Undisputed Chaos (The Undisputed #3)

Prologue One

Isla

T he ring light cast a warm glow across my bedroom, bathing everything in a soft, flattering radiance that made even my messy shelves look like something out of a magazine spread.

I adjusted the fabric of my pastel blue velour jacket, unzipping it just enough in a way that looked effortless but had actually taken me six tries to get right.

The camera watched me, its unblinking eye capturing every move as I reached for the palette I'd been sent to review.

"Hey flowers!" I chirped, the practiced brightness in my voice coming naturally after two years of talking to my phone like it was a person.

"Today we're trying this new spring collection that’s dropping soon! Look at how the colors match my cushions.”

My fingers danced over the shimmery pans of eyeshadow that were perfect for my audience.

Twenty-four years old, and I'd made an art form out of making mundane things look magical .

That was the trick to being @IslaBelleflower: finding beauty in the everyday, packaging it in Y2K aesthetics, and serving it with a smile.

The palette was nice enough, but it was nothing revolutionary. I'd learned that my followers didn't really care about brutal honesty; they wanted the fairy tale.

Me twirling in floral dresses, cooking perfect recipes, and painting sunset landscapes while looking like I'd stepped out of a 2000s rom-com. And I was happy to give them that version of myself.

"This shade called 'Daydream' would be perfect for a coffee date or brunch with the girls," I continued, swiping the peachy shimmer across my lid. "And it literally takes two seconds to apply."

It had taken me thirty minutes to perfect the look before filming, but I definitely looked the part.

I finished the video with my signature sign-off, a little finger heart and a silly line, then collapsed back against my pillows.

My room fell quiet, just the hum of my air purifier and the distant sounds of traffic floating through my open window.

Outside, the city was alive with late summer energy, bright and humid to match.

My apartment was exactly what you'd expect from someone who made their living showcasing aesthetic moments.

It had cream walls with art I painted myself, vintage-inspired furniture in pastel tones, plants I'd learned to keep alive, and surfaces covered in little trinkets that served no purpose other than looking pretty.

It wasn't large, but the many windows made it feel airy and bright. It was my grandparents’, and my parents gave it to me when I graduated from college with my art degree, which I wasn't using in any traditional sense.

I edited the video idly, cutting out the awkward pauses and the moment I'd stumbled over describing a shade called "Elixir."

My fingers moved across the screen, muscle memory from countless hours of perfecting these snippets of my life for public consumption .

After an hour, it was partly edited, and hashtags were strategically placed to maximize visibility.

I saved it to my drafts to finish editing later, and pulled another quick video I’d saved to post. The dopamine hit from watching the first likes trickle in was immediate and familiar.

"Engagement's pretty good today," I mumbled to myself, scrolling through the comments.

Sweet girls told me I looked pretty, asked about my jacket, and wondered if the palette was worth the money. I answered a few, dropping heart emojis and exclamation points like confetti.

My phone buzzed with a text, Mom's name flashing on the screen.

Mom

Don't forget dinner tonight! Dad's making something special.

Isla

Wouldn’t miss it!

I smiled and followed the text with my own confetti of heart emojis. My parents lived only twenty minutes away in a house that was too big for them now that I’d moved out, but they refused to downsize.

Mom said she needed the space for when I came home, as though my little apartment was some temporary experiment rather than my life.

Crew still lived there, though he'll probably be moving nearby once he graduates this year.

The afternoon sun slanted through my windows as I moved to my easel in the corner.

This was the real work, not the videos or the sponsored posts, but the canvases I poured myself into when no one was watching.

This week’s piece was a sprawling skyline in soft watercolors.

My paintbrush moved precisely, adding depth to the shadows of buildings I'd seen my entire life.

Painting was the one thing I did that didn't require a filter, careful lighting, or the right outfit. It was just me, the canvas, and the colors mixing in ways that sometimes surprised me.

My followers liked it when I shared my art, but it never got the engagement of my outfit videos or makeup tutorials. Still, I enjoyed sharing my creativity, so I kept at it, finding quiet satisfaction in signing my name on each finished piece.

Three hours passed in a blur of blue washes and tiny, detailed windows. My neck ached from bending over the canvas, and my fingers were stained with paint I'd need to scrub off before dinner.

I stretched, my spine cracking in protest, and glanced at my phone. Two missed calls from my brother and a string of texts.

