Chapter Thirty-One
Isla
T he morning sunlight stabbed through Adrian's massive windows like needles behind my eyelids.
I groaned, pressing my face deeper into the fluffy pillow as my head pounded with the relentless rhythm of a jackhammer.
Every breath felt thick, every movement sent fresh waves of nausea rolling through my stomach.
Yikes, how much did I drink last night?
The chocolate martinis had tasted like heaven going down, but now they felt like liquid regret coursing through my veins.
My mouth felt dry, and the white ribbon around my throat felt tighter than usual, making me hyperaware of every swallow.
I forced my eyes open, squinting against the golden light flooding the bedroom.
Adrian was gone—had been since before dawn, judging by the cold spot beside me on the bed where I'd apparently passed out.
He’d dressed me in a shirt smelling like him, clean and oversized.
I looked around, dazed and lazy, until I spotted it .
Sitting on the nightstand, condensation beading down its sides, was a large plastic cup filled with what looked like iced coffee.
Except there were dark, spherical balls floating at the bottom, and a thick straw poked through the domed lid.
My jaw dropped. Boba?
The cup was cold against my palm, and when I brought it closer, I read the label: Brown sugar boba with oatmilk.
Ordered at—I squinted at the timestamp on the label—eight-thirty in the morning.
How did Adrian manage to get boba at that hour? And why boba for breakfast?
I took a sip and realized exactly why boba for breakfast was apparently a thing.
The sweet, creamy liquid coated my raw throat like a blanket, exactly what I needed. The brown sugar provided just enough sweetness to settle my churning stomach.
Leave it to Adrian to somehow procure the perfect hangover cure before most of the city was even awake. The man was either psychic or had some interesting connections.
I curled back into the sheets, sipping the boba and letting the midday light gradually lose its stabbing quality.
The piranha tank bubbled peacefully from the living room, its occupants probably swimming lazy circles that were oddly soothing to watch.
My headache began to recede to a manageable throb, and for the first time since opening my eyes, I didn't feel like I was dying.
I vaguely recalled Adrian mentioning something about cryotherapy in the car yesterday—before I apparently ended up drunk and satisfied.
Another hour passed, and the boba had worked its magic.
I’d showered and dressed, but the space felt enormous without Adrian’s overwhelming presence. It was all echoing spaces and shadows that made me feel simultaneously free and lonely.
The piranha tank gurgled again, and I got up to greet them .
“Hi, guys," I greeted, tapping the glass lightly. "Don't worry, I won't tell Adrian you're actually kind of cute."
I turned then, eyeing his kitchen.
Let’s see what Adrian…
Holy shit.
Adrian… what? I’d never heard his last name before. He’d never told me his last name, and I’d never heard or seen it posted anywhere.
I tucked that nagging question away for later, though it certainly wasn’t easy.
I wandered over to his kitchen, intent on making up for that lack of information with plenty of other totally useful information, like what he world's most dangerous boxer kept in his pantry.
I began opening cabinets randomly, and the first revealed a surprisingly organized array of protein supplements, each container labeled with Adrian's distinctive scrawl.
The second held normal kitchen stuff—plates, glasses, bowls, all mismatched and expensive-looking. But the third cabinet made me gasp with delight.
"Jackpot," I whispered, staring at the treasure trove before me.
Every junk food known to mankind seemed to be crammed into this single cabinet.
Packages of double-stuffed Oreos, sour gummy worms, boxes of Pop-Tarts in at least six different flavors, three varieties of Goldfish, and an entire shelf dedicated to different flavors of chips.
I reached for a package of strawberry Poptarts, grinning as I remembered Adrian's body with his fully sculpted muscles and perfect abs.
His public image as a disciplined athlete clearly had some private exceptions.
The thought of him sitting on this couch, devouring Oreos while watching fights, was almost too adorable to imagine.
The refrigerator revealed further contradictions: Protein shakes and eggs sharing space with chocolate milk and four different kinds of ice cream .
"You're such a child," I mused, laughing as I eyed a pint of cookies ’n cream.
