Isabelle
Ilie in the darkness listening to Julian breathe on the other side of the locked door, and I hate him.
I hate him for making me want him. For making me feel safe and then ripping that safety away. For looking at me like I'm something he wants to possess and devour one moment, and then telling me I'm nothing the next.
For saving my life and then treating me like an obligation, he resents.
A moment of weakness. What we had on that balcony—his mouth on mine, his hands on my body, the way he touched me like he was starving for it—was just a moment of weakness he regrets.
The words echo in my head, sharp and cruel, and I feel the sting of them all over again. My throat tightens, and my eyes burn. I press my face into the pillow and try to breathe through the hurt, but it's everywhere. In my chest. In my stomach.
In my heart.
He said it like I was nothing. Like I meant nothing.
I've spent all this time since Ibiza watching him fight to keep me alive. I see the way his eyes follow me across every room, the way his body responds when I'm close. I've felt his desire. I know it's real. But he keeps pushing me away and telling me it can't happen.
I roll onto my back and stare at the water-stained ceiling, my jaw clenched so hard my teeth ache.
My anger feels hot and sharp beneath the hurt.
Fuck him. Fuck his rejection and his distance and his constant mixed signals.
Fuck the way he looks at me like I'm everything and then tells me I'm nothing.
I don't need him.
I don't need his desire or whatever complicated bullshit is going on in his head. I'm Isabelle Montague. I've had men wanting me my whole life. I could walk into any bar in this city and have my pick of a dozen men who'd be thrilled to take me home. Men who wouldn't push me away.
The thought takes root, dangerous and reckless as it is. I sit up slowly, listening to the silence from the living room. Julian's breathing is deep and even. He's finally asleep.
I could leave. Just for a few hours. Just long enough to prove to myself that I don't need him, that I'm not some pathetic girl pining after a man who's made it clear he doesn't want me.
This is insane. The rational part of my brain knows that Julian told me to stay inside for a reason. There are people hunting me, and leaving this safe house is exactly the kind of reckless stupidity that could get me killed.
But the hurt and anger are louder than reason right now.
I slide out of bed as quietly as possible, my heart pounding.
I rummage carefully in my suitcase, finding a pair of tight jean shorts and a silky cobalt blue halter top, and slip them on, before running my fingers through my hair.
I don't have time to put on makeup, but I grab a face wipe and run it over my skin, putting on a bit of lip gloss before reaching for the bedroom door.
I wait for the hinges to creak or the floor to squeak, but I move slowly enough that I manage to be silent.
I listen for any change in Julian's breathing, but I know he was exhausted, and he seems to be deeply asleep.
I stand frozen in the doorway for a long moment, second-guessing this entire plan.
If he wakes up and finds me gone, he'll be furious.
He'll probably track me down and drag me back here, and then I'll have to endure another lecture about how reckless I am, how I don't understand the danger.
But part of me doesn't care, and that part is louder than the rest. Let him be furious. Let him feel a fraction of what I'm feeling right now.
I move across the living room on silent feet, my eyes locked on his sleeping shape. The front door is only ten feet away. Ten feet between me and proving that I don't need Julian to make me feel wanted.
My hand closes around the doorknob. I turn it carefully, and slip out into the hallway before I can change my mind.
The bar I find a few blocks from the apartment is called ?erny Pes—the Black Dog, maybe, based on the 'art' on the sign hanging beneath the lettering.
It's exactly the kind of place I would never go to in New York.
It's dark and crowded and smells like spilled beer and cigarette smoke.
The rock music that's playing is too loud, and the lighting is dim enough that I can barely see faces across the room.
It's perfect for what I'm trying to achieve tonight.
I push through the crowd toward the bar, feeling eyes on me immediately.
My hair is messy around my face, I know I have bags beneath my eyes, and there's no makeup on my face besides the lip gloss I've already nervously half-licked off.
I look nothing like the polished heiress who used to attend charity galas in designer gowns, or even the spoiled trust-fund darling who partied in Ibiza not that long ago.
But I still turn heads.
A man steps aside to let me through, his gaze lingering on my body.
Another one smiles as I pass, saying something in Czech that I don't understand, but have no trouble interpreting from the tone of his voice.
