7. Isabelle
ISABELLE
The comfort of first class on the next leg of my flight is almost enough to calm the churning in my stomach and the racing of my heart, but not quite.
I didn't sleep at all last night. All I could think about was the man I met in Ibiza, and what happened between us no matter how hard I try—and fail—to get him out of my head. I've been failing since he ran out of the room, right up to when I boarded this flight to Santorini.
I press my forehead against the window, watching the clouds drift past below us, thick and white and impossibly soft-looking. What the fuck was that?
The question has been circling through my head on repeat since he left my hotel room.
Since he pulled out of me, grabbed his clothes, and ran like I'd burned him.
Since I lay there naked and confused, my throat still tender from where his fingers had pressed, trying to understand what had just happened.
He asked my name. That's the part I keep coming back to, the one part of the night that doesn't make sense no matter how many times I replay it.
We were in the middle of the most intense sex of my life, he was inside me, and everything was perfect, and then he asked my name.
And when I told him, everything changed.
His entire body went rigid beneath me. His hands moved from my hips to my throat. And the look on his face—
God.
The look on his face was pure horror. Like I'd told him I was a ghost. Like I was something terrifying, something impossible, something that shouldn't exist.
And then his grip tightened.
I touch my throat now, feeling the faint tenderness that's still there, the memory of pressure. The memory of panic flooded through me as I realized he might actually kill me.
Except he didn't. He choked me, and he came… and then he ran.
I don't understand it. I don't understand any of it. And the not understanding is driving me insane, making my thoughts spiral in circles that lead nowhere.
Maybe he's married. Maybe he heard my last name and recognized it, realized I'm from a wealthy family, and panicked because he thought I'd expect something from him.
Maybe he's married and from New York, just someone I don't know, and he's afraid I'll see him and recognize him back home and fuck his life up.
Maybe he's just fucked up in ways I can't comprehend, and the intimacy of knowing my name was too much for whatever emotional walls he's built around himself…
even though he's the one who asked for it.
Or maybe—
Maybe something else.
Something darker. Something I'm missing.
The flight attendant passes by with the drink cart, and I order a vodka tonic even though it's barely past noon. She doesn't judge, just hands me the little bottles and a plastic cup with ice, and I mix the drink, my hands surprisingly steady despite my racing thoughts.
I'm good at pretending everything is fine. Years of practice at charity galas and business dinners, smiling through Vivienne's thinly veiled contempt and my father's benign neglect, have taught me how to maintain composure even when I'm falling apart inside.
But I'm not fine.
I take a long drink, letting the vodka burn down my throat, and close my eyes.
I came to Ibiza to escape. To be wild and reckless and free. To fuck strangers and dance until dawn and forget about the responsibilities of being a Montague heiress. And I did that. I did exactly that.
So why do I feel worse now than I did before I left?
The answer sits heavy in my chest, uncomfortable and unwelcome: because for a brief moment, with him, I felt something real.
Something that went beyond the anonymous pleasure I was chasing.
Something that made me think maybe I wasn't as alone as I've always felt.
I met someone who matched me step for step, drink for drink, wild night for wild night, and wanted me through all of it, who felt like the other half of my truest, wildest self.
And then he looked at me like I was his worst nightmare while he was coming inside of me, and ran.
I finish my drink faster than I should and immediately want another one. But the flight attendant has moved on, and I'm left sitting here with an empty cup and too many thoughts.
Greece will be better. It has to be better.
Santorini is supposed to be beautiful—white buildings clinging to cliffsides, blue-domed churches, sunsets that people travel across the world to see.
I booked the most expensive hotel I could find, a suite with a private terrace overlooking the Aegean Sea.
I'm going to lie in the sun and drink wine and let the Mediterranean work its magic.
I'll find another man to fuck, someone with a Greek accent and suntanned skin and a body carved by the gods.
I'm going to forget about the stranger with dark eyes and a different accent who made my knees weak.
I'm going to forget about the way he touched me, the way he made me feel, the way his hands tightened around my throat when I said my name.
I'm going to forget all of it.
