Chapter 31
thirty-one
ISABELLE
My parents’ house loomed ahead of me. The mansion was lined with windows and built with a dark stone facade that would have looked more at home on a castle.
The long driveway wound through rows of hedges trimmed so precisely it was as though the gardener had measured them with a ruler.
Knowing my parents, he probably had. Not a single leaf was out of place.
My parents rarely summoned me home, and they had never done so in the middle of the week.
A family dinner was the excuse my dad had given me, but I knew better.
He didn’t do normal family things, not unless they served him in some way.
I was nervous that he was going try to set me up with someone again, but my mom had assured me it would just be family present.
I didn’t have to worry about that piece of shit Grant showing up, because as far as I knew, he was still in the hospital.
The windows of the house reflected the late afternoon sun as I crept to a stop in the front circular drive and parked.
My parents had bought the house during my senior year of high school, solely because it was triple the size of their last house and in a much more affluent neighborhood.
It had never felt like home to me, and after spending time away, it felt even less so.
It was more like a display case or the set of a play.
Everything was set up in a way to make the world think we were flawless.
What the hell did they even want? Were they finally getting a divorce? Was my mom moving abroad? Did my father have an illegitimate sibling to introduce me to?
“Isabelle,” my mother’s voice called to me from the top of the stairs leading to the massive front door. She was draped in a billowy, white silk shirt, perfectly tailored trousers, and her signature string of pearls. Her hair was styled flawlessly, even for a Thursday evening spent at home.
Hesitantly, I got out of my car, knowing full well that my mother would have something to say about my outfit, even though I had spent an hour picking it out and even longer on my hair and makeup.
Her smile was thin as I made my way up the steps. “You’re late, dear.”
I resisted every urge within me to roll my eyes. “Traffic was worse than I expected.”
I knew she didn’t believe me, but manners prevented her from calling me out on my lie. Instead, she turned and swept me into the house. “You look tired, dear. I hope you aren’t letting your studies get in the way of taking care of yourself. Looks aren’t forever unless you keep them up.”
My father was in the living room as we approached, and I used it as an excuse not to respond to my mother’s comment. “Hi, Dad.”
He was sitting in his usual spot, a leather armchair, his phone set on the side table next to him.
It was face down, which made my stomach twist. He only placed his phone that way when he was taking the conversation seriously.
His expression was flat and controlled, but his eyes were sharper than I’d seen them since I’d gotten in trouble in high school for skipping class to kiss a boy behind the school gym.
“Sit,” he said, gesturing to the sofa directly across from him.
I sat, setting my purse on the floor beside my feet. “Is everything okay?”
“You know full well that everything is not okay,” my father said, leaning forward, his elbows braced on his knees.
I blinked slowly as he stared at me.
“Charles,” my mother cooed in a soft voice. “We aren’t even sure if what we heard is true.”
He rolled his eyes at my mother, who pretended not to see. “Have you or have you not been spending time at a biker bar called The Clutch?”
“I…” I stammered. “Yes, I have.” Fuck it, I was tired of lying and tiptoeing around the subject of Cole and the MC around my parents.
He leaned closer, his eyes boring into mine. “Then you admit spending time with Cole Bailey?”
My heart leaped at hearing his name come from my father’s mouth, cracked through the air like a whip. “Why are you asking me this?”
“Don’t play dumb, Isabelle. You should know that I have connections everywhere and those connections talk,” he snapped. “What does matter is that you stop spending time with him. Now.”
“You can’t be serious,” I said without thinking.
His eyes gleamed. I had given him the confirmation he was looking for, and I kicked myself for being so easy to read.
“That man is the head of a biker gang, Isabelle. This isn’t some bad boy fantasy that you can play out and walk away from. He is dangerous, and you will not associate with him again,” my mother added.
“Of course she won’t,” my father barked, rising to his feet. “I forbid you to see him or to set foot in The Clutch ever again. You will not sully our family name with your stupid and rebellious acts.”
Anger flared hot in my chest at my father’s notion that he could dictate every aspect of my life. “You don’t get to decide who I see.”