The attention feels good. Validating. It's a reminder that I'm desirable, that men want me.
I don't need Julian to make me feel good.
I reach the bar and order a vodka tonic in English, not caring if my accent marks me as a tourist. The bartender, a woman with short purple hair and multiple piercings, nods and starts making the drink without comment.
When she slides it across the bar, I down half of it in one long swallow.
The alcohol burns going down, and I welcome the feeling.
I want to feel something other than the ache in my chest. I want to numb the hurt and anger until they're manageable.
"Rough night?"
I turn to find a man standing beside me at the bar. He's more handsome than I expected to find here. His blond hair is cropped short, and he has pale blue eyes, a strong square jaw, and high cheekbones. He's wearing dark jeans and a fitted black shirt that shows off a lean, athletic build.
He's smiling at me like he knows exactly how attractive he is.
"You could say that," I reply, taking another sip of my drink.
"American?" His English is accented but clear, and his smile widens. "Let me guess—New York?"
"Good ear."
"I spent a year in Manhattan. Columbia University." He extends his hand. "I'm Tomá?."
I hesitate for only a second before taking his hand. His grip is warm and confident, and he doesn't stop smiling as his thumb slides over the back of my hand. "Isabelle."
"That's lovely. Can I buy you another drink, Isabelle?"
I know I shouldn't be here. If I were smart, I'd decline and get back to the safe house before Julian wakes up and realizes I'm gone.
Instead, I drain the rest of my vodka tonic and set the empty glass on the bar. "Sure. Why not?"
Three drinks later, the edges of my anger have softened into a pleasantly blurry haze.
The bar is even more crowded now, bodies pressed together on the small dance floor as the music pulses through the space.
Tomá? has been attentive and charming, keeping my glass full and making me laugh with stories about his disastrous attempts to navigate the New York subway system.
He's exactly the kind of distraction I need.
"You're very far from home," he says, leaning closer so I can hear him over the music. His hand rests on the bar beside mine, close enough that our fingers are almost touching. "What brings you to Prague?"
"Escaping," I say without thinking, the alcohol loosening my tongue. "From people who think they know what's best for me."
"Ah." His smile turns knowing. "Running away from something. Or someone?"
"Does it matter?"
"Not to me." His fingers brush against mine. "I'm just glad you ended up here tonight."
The touch sends a small spark through me, but it's nothing like what I feel when Julian touches me.
Nothing like the electricity that arcs between us, the way my entire body comes alive under his hands.
But that's the point, isn't it? Julian doesn't want me.
He's made that abundantly clear. Tomá? does.
"Dance with me," he says, wrapping his hand around mine and tugging me off of the barstool.
He flashes me another of those devastating smiles, and I let him pull me onto the dance floor, into the crush of bodies moving to the heavy electronic beat.
His hands find my hips immediately, pulling me close, and I don't stop him.
I let our bodies press together, let his mouth brush against my ear as he says something I can't quite hear over the music.
This is what I came here for. To feel wanted.
To prove that Julian's rejection doesn't matter, that I can find someone else, that I don't need him.
But even as Tomá?'s hands slide lower on my hips, even as he pulls me tighter against him, all I can think about is Julian.
The way he looked at me on that balcony.
The way his hands felt on my body. The way he kissed me like he was drowning and I was air.
A moment of weakness.
The memory stings, cutting through the alcohol haze. I press closer to Tomá?, trying to lose myself in the moment and feel something other than the ache of Julian's rejection.
"You're tense," Tomá? murmurs against my ear, his hands moving up my sides. "Relax. I've got you."
But I don't want him to have me. I want—
Stop. I force the thought away and focus on the man in front of me, on his hands and his body and the way he's looking at me like I'm something he wants to devour. This is what I need. This is what will make the hurt stop.
"Let's get out of here," Tomá? says, his mouth brushing against my neck. "My hotel is close. We could have a drink somewhere quieter. Somewhere we can actually talk."
We both know he's not interested in talking. But this is what I came here for. This is what I want. I want to remind myself that Julian isn't everything. That it doesn't matter what he thinks or wants or says. If I'm nothing to him, he can be nothing to me, too.