Liar.
The word whispers through my mind, quiet and certain, and I don't have an argument against it.
—
By the time we land in Santorini, the sun has fully set, and the island is draped in darkness punctuated by scattered lights. The airport is small, almost quaint, compared to the massive terminals I'm used to, and the warm night air that greets me when I step outside feels like a caress.
This is better already. I tell myself that as I slide into the back of the car the hotel sent for me, as we wind through narrow streets, climbing higher and higher until the sea appears below us, vast and black and glittering with moonlight.
As we pull up to the hotel—a stunning white building that seems to glow against the night sky.
The lobby is all marble and soft lighting, elegant without being ostentatious. The woman at the front desk greets me in accented English, her smile warm and genuine, and within minutes, I have my key card and a porter is leading me to my suite.
The door opens into a space that's both luxurious and intimate.
White walls, minimalist furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows that I know will offer an incredible view in the morning, that leads out to a balcony and a private pool overlooking the sea.
The porter sets my suitcase down, shows me how to work the lights and the air conditioning, and leaves with a generous tip.
And then I'm alone. I stand in the middle of the suite, my arms wrapped around myself, and feel the silence press in.
I move to the windows, sliding open the glass doors that lead to the private terrace.
The night air is cooler here than it was in Ibiza, carrying that scent of salt and flowers that feels fresher, mixed with the drifting scents of roasting meat from nearby restaurants.
The sea stretches out before me, endless and dark, and somewhere in the distance I can see the lights of other buildings clinging to the cliffside.
It's beautiful. But I still feel restless and uncertain, that lingering sensation of something being wrong clinging to me.
I pull out my phone, staring at the dark screen. I turned it back on when we landed, and there was the expected flood of messages from my father's assistant and Vivienne, demanding to know where I am and when I'm coming back.
I shouldn't call anyone. If I do, that will open up a whole conversation about where I went and how I should have told someone, and all the responsibilities I'm shirking while I'm gone.
But a part of me suddenly wants to tell my father that I'm safe, that I'm just taking a trip, that there's nothing to worry about.
I don't give a shit about Vivienne, but I do love my father, and I know he loves me, even if he tends to show that with money rather than affection. And I don't want him worrying about me.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, and I pull up his contact and hit call. It rings once. Twice. Three times. And then a woman's voice answers. "Jacques's phone."
Not my father. Vivienne.
My stomach drops, and for a moment I consider hanging up. Pretending the call dropped, that I never tried to reach him in the first place. But she's already talking. "Hello? Isabelle, is that you?"
"Hi, Vivienne." I keep my voice light and casual, like this is a perfectly normal conversation. "Is my father there?"
"He's in a meeting." Her tone is clipped, the same tone she uses when she's annoyed but trying to hide it. "Where are you calling from? The connection sounds bad."
"I'm traveling." I don't elaborate. I don't owe her an explanation.
"Traveling." She repeats the word as if it tastes bad. "Where are you?"
The question sounds innocent enough, but there's something underneath it. Something that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I can tell she's irritated with me, probably because she has some lunches or galas or something she wants me doing.
"Greece," I say flatly. There's no reason to lie, even though part of me wants to, on principle. "Santorini. I needed a break."
"A break." Another repetition, this one edged with contempt. "How lovely for you. And when are you planning to come home?"
"I'm not sure yet. Two weeks?"
"Two weeks." A pause. I can picture her perfectly—standing somewhere in my father's New York mansion, probably wearing one of her expensive dresses, her expression twisted up into a sneer. "That's quite a long time to be away. Your father will want to know when to expect you back."
"I'll let him know when I have a better idea of my plans. And when I can talk to him." I emphasize that last word. I can't help it. I'm on edge after what happened in Ibiza, and I'm so fucking tired of Vivienne acting like she has any say in my life.
"Isabelle." Her voice shifts, taking on a tone of false concern that makes my skin crawl. "Are you all right? You sound... stressed."
Stressed. The word is so inadequate for what I'm feeling that I almost laugh.
"I'm fine," I lie. "Just tired from the flight."