My belly swoops at the low rumble of his voice. “You want to live together.”
“Yes.”
“Holy shit,” Sammie’s ghost gasps. “You get what he’s saying, right?”
But I want confirmation. The current running between us might burn bright, but my brain needs things spelled out.
“Mr. Broody is asking you to live with him!” Sammie’s ghost yells. “Yes, he loves you!”
A secret hope lights up. Something so sweet, the heady feeling makes me dizzy.
“But why can’t you just move into my flat?” He’s already been living there. We operate well, sharing the place. There’s a schedule for laundry and everything.
His face grows a touch more grumpy.
“Why?” I prod, squeezing his hand. His shoulders could snap they’re so tight.
“The building is owned by the Hallows.”
“And you can’t have that?”
“Yeah,” he admits easily. “I’m not living in another man’s house.”
“But that’s not—”
His finger tilts my chin upward. “I’m not living in another man’s house.”
It’s not like I’m a kept woman. “I pay rent.” And it’s controlled which means a lot in New York City. “I like my flat.”
The creature of habit comes out. My flat is my safe place. It’s full of natural light, and I know the neighborhood.
It’s as if Tristan knows all the thoughts running through my mind. “We can find something with exposed brick. Something even cozier than what you’ve got.”
Men and their stupid egos.
“I’m not leaving my flat,” I equal parts complain and declare.
Tristan glances at the photo of Mariah. She’s stick thin with gorgeous thick hair. Her smile radiates all her youthful hope. He sighs, his shoulders moving. I instinctively lean in closer, my head resting on his shoulder.
“If I find us a good spot?” he murmurs.
“It’s going to have to be ten times better than what I’ve currently got.” But it’s not a no. When he kisses my forehead, I can feel his smile.
Life settles into a sweet rhythm.
Tristan sleeps in my bed. Sometimes we cuddle, but most of the time I scoot as far away as possible, and he never gets offended. He makes breakfast in the morning. We go to the gym.
He helps me with my contracts. He never makes the hit, but he’s there. Sometimes, he’ll make a comment, but it never comes across as patronizing. It’s simply factual. A way I could have done better or a compliment.
Ren’s Alaskan cruise is over, but she makes a stop in the Midwest to visit her mum. I don’t blame her for taking the time before she has to get back to work.
In some ways I like having only time for Tristan. I didn’t want to be the girl who falls head over heels and needs to take every opportunity she can to fuck her new man.
I can’t fight the addiction. I lean into it more and more.
Sammie’s ghost smiles at me when she’s around. She’s quiet lately. I take this to mean maybe my mind is finding a calmer place. Because even I know I’m not supposed to be seeing my dead sister.
But that’s the thing about ghosts—they always appear when you least expect them.
“So how do we want this to go?” Luis asks, rubbing his hands together.
“Who is this man again?” Gia Akatov asks her daughter.
“Isolde’s bodyguard,” Adeline explains.
We’re sitting on a velvet couch in one of Manhattan’s most exclusive bridal boutiques.
Lennie, or rather her mum, scored a last minute slot.
Tristan already had a planned meeting with a potential client.
Since I’ll be with the Akatovs, and no one fucks with Gia, it was deemed safe for me to join them.
“I’m sorry Ren didn’t get to go with us,” Lennie says from inside the dressing room.
Adeline throws back her champagne. Her mother, who’s hovering right outside the fitting room, tsks under her breath when she asks for another one.
“Nah, Ren will be pleased just knowing you got an appointment,” I say. It was either take the last minute availability or wait six months.
“Yeah, I hate to break it to you,” Ads adds, “but Luis will be more helpful picking out dresses than Ren would. What?” she asks her mum who appears to doubt Luis’s abilities.
“The Trevino men know fashion,” Luis agrees, smoothing down his tie. He’s already picked out five different silhouettes. That’s when I realized he may or may not have listened in to all of Adeline's and my wedding talk at Leon’s.
“Okay,” Lennie says from the fitting room. An attendant steps out first, helping Len navigate the tulle.
