34. Chapter 34
Sitting across from her, I was completely wrecked. Did she have any idea how perfect she was? She ordered for me and nailed it. Every choice. Every detail. I’d lived with Hannah for four years. And she never once anticipated what I needed the way Isabella did without effort.
That realization was eye-opening, to say the least. The day had hollowed me out—the intensive high, the crash of Chase and Hannah’s betrayal, the end of our time together. I had walked into this room raw. Empty.
She’d felt it and adjusted to meet me where I was. Met me in my need. There was something beautiful in that. Hannah never chose me. Isabella was leagues different. Everything from the lighting, the music, the food, and the champagne. She’d created something beautiful.
And the dress.
Jesus. It clung in all the right places, moved when she did, and framed her every curve. I had half a thought to tell her she needed ten more like it. But that wasn’t my call. How the hell could I convince her to wear something like that for dinner back home one night?
I wanted the others to see what I saw. A radiant, confident, and sophisticated Isabella.
“You believe in soulmates, Bella?” I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it.
“Would it surprise you if I said yes?” she answered, taking a small sip of her champagne.
“A little. Is this a family thing like a Caruso family-held belief?”
“No. It’s straight up Sebastian doctrine. But I’ve watched it play out. Hard to deny something you’ve seen with your own eyes.”
There was something different in her tone. This wasn’t romantic fantasy.
“But I think,” she continued, “in various ways, my views differ from my brother’s.”
I leaned back. “How so?”
“I believe there are many kinds of soulmates. Us girls—soulmates through and through.”
Her fingers traced the stem of her glass. She was willingly bringing up the girls as a group. I sat up straighter. This was progress. And it wasn’t like I didn’t have a hundred and one questions I wanted to ask. But timing was everything, and something about tonight had her wanting to open up.
“I know you guys are worried about what Winter will bring to the family when we find her, but us girls don’t.”
That was a bold statement to make. I’d give her credit—she said it with her whole chest.
“She’ll fit. And when she does, it is going to be a beautiful thing. Mark my words.”
“Without knowing what her life looks like now,” I countered, “a little caution is warranted. We’ve got an amazing balance going on right now.”
“In your eyes,” she whispered. “In mine? In Kinsley? Or Tori’s?” She held my gaze. I wasn’t quite prepared for her next words. “Time stops once a year.”
In real time, melancholy settled over her. In the quiet between us, it slipped in and dimmed the edges of her expression without warning. I almost interrupted her.
Almost.
Then I caught myself. She was opening up. Carefully. I’d learned the hard way what happened when you rushed moments like this. So I leaned back and let her have the space.
“It’s like riding a time machine where we skip an entire season,” she said. “For us, we can’t conceive of the notion of winter-time. It’s like it’s been wiped off the calendar completely, but inside we know it’s there.”
I could feel her heart breaking.
“I didn’t know,” I said. “But I guess it makes sense in some ways. Kinsley always gets sad when the calendar flips.”
She nodded faintly. “We put on a happy face to celebrate holidays and such, but it’s never far from our minds. The missing piece. I can’t explain it, but I know it here.” Her hand came up, resting over her heart.
“I believe you. Tell me more about her.”
“Really?” she asked, fingers worrying the edge of her napkin. “You want to know about her?”
“Yes. If she’s going to be coming into our home and lives, I’d like to know her a little beforehand.”
Something shifted across her face then. A flicker of hesitation, then surrender. Somewhere in the last few days she decided I was trustworthy. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. She took her time.
“Winter was a contrast to the name of her season. I often wondered why she wasn’t Autumn instead of me. With my dark hair and all.” A small breath escaped her. “I’d convinced myself it was because she was fire and could warm the most frozen nights with her music.”
I didn’t interrupt.
“That was until it was explained to me our seasons coincided with our birthdays.” She shook her head faintly, almost amused by her younger logic. “Her curly red hair was unmanageable most days and during the summer when the humidity was at its worst, forget it.”
A smile spread across her face. She closed her eyes and let out a soft sigh. It was like watching something sacred.
“Tell me what you’re seeing behind those closed eyes,” I said, careful not to break whatever thread she was holding.
“I used to take my sketchbook outside with me. We weren’t allowed to talk to one another ever, and it helped pass the time.” Her lashes trembled as she spoke. “Right now, I’m remembering the time when I drew her under the large tree that sat outside by the lake.”
