7. Isabelle #2
"Of course." She doesn't sound convinced. "Well, I'll let your father know you called. I'm sure he'll want to speak with you when he's free. You should call back tomorrow, perhaps. When you're more settled."
There's something in the way she says it—when you're more settled—that feels like a dismissal. Like she's telling me not to bother them right now, that my call is an inconvenience. The familiar dislike I've always felt for her intensifies, sharp and hot in my chest.
"Sure," I say, my voice tight. "I'll call tomorrow."
"Wonderful. And Isabelle?" She pauses, and I can hear the smile in her voice even though I can't see her face. "Do be careful. Greece can be dangerous for young women traveling alone."
The words should sound concerned. Maternal, even. But they don't. They sound weirdly like a threat, even though that doesn't make any sense.
Although I can imagine Vivienne enjoying the thought of me getting murdered in a foreign country. She's probably hoping something terrible happens to me so I never leave home again, under her thumb forever.
The thought makes me shudder. "I'll be careful," I manage, and then, before she can say anything else, I add, "The reception is getting bad. I should go."
"Of course. Safe travels, dear."
The call ends, and I'm left with my phone clutched in my hand, my heart pounding.
What the fuck was that? I replay the conversation in my head, trying to pinpoint exactly what felt so wrong about it.
Vivienne has never liked me—that's not news.
She's been cold and contemptuous since the day she married my father, barely bothering to hide her disdain for the spoiled daughter who came with the package.
But this felt different. The questions about where I am, when I'm coming back.
The false concern. The way she told me to be careful, like she was warning me about something specific.
You're being paranoid.
Maybe I am. Maybe the encounter with the stranger has left me jumpy, seeing threats where there aren't any. Maybe Vivienne was just being her usual passive-aggressive self, and I'm reading too much into it because I'm already on edge. But I can't shake the feeling that something is wrong.
I set my phone down on the small table on the terrace and lean against the railing, staring out at the dark sea.
The moon is nearly full, casting a silver path across the water, and somewhere in the distance I can hear music—faint and rhythmic, probably from one of the restaurants or bars down in the town.
And standing here in the darkness, with the sound of the sea below me and the memory of Vivienne's voice still echoing in my head, I feel more alone than I've ever felt in my life.
I came to Ibiza, to Europe, to escape my family, to be free of their expectations and their coldness for just a little while.
But I brought it all with me anyway. The loneliness.
The sense that something is fundamentally wrong with my life, with the way I exist in the world.
The feeling that I'm always on the outside looking in, even when I'm surrounded by people.
And now there's something else too. Something new and unsettling that I can't quite name.
The stranger's face when I told him my name. The horror in his eyes. The way his hands moved to my throat. Vivienne's voice on the phone. The pointed questions. The false concern that felt more like a warning.
They're not connected. They can't be connected. That doesn't make any sense. I can't think of any reason why it would. But the feeling persists anyway, nagging at the edges of my consciousness like a splinter I can't quite reach.
Something is wrong. But I don't know what it is.
Eventually, I start to unpack. My suitcase sits by the bed, still zipped, and I stare at it for a long moment before finally kneeling down and opening it.
The clothes inside are a mess—I threw them in without any care, and dresses and swimsuits and sandals are all tangled together, wrinkled and chaotic.
I start pulling things out, trying to smooth the wrinkles, trying to create some sense of order. But my hands are shaking.
I stop, sitting back on my heels, and press my palms against my thighs. Get it together, Isabelle. I'm being ridiculous. Dramatic. Letting a bad hookup and an uncomfortable phone call ruin what should be a beautiful vacation. I came here to have fun. To be carefree and wild.
So that's what I'm going to do.
I stand up, leaving the suitcase half-unpacked on the floor, and move to the bathroom.
I turn on the shower, letting the water heat up, and strip off my travel clothes.
I wash my hair, scrub my skin, try to wash away the lingering feeling of his hands on my body, even though all I want is to remember how good he felt.
When I finally step out, wrapping myself in one of the plush white robes hanging on the back of the door, I feel clean but not better.
The suite is dark now except for the soft glow of the bedside lamps.
I should eat something—I haven't had a real meal since this morning—but the thought of food makes my stomach turn. Instead, I move back to the terrace.
The night air is cooler now, almost cold, and I pull the robe tighter around myself as I lean against the railing.
The sea is still there, vast and dark and constant, and the moon has risen higher, smaller now but brighter.
It's beautiful. But all I feel is the hollow ache in my chest and the nagging sense that I'm missing something important.
I think about the stranger again. I can't help it. I can't stop replaying those final moments—the way he looked at me, the way his hands moved to my throat, the way he came and then ran like I'd burned him.
What did I do? The question has no answer. I said my name. That's all. Just told him who I was, and everything fell apart. It makes no sense, unless…
Unless he knows something I don't. The thought sends a chill down my spine that has nothing to do with the night air.
What if there's something about my family, about my father's business, about the Montague name, that I don't know? What if the stranger recognized it for reasons that have nothing to do with wealth or social status? What if I'm in danger and don't even know it?
You're being paranoid. The rational part of my brain tries to reassert itself, tries to talk me down from the spiral I'm falling into.
Vivienne's voice echoes in my head: Greece can be dangerous for young women traveling alone.
Was that a warning? A threat? Or just her usual passive-aggressive bullshit? I don't know. I don't know anything anymore.
I came to Greece to recapture the carefree feeling I had when I first arrived in Ibiza, when everything felt possible, and I felt alive in a way I never do in New York. But that feeling is gone now.
I turn away from the sea finally, stepping back inside and closing the terrace doors.
The suite is warm and quiet, and my suitcase is still half-unpacked on the floor, clothes spilling out in a chaotic mess.
I climb into the massive bed, pulling the covers up to my chin, and stare at the ceiling.
The sheets are soft and expensive, the mattress perfectly firm, and the pillows are exactly the right height.
Everything about this suite is designed for comfort, for luxury, for making guests feel pampered and cared for.
But I don't feel any of those things. I feel alone. And scared. And like I'm missing something crucial, some piece of information that would make everything make sense.
What did he see when I told him my name?
I don't have an answer.
And lying here in the darkness, in a beautiful suite overlooking the Aegean Sea, thousands of miles from home and everyone I know, I can't shake the feeling that I'm missing something that might change everything.