Gia is speechless, her mouth opening and closing. She side-eyes Adeline on the couch, almost panicked.
“No,” Luis declares, pointing. “Absolutely not. Go take that off.”
Adeline bursts out laughing.
“Is it that bad?” Lennie asks, tripping over the fabric as she turns to the three-way mirror.
“Was your inspiration a wedding cake?” her younger sister asks.
“I’m telling you, mermaid is meant for you,” Luis says.
“You’ve been reading all my wedding magazines, haven’t you?” Adeline asks, rolling her head back on the couch.
“Antonio agrees,” Luis mutters.
Gia says a few words under her breath in Italian.
“Mama, it’s going to be okay,” Adeline reassures her.
“It really will,” Len says, turning back to the fitting room. “I mean, honestly, what if I just didn’t—”
“Just please!” Gia looks up at the ceiling. “Please let me see one of my daughters get married.”
Adeline frowns. “Okay, rude,” she says, clearly taking this to mean her mother thinks her options are limited.
Gia messes with a cross around her neck. “Where is Nat?”
The oldest Akatov daughter should be here.
“Milo shit his pants,” Ads says. “What?”
“You don’t have to say it like that,” her mother chides.
“It’s the truth.”
Gia goes back to muttering in Italian.
Like the party at Tristan’s, I hang back, watching the family dynamic.
Lennie once said her family shows their love through bickering.
There’s an art to it, I realize, as Adeline makes a comment, her little smile showing as she needles her mother into praying.
Luis begins to peruse the dresses again.
Gia follows, making Adeline laugh. The bodyguard and mother are the most serious about finding a dress today.
“Hey Isolde,” Lennie calls from the fitting room. “I wanted to say thanks for finding the cathedral. It’s perfect.”
“Yeah, I always liked St. Agnes. I told you the stained-glass is great.”
“How’d you find it?” Lennie asks, the door to the fitting room opening.
When I first got to the city, Hadrian asked me to go to St. Agnes when the sadness pressed too hard against me. I took Hadrian for the type of guy to fuck off to a wellness retreat—if he dealt with his shit in the first place.
One day while walking around the city, I came across it. Other tourists were going in and out of it, so I ducked through the arched doorway. I didn’t expect to find Hadrian there, sitting in the pews. He introduced me to Father Francois, who runs a grief group.
Something wells up inside me as I remember those early—and lonely—days in New York just as Lennie steps out of the fitting room.
My breath stops for a second, the wave of whatever I’m feeling cresting over me at the least opportune time.
Gia gasps.
“That is so much better,” Adeline agrees, toasting Lennie with her champagne.
She’s lost the ballgown made of tulle for a halter style mermaid. It hugs her figure, her thick brown hair elegantly pulled into a chignon. The beadwork reflects in the lights, and she smiles.
It’s a fucking shot in the heart.
My jaw tenses, the muscles tightening as my eyes prick.
She’s so fucking beautiful. The dress is. . .
I bite down hard on my lower lip, blinking quickly, to get a hold of myself.
The door opens, and I’m saved by Natalie.
“Sorry, we’re late!”
Adeline jumps up from the couch, hurrying to her nephew. Gia dashes across as well. Lennie smiles, not bothered by the interruption. But she startles when she spots me on the couch, her eyes widening.
Doing my best to smile, I shake my head.
Understanding the need for privacy, she remains quietly standing on the pedestal in front of all the mirrors.
“Come here,” Gia says to her grandchild.
Clearing my throat, I say to no one in particular, “I need to make a phone call.”
Luis glances up from the A-line he’s examining, eyes narrowing.
“I’ll just be outside,” I explain, rushing away before he can deny the request.
The summer sun doesn’t warm my skin. Though admittedly, I’m not feeling anything other than the dregs of pain beating upon my chest. It pulls at my limbs, my face hurting as I try to stop.
There’s no use.
This is a nice part of town, but I scuttle into an alley, moving out of a tourist group's way.
The tears burst violently. I clasp my hand over my nose and mouth, one hand on my chest. As if I could just suck everything back up.