The bookshelves near his desk held a strange mix of technical manuals, true crime books, and a huge collection of romance novels.
I was contemplating raiding his junk food stash when my phone chimed with a text notification:
Crew
Where’s Adrian?
I frowned, puzzled by the question.
Crew had met Adrian exactly once, at that awkward dinner where my brother had practically exploded with excitement to be in the presence of the boxer.
Isla
At some boxing therapy thing. Why?
I watched the typing bubbles appear, then disappear, then appear again. Something about the hesitation made my skin prickle with unease.
Crew
I need to
And then nothing. The typing bubbles vanished.
Isla
Crew? You need to what?
Hello?
***
Still nothing. The silence stretched, each passing second ratcheting up my nerves.
This wasn't like Crew, who was usually glued to his phone and responded instantly .
I called him directly, pacing Adrian's floor as the phone rang endlessly.
No answer. By the third attempt, panic was crawling up my throat like acid.
I tried calling Crew a fourth time, and finally, he picked up.
"Crew?" I said quickly, relief flooding my system. "What's going on? Are you okay?"
There was a pause, just a few seconds of silence that stretched into an eternity, and then a voice that sent confusion shooting through me.
“Isla?”
The voice on the other end was smooth, measured, and unexpectedly familiar.
"Noah?" I choked, surprise coloring my tone as I gripped the phone tighter. "Why do you have Crew's phone? Where is he?"
My mind raced through possibilities, but I pushed down the worst-case scenarios.
Noah had never been cruel to me or Crew—in fact, he'd always been patient and bought us things.
"Funny story," Noah replied, his tone casual and almost soothing. "I ran into Crew while out… Seems he's gotten himself into a bit of trouble."
I moved to Adrian's kitchen counter, needing something solid beneath my palms.
Noah's voice held that familiar cadence, but something felt different, as if it were more controlled than I remembered.
"What kind of trouble?" I asked, concern sharpening my voice. "Can I talk to him?"
The line went quiet except for Noah's steady breathing, and that silence stretched uncomfortably.
"He's... occupied at the moment," Noah replied. "But I can show you what's going on."
My phone pinged with an incoming video call. I pulled it away from my ear and accepted, my heart rate spiking as the shaky footage loaded .
Crew, dressed in his school hoodie and jeans, stood between two large men I didn't recognize, his face flushed with that stubborn anger I knew so well.
His blue eyes flashed with frustration, his hands clenched at his sides.
He opened his mouth as if to yell something, but the video cut off abruptly.
My chest tightened with worry and panic.
This could just be Crew being Crew—headstrong and probably mouthing off to the wrong people. And Noah was there, which meant my brother wasn't completely alone.
"Noah," I said, bringing the phone back to my ear, "what's really going on? Is he okay?”
"He's fine for now," Noah answered, and there was something almost reassuring in his tone again.
"I'm keeping an eye on things. But you should probably get down here.”
I was already moving, grabbing a newly purchased cardigan from Adrian's couch. "Where exactly are you?"
“Oak Park, near the old floating pier. You remember the spot."
I did remember it. We had many quiet afternoons, picnics, and conversations about the future there. It made me feel a bit uneasy.
"I'm on my way.” I slipped on my shoes with one hand, rushing. "Noah, promise me you won't let anything happen to him."
"Relax, Isla," he drawled, and there was that patronizing tone I'd forgotten about, the one that used to make me feel like I was overreacting. "I've got this handled. Just don't take too long."
The call ended, and I stood in Adrian's doorway for a moment, processing what had just happened.
Something felt off about the whole situation, but I couldn't pinpoint exactly what.
Noah had sounded calm, almost protective, but there had been an edge to his voice that hadn't been there before .
I grabbed my purse, my mind focused on one thing: Getting to Crew.
Whatever trouble my brother had gotten himself into, I'd figure it out when I got there.
And if Noah was looking out for him like he said, then maybe everything would be okay.
The thought of calling Adrian didn’t even flicker through my mind. All I knew was that I had to get to Crew.