Chapter Three
Isla
I woke up in the morning completely filled with regret.
My head was pounding with the dull ache of too much champagne and too little sleep. I lay perfectly still for a bit, trying to piece together the fragments of last night.
Bailey’s birthday, the club, the music, the hands...
The hands.
Everything rushed back in a flood of sensation. Strong, tattooed fingers gripping my hips, green eyes that looked at me like I was something to devour, and the growl that had vibrated through his chest when I'd kissed him.
Adrian.
I pressed my palms against my eyes, shame and regret washing over me in a wave so strong it left me breathless.
I'd run. I'd actually run away from the most exhilarating connection I'd ever felt, like some ridiculous rom-com heroine too scared of her own desires to see them through .
"What is wrong with me?" I whispered to my empty apartment, the words hanging in the silent room.
I forced myself out of bed, wincing as my bare feet hit the floor. My dress from last night lay in a crumpled heap by the door, a physical reminder of my cowardice.
I put it aside on my way to the bathroom, unable to look at it without remembering how Adrian's hands had pushed it up my thighs, how I'd arched into his touch like I was made for it.
The girl in the mirror looked wrecked—hair messy from sleep, lips still phantom swollen from kisses. It ended too soon.
I touched my mouth, half-expecting to find some physical evidence of Adrian there, some mark that would prove it hadn't been a dream.
There was nothing. Just me, looking lost in my own bathroom.
I went through the motions of my morning routine, brushing my teeth, washing my face, applying the serums and creams I always featured in my skincare videos.
But my mind was elsewhere, replaying every second of last night in excruciating detail.
He'd appeared behind me as if stalking prey, his voice low and warm against my ear.
I looked up to find him watching me with intense green eyes, and butterflies had flown through me when he'd said my name. The moment I decided to kiss him.
The memory of that kiss made me grip the edge of the sink, heat flooding my cheeks. I'd never kissed anyone like that, desperate and hungry, like I was trying to climb inside him.
Yet he'd matched me, contained me, consumed me with a control that promised so much more beneath the surface. His fingers around my neck, on my waist, sliding up my thigh…
And then I left him standing there, probably confused and annoyed. A man like that, with his looks and fame, wouldn't lack for company. He'd probably moved on to someone who wasn't afraid of the fire he offered.
The thought was a physical ache in my chest.
I padded to the kitchen, making sponsored coffee I didn't really want, staring out the window at the street outside.
Saturday morning, the city waking up slowly, people going about their lives without the weight of missed opportunities pressing on their chests.
My phone sat on the counter, untouched since I'd stumbled home last night. Bailey and Tracy would be blowing it up with messages, probably demanding details I didn't want to relive anymore.
But I couldn't bring myself to pick it up yet. I couldn't face their questions when I had no good answers for why I'd fled.
The truth was too raw, too revealing: I'd run because he'd terrified me. Not his size, strength, or tattoos that mapped stories across his skin.
No, what terrified me was how badly I'd wanted him.
How completely I'd been willing to throw away every rule I'd ever made for myself. How, for those brief moments in his arms, I'd been someone else entirely. Someone wilder, braver, and more honest than the girl who painted pretty pictures and posted videos for strangers on the internet.
I carried my coffee to the living room, curling up in the corner where I often painted when the light was good. My easel stood empty nearby, waiting for inspiration that felt miles away.
Usually, on Saturday mornings, I'd be setting up for a painting session I could film for my followers, something easy and accessible, like flowers, the kind of content that performed well.
Today, the thought of performing for anyone made my nose twist.
I sipped and watched a pigeon land on my balcony railing, gray feathers ruffling in the spring breeze. What would it be like to be that open? To act on instinct without second-guessing every choice?
Adrian had seemed that wild. There had been something untamed about him that operated on a frequency I'd never allowed myself to access. The way he'd moved, the way he'd looked at me, the way he'd kissed me—all of it had been honest in a way few things in my life ever were.
And I'd thrown it away because I was scared.
"Stupid," I muttered, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. "So stupid."
I thought about going back to the club tonight, hoping lightning might strike twice. But the idea was absurd. This was a big city, and Adrian was a famous boxer with his pick of venues. The chances of finding him again were slim to none.