My throat hurts, and I swallow something thick.
I don’t know why I do this sometimes. Why it hits so hard.
I look around for Sammie’s ghost, my blurry eyes not spotting her.
That only brings more tears to my eyes, my nose growing stuffy.
I can’t stop it, so for a second I just give in to the sensation, my body trembling.
When Lennie finds me, I’ve got my hands clasped over my nose, making it seem like I’m praying. But it doesn’t do enough to hide the tears.
Lennie gently touches my arm. She’s got on a silk robe, not at all concerned about chasing after me in pajamas. It makes me worry that others saw me struggling.
“Sorry.” I shake my head, conveying my misery. I just ruined her fucking dress fitting.
“No, I’m sorry,” Lennie says softly.
That only makes me cry harder. Why is she sorry?
“What’s wrong, Isolde?”
My breath is shaky, my nose running.
“Did something happen?”
I choke back a sob, trying to force myself to stop crying.
“Isolde.” Lennie’s sweetness touches my soul.
“The dress. . .”
“You don’t like it?”
The next sob mixes with a laugh. Then there’s another gush of tears. “It reminds me of my sister.”
I press my hand tighter against my mouth.
Lennie stands there in her silk robe. The breeze makes one of her curls dance around her face. The brutal scar gives her an extra serious look on her face.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I say over and over again.
Lennie is short and has brown curls. She looks nothing like my sister. But when she walked out wearing that dress, it hit me like a ton of bricks. The gown was exactly what my sister would have worn on her wedding day.
And I’d have probably complained to her about wearing a dress if she’d made me her maid of honor. We’d have fought over the idea of me wearing a tux or something. She’d complain, but then I’d remind her about all the women before us who had done everything to ensure I could wear trousers.
It’s not Lennie’s fault, this freakout of mine. But like with everything, she handles it with grace, wrapping me in a hug. I stop breathing, thinking that might help, and then take deep breaths when I decide I actually do need some air in my lungs.
“Do you want me to wear it?” she asks. “To honor your sister?”
I laugh, wiping my eyes. “Oh, God, no, I don’t think you actually like it that much.”
Granted it’s a step in the right direction after that disaster of a tulle gown.
“But I’d wear it,” she insists.
I meet her eye for the first time. “No. It’s not your dress, Len.”
It’s not Sammie’s either.
Lennie’s shoulders soften, but the concern doesn’t leave her face. “Do you want me to call Tris?”
I pretend not to know what she means.
She merely raises her brow, daring me to correct her.
“It’s fine.” He doesn’t need to be bothered.
“Can I be there when you tell Ren that you two are sleeping together?”
I rub my eyes. “All Abe saw was a hug.”
“Uh huh.” She clicks her tongue and then a second later asks, “Are you going to be okay?”
There’s no getting my sister back, so not really.
“Yeah,” I say anyway. “I’m sorry, I—”
“Stop apologizing,” Lennie orders. “You get to cry whenever you want.”
Rubbing my face, I push hair off my forehead. “Thanks, Len.”
“Luis and my mom are pulling dresses so. . .” She nods back in the direction of the boutique.
“I’ll be there in just a second.”
She leaves me there, again respecting my need for a private moment.
Still dealing with a stuffy nose, I keep rubbing my face, brushing my hair back. I pace in a circle, ignoring steam and a giant bag of trash. There’s movement, a rat scurrying by.
But what my attention is really drawn to is the footsteps that come from the opposite direction.
A man, skinny and tall, dressed in a suit, walks toward me.
My breath leaves me again. It’s no longer the failed gasps between sobs. Instead, it’s the complete loss of the necessary oxygen as I spot the man I’ve dreaded.
No, it’s not Cade.
It’s the man he’s sent to kill me.
“Hello, Isolde,” the Spider says, clasping his hands in front of him. His eyes scan over my form, and I can only imagine what he’s seeing. A frumpy, tear-stained girl. Easy prey. “I’m sorry to have caught you at a bad time.”