Crew

Can you pick me up from practice?

Mom and Dad are both stuck in traffic.

Helloooooo

ISLA I'm STRANDED

HELP!

The last message had come through just two minutes ago. I called him back with a laugh.

"Finally!" Crew's deep voice reached my ears.

I was still adjusting to his post-puberty changes, like him not having the voice of my baby brother.

"I've been waiting for like, an hour."

"It's been twenty minutes," I corrected with a grin, already grabbing my keys. "I was painting. I'll be there in ten."

"Make it five. Coach already left, and I'm the only one here."

I rolled my eyes, slipping into sandals that weren't ideal for driving but matched my outfit perfectly. "Don't be dramatic. Lock yourself in the locker room if you're scared."

"I'm not scared," he protested, the responding eye roll audible in his voice. "I'm bored. And hungry. "

"See you soon, drama queen."

I hung up before he could argue, grabbing my tumbler of water due to the warmth of the day.

The car my parents had gifted me when I graduated high school was a sensible and cute blue, waiting in its designated spot beside my building.

The drive to Crew's high school took exactly ten minutes, as I’d said, the traffic mercifully light for a weekday afternoon.

He was waiting on the steps of the gym, all petulance and tall height, his dark blonde hair, a shade deeper than mine, flopped over his forehead in need of a cut.

"You look like a Bratz doll," he announced, throwing his duffel bag into my backseat. It landed with a thud that made me cringe.

"Thank you?" I wasn't sure if that was a compliment coming from a high school senior.

"It wasn't a compliment."

He buckled his seatbelt, already reaching for my phone to change the music. "Why are you so dressed up to pick me up from soccer practice?"

I batted his hand away from my carefully curated playlist. "I'm not dressed up. This is just how I dress."

"For your videos, maybe. You used to wear normal clothes."

He gestured vaguely at my outfit: a ruffled skirt, a jacket, and a tank top underneath. "Now you dress like you're from some old movie.”

"Yet you’re wearing basketball shorts with dress socks." I retorted as I pulled away from the curb, merging into the traffic flow.

"And my followers like my style. The cardigan video from last week got over a few hundred thousand views."

Crew's eyebrows shot up. "Seriously? For a cardigan?"

"It's called fashion, Crew. Look it up."

I tossed him a smirk, feeling the familiar warmth of sibling banter wash over me. "Besides, it pays for your Christmas presents."

"Fair point. Carry on with your Bratz doll aesthetic. "

The rest of the drive to our parents' house was filled with Crew's dramatic retelling of soccer practice politics—who wasn't passing to whom, which freshman was trying too hard, how the coach had yelled at them for ten minutes straight about proper hydration.

I half-listened, letting the familiar cadence of his voice wash over me as we wound through the neighborhoods of our childhood.

Our parents' house came into view, a white colonial with cut lawn and spring flowers lining the walkway. It looked like something from a magazine spread, the kind of place where nothing bad ever happened.

And it hadn't, not really. I'd grown up sheltered in the best possible way, protected from the harshness of the world by parents who could afford to keep reality at bay.

Sometimes I wondered if that was why I didn’t care for independence now. If having everything handled for me had somehow wired my brain to seek that same safety in my relationships.

My relationship with Noah had proven that theory wrong. His version of love had been lacking rather than fulfilling, always leaving me wanting more.

I pushed away thoughts of him as I parked in the driveway. That chapter was closed, and I was better for it, even if sometimes late at night, I wondered if being alone was really better than being with someone who at least acted like they loved me.

Those thoughts only came in the darkest hours, when the apartment felt too big and my bed too empty, when the comments and likes couldn't fill the space beneath my ribs.

"You've got paint on your wrist," Crew pointed out as we walked to the front door. "Mom's going to freak if you stain her good towels again."

I glanced down, noticing the smear of ultramarine blue that had somehow evaded my notice. "I'll use the kitchen sink."

The house smelled like garlic and tomatoes, the rich aroma of Dad's cooking filling every corner .

Mom was in the kitchen, hair pulled back in a neat braid as she tossed a salad in a bowl that was far too fancy for a weeknight dinner.

Dad stood at the stove, wooden spoon in hand, some opera music playing.

"My children!" Mom exclaimed, as though we'd returned from war rather than from across town.