Besides, what would I even say? "Sorry I ran away after kissing your face off. Want to try again?"
The pigeon flew away, leaving me alone. I closed my eyes, letting the memories wash over me again.
His mouth against my neck, his fingers wrapping around my throat, the way his body had felt pressed against mine, all hard muscle and barely contained energy.
I'd never wanted anyone the way I'd wanted him. And I'd run away like a coward.
It brought tears to my eyes now, hot and prickly.
Not just for the loss of Adrian, though that stung sharply enough, but for what his appearance in my life had revealed: how desperately I'd been sleepwalking through my days, how hungry I was for something that couldn't be filtered, edited, or made palatable for a social media audience.
I wanted the mess, the burning honesty I'd tasted for those few minutes in his arms. I wanted to be the girl who stayed, who saw where that fire might lead, who wasn't afraid of her own desires.
But I hadn't been that girl. I'd been Isla Belleflower, pretty and predictable, running away at the first sign that life might actually get interesting.
My phone still sat on the kitchen counter, screen dark and waiting. I approached it warily, bracing for the flood of texts and notifications that would drag me back into the digital world .
There were fifteen texts from Bailey and Tracy, mostly variations of “ARE YOU ALIVE??" and "CALL US IMMEDIATELY!"
A missed call from my mother, a photo from Crew. Various notifications from social media, the usual morning harvest of likes and comments on recent posts.
I swiped through them absently, thumbs moving on autopilot, mind still half-lost in what might have been.
I opened an app, scrolling past stories and posts without really seeing them.
A selfie I'd posted last night before going out stared back at me, soft lighting, carefully styled hair, a simple caption about golden hour.
The comments were the usual mix of compliments and questions about my outfit, my makeup, my apartment. I scrolled through them mechanically, a habit born of years maintaining my online presence.
Then my thumb froze. My heart stuttered, then raced.
A verified account. A name that sent lightning shooting through my veins:
@AdrianCatalyst: Sunset looks better on you than anywhere else.
I blinked, certain I was hallucinating. But there it was, the timestamp showing it had been posted at 6:42 AM. Hours ago, while I'd been sleeping off regret and champagne.
My fingers trembled as I tapped his profile. The same wild smile, the same green eyes I'd dreamed about all night. The same tattooed hands that had held me.
I scrolled back to my feed in a daze. He'd commented on another post too, a painting I'd shared earlier this week, a moody cityscape in blues and golds.
@AdrianCatalyst: That shade of blue's my favorite. Reminds me of eyes I met last night.
My breath caught. The comments weren't obvious, nothing that would make a stranger look twice. But to me, they were a lightning strike, a code, a message meant just for me.
He'd found me. He wanted me to know it.
I stumbled back to my seat, phone clutched to my chest. He'd sought me out. He'd looked for me, found me, and left his mark on my digital life where anyone could see it.
The regret that had been drowning me all morning transformed into something light, almost like hope.
I hadn't ruined everything. I hadn't lost my chance. Adrian, with his wild eyes and dangerous smile, had tracked me down and opened the door again.
I opened my DMs, half-expecting to find a message from him there, but there was nothing. Just the comments, subtle and public, like a game he was inviting me to play.
Like a hunt he was letting me know had begun.
A slow smile crept across my lips, chasing away the last of my despair.
Maybe I hadn't been brave last night. Maybe I'd run when I should have stayed. But I was being offered a second chance, a chance to be the girl who said yes to the fire, who didn't run from the thing she wanted most.
This time, I wouldn't make the same mistake.
My fingers hovered over the post button, a familiar flutter of pre-upload nerves dancing in my stomach.
But this time was different. I wasn't thinking about engagement rates, brand partnerships, or what my followers might like.
I was thinking about him.
I'd been scrolling through my drafts for over an hour, looking for the perfect post that might catch his attention again.
I remembered the peach eyeshadow tutorial I'd filmed a few days ago, the one where I'd tried that new palette with the shimmery peachy shade that made my eyes pop. I hadn't posted it yet, saving it for a low-content day.
"This is ridiculous," I muttered to myself, even as I polished the caption. "He's not going to notice a makeup video. ”
But what if he did?