My mother stepped in again, her voice sweet and calming, like she was diffusing one of my tantrums as a child. “Darling, we just want what’s best for you. Please listen to your father. We don’t want to see you hurt.”
“Don’t pretend that this is about me; this is about appearances,” I snapped.
“Do you have any idea how this looks for you, Isabelle?” my father jumped back in. “You are a Lancaster… and to be seen with someone like him—”
“Someone like him?” I interrupted with my voice raised. “Do you mean someone real? Someone who isn’t curated to fit into this suffocating little bubble?”
They stared at me as if I were speaking another language.
“Because Cole isn’t like the men you surround me with at galas and fundraisers, hoping that I’ll make a great match and settle down with someone you can brag about at the country club?
I hate to break it to you, but those men are really great at hiding who they really are from the eyes of society.
Cole doesn’t lie about who he is. He doesn’t hide behind charity balls while fucking his secretary! ” I shot a pointed look at my father.
“Isabelle!” my mother gasped.
My father’s jaw tightened. “Watch your mouth.”
“Why? Because the truth stings?”
He stepped closer, towering over where I sat on the sofa.
“The truth is that Cole Bailey is nothing but a lowlife criminal. He will destroy your future, and our family name. You’re supposed to be focused on graduating and preparing your career, not”—he waved a dismissive hand through the air—“slumming it with trash.”
I shot to my feet. “You don’t even know him. You don’t know what he’s been through or what he’s built.”
“What has he built?” my dad said with a bitter laugh. “A criminal rap sheet, and you think that’s admirable.”
“At least he’s real! He doesn’t pretend to be something he’s not,” I spat back.
Silence cut through the room, thick and suffocating. My father glared at me, his eyes full of barely contained fury. My mother twisted her bracelet in circles, a nervous gesture, the pearls clinking together softly.
“He wouldn’t drug me at a dinner, pull his car over somewhere dark and secluded, and try to rape me!” I yelled.
My parents jerked like I’d struck them. My mother looked at my father, her face pale, but my father only looked furious.
“If you’re talking about Grant, it makes me sick to see how easily you’ll drag the reputation of a man who isn’t even here to defend himself against the slander—”
“That’s the response you have to me saying that he tried to rape me!
” I let out a bitter laugh. “I don’t know why I’m surprised.
And just so you know, Grant isn’t here to defend himself because Cole saw him that night and stopped him.
Stopped him hard enough to put him in the hospital. That’s what a real man does.”
My father stared at me and let out a sharp breath before he spoke again.
“Here is what is going to happen. You end… whatever it is with the biker. You focus on finishing your degree, and when you do graduate, you will move back in. That way, I can make sure you don’t throw your life away.
We will get you set up in an appropriate job, where you will meet appropriate people. ”
My mouth dropped open. “You can’t be serious.” He was just going to pretend I hadn’t spoken?
“Have you ever known me to be anything but serious?” he asked, not expecting an answer. “You’ve been reckless long enough. No more, Isabelle.”
“Reckless long enough?” I echoed. “What about my life can be called reckless? The fact that I chose a different career path than you wanted me to? The fact that my entire life, I have attended every social function that you asked of me so we could look like the perfect family?”
My father shook his head. “I’d thought that letting you fend for yourself in Freshman year would have set you straight about who holds the power in this family, but it seems not.”
“Maybe we should go in for dinner. We can discuss all of this later,” my mother said, heading for the dining room.
Neither of us followed.
“I am your father, Isabelle. I expect you to do what I ask,” he said, as if it were an argument that would end any further pushback from me.
“I’m not a child anymore. You do not get to dictate my life anymore. I’m an adult. I don’t need your permission to pursue a career that I picked for myself. I don’t need your permission to breathe or to spend time with the people that I choose. I will do whatever the hell I want.”
I grabbed my purse off the floor and slung it over my shoulder. “I’m done with this conversation. I won’t be staying for dinner.”
“Isabelle, if you walk out of this house…”
I spun around to face him. “Then what? You’ll cut me off? Fine. Do it.”
“Don’t think about taking that car anywhere, then. That’s not yours either.”
“Wow. Classy, dad.” I dug through my bag and dropped my keys onto the sofa. “Keep it.”