Isabelle #2
The hotel is exactly what I'd hoped for—modern and luxurious, with impossibly soft sheets, cool stone floors, and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the sea.
I check in quickly, barely listening to the receptionist's spiel about the spa, the restaurant, and the private beach.
I just want to get to my room, drop my bags, breathe, and start this whole thing properly.
The suite is on the top floor, and when I step inside, I let out a low whistle. It's stunning.
The main room is open and airy, with white walls and sleek furniture, and a balcony that looks out over the water.
There's a king-sized bed with crisp white linens, a marble bathroom with a rainfall shower, and a minibar stocked with champagne and expensive liquor.
I drop my suitcase by the door and walk straight to the balcony, sliding open the glass doors and stepping outside. The view takes my breath away.
The sea stretches out before me, endless and blue, the sun glittering on the surface like diamonds.
I can hear the faint sound of music drifting up from somewhere below, and the air smells like salt and sunscreen, flowers and citrus.
I lean against the railing and close my eyes, letting the sun warm my face.
This is it. This is what I needed. My phone is off, and I'm so far away from anyone who could bother me or need anything from me.
For the next two weeks, I don't have to do anything I don't want to do.
I can get a tan, drink, and get laid. I can eat whatever I want without Vivienne narrowing her eyes and asking if I've weighed myself lately, even though it's blatantly obvious that I'm in incredible shape.
If I want to smoke a fucking cigarette, I can.
I could smoke weed if I wanted. No one is going to give a fuck.
I stay there for a long moment, just soaking it all in, before I finally pull myself away and head back inside.
I should unpack, but I can't bring myself to care.
Instead, I kick off my sandals and pad barefoot to the minibar, pulling out a bottle of champagne and popping the cork with a satisfying pop.
I pour myself a glass and take a long sip, the bubbles fizzing on my tongue.
God, I could get used to this. Maybe one day, when my inheritance becomes entirely mine, I'll just live on it and vacation endlessly. Vivienne won't be able to say a fucking thing to me then.
I wander around the suite, champagne in hand, taking in the details.
The bathroom has a soaking tub and fancy toiletries that smell like hibiscus and coconut.
The closet is huge, big enough for twice the wardrobe I brought with me.
There's a sound system built into the walls, and I briefly consider turning my phone back on to connect it so I can have some music, but I banish the thought a second later.
I don't want a single notification bringing me down.
I finish my champagne and pour another glass, feeling the buzz settle into my bones. It's only four in the afternoon, but I don't care. I'm on vacation. I'm free. I can do whatever the hell I want.
I take my champagne into the bathroom and start the shower, letting the water heat up while I strip out of my dress.
My reflection stares back at me from the mirror—dark hair tumbling over my shoulders, green eyes bright with excitement, my body toned and tan from the hours I spend at the gym because there's nothing else to do with my time in New York when I'm not playing the good little socialite.
I look good. I know I look good. And tonight, I'm going to make sure everyone else knows it too.
The shower is scalding, and I stand under the spray for a long time, letting it wash away the flight and the tension.
I use the hotel's expensive shampoo, the scent filling the steam, and by the time I step out, I feel like a new person.
I wrap myself in a plush towel and pad back into the bedroom, my skin still damp and warm.
The sun is starting to dip lower in the sky, casting everything in a golden glow, and I feel a thrill of anticipation run through me.
Tonight, I'm going to let go of everything.
I sit down at the vanity and start on my makeup, taking my time.
I line my eyes, making them look even greener, and add a touch of gold shimmer to my lids.
My lashes get coated in mascara until they're long and dark, and I finish with a nude lip that makes my mouth look fuller, more kissable.
I study my reflection, tilting my head this way and that, and smile. Perfect.
Then I head to the closet and pull out the dress I'd packed specifically for tonight.
It's short—scandalously short—and black, with a plunging neckline and a back that dips low enough to show off the curve of my spine.
The fabric clings to every inch of me, and when I slip it on and check the mirror, I feel a surge of satisfaction.
I look dangerous. I look like someone who doesn't give a fuck and is here to have fun, and nothing else.
I pair the dress with strappy black heels that make my legs look a mile long and add a few delicate gold necklaces that catch the light.
I leave my hair down, loose and wild, spraying texture mist into it until it looks fluffy and curls slightly from the spray and the humidity.
I spritz on an expensive citrus-and-musk perfume and grab a small clutch, tossing in some cash, my ID, black credit card, and a lipstick for touch-ups.
One last look in the mirror. God, I look good. I feel good.
I feel like I could do anything.
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