The way she said lake made my stomach tighten. “Share it with me,” I said. “Exactly how you see it.”
“I can see her sad eyes. Pale skin. The freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheeks.” Her voice slowed, like she was sketching with words. “By the end of our time outside, her face would be red from the heat.”
She paused. The silence stretched, and I leaned forward without meaning to.
“What is she wearing?” I asked.
Her eyes closed again. And this time, I didn’t just see her accessing memories. I saw something else underneath it. Appreciation. She felt safe with me. She felt seen.
“It’s summer, so she’s not wearing the traditional school uniform we normally wear.” Her eyes stayed closed, building the image piece by piece. “She’s wearing a yellow dress. It has spaghetti straps here.”
She touched her shoulders, fingertips grazing skin.
“But then there were sleeves too. The kind that puff out.” Her hands drifted down her arms, tracing invisible fabric. She frowned. “It was short. Our uniforms were that way, too. On purpose. And tight. I could tell she was getting older. Like me.”
I frowned. “Getting older how?”
Her eyes flew open, color flooding her cheeks. “She started developing right about the same time me and Tori had.” She cleared her throat, suddenly hyper-aware. “And Kinsley was still flat as a pancake. Winter would pull at the top of her clothing all the time.”
I blinked, trying to reconcile the innocence in her tone with the undercurrent beneath it. There were layers there I wasn’t fully grasping, and something told me I didn’t want to.
“But Pasha,” she continued, the blush fading as memory overtook embarrassment, “she had the most beautiful hazel eyes. They would only light up when she played. Otherwise…They were filled with deep sorrow and pain.”
“That’s understandable,” I said. “She played the cello, right?”
Isabella nodded.
“She was gifted,” she said, and this time the nostalgia carried warmth instead of ache. “It was like pure magic. Like when Kinsley dances and Tori plays. There was a passion to it that she couldn’t contain.”
Her hands curled loosely in her lap as if remembering the movement of strings beneath fingers.
“And I could see sometimes she wanted to. Contain it, I mean. Like she wanted to hold back, but she never could.” A faint smile tugged at her mouth. “It had a way of weaving into your soul and stirring emotions you didn’t even know you had.”
She paused, eyes drifting again.
“She and Tori used to play, and Kinsley would dance. I loved those nights the most. I pretended like we were all best friends at a concert performing for our families.”
Something twisted in my chest. I tried to picture—four girls under stage lights, talent pouring out of them, music and movement filling a room. But the reality I knew sat like a stone behind the image.
The four of them had suffered systematic control, abuse, isolation, and exploitation. The contrast made my jaw tighten. What I could see clearly, though, was the bond. It wasn’t fragile or even sentimental. It was molded. Through things I couldn’t comprehend.
“So Winter is your soulmate,” I said. “You four are kindred spirits.”
“Exactly.” Her answer came without hesitation.
“We understand one another on a level no one else can, or ever will. No matter how close we become with someone else.” She leaned forward.
“We were each other’s silent hope. And joy.
” Her gaze lifted to mine. “We’re eternally linked.
And as much as I hate what happened to us…
through it we were forged. Like a blade.
Melded together. Intertwined in an intricate and beautiful way. ”
The fire crackled behind her. And for a second, I wondered if she realized how sharp that blade still was. I sat back and let her words settle between us.
“Thank you. For telling me about her. I know that’s not easy.”
Her eyes softened just a fraction. “It’s not.”
We fell into a comfortable silence after that. One that didn’t demand to be filled. We ate in the quiet of our room, fire crackling, ocean murmuring through the screen door. It was intimate in the best way possible.
My emotions were everywhere tonight—the betrayal, the relief, the pull toward her, the conversation about Winter—but her presence anchored me. I hoped mine did the same for her.
“Now that the wedding has been canceled,” I said carefully, “I could see about getting earlier flights home.”
Her fork paused in midair. “About that.”
There was the smallest tell that something more was going on. It was a slight flicker. Her shoulders tightened. She set her fork down. Her fingers curled into the edge of the tablecloth before she caught herself.
“What?” I asked.
She took a breath that didn’t quite fill her lungs. “I was thinking we could go on a road trip.”
A road trip. My spine went rigid before I could stop it. Sebastian’s warning rang loud and clear.