Isla's POV
The champagne glass slips from my hand.
I don't hear it shatter. I don't hear anything except Derek's voice, loud and clear, announcing to three hundred people that he's calling off our engagement.
My engagement. Our engagement. The one we've planned for two years.
"I can't do this anymore," Derek says into the microphone, and everyone in the ballroom goes quiet. So quiet I can hear my own heartbeat pounding in my ears. "I'm in love with someone else."
My legs feel like water. This isn't happening. This can't be happening.
"Someone real," Derek continues, and there's something mean in his voice now. "Not someone who cares more about paintings than her own fiancé."
Three hundred faces turn to stare at me. I'm frozen in my white engagement dress—the one I spent months picking out. The one I thought I'd remember forever for happy reasons.
"Natasha," Derek says, reaching out his hand. "Come here, baby."
No. No, no, no.
My little sister steps out from the crowd. She's wearing red—blood red—and she's smiling. Actually smiling. She takes Derek's hand, and he pulls her close.
Then he kisses her.
My sister. My fiancé. Kissing at my engagement party.
Someone gasps. Maybe it's me. I can't tell anymore.
"Isla." My father's voice cuts through the shocked whispers. He's beside me suddenly, his hand gripping my arm too tight. "Don't make a scene."
"Don't make a—" I can't finish. I'm shaking so hard my teeth chatter.
"You drove him away," Dad hisses, quiet enough that only I can hear. "With your stubbornness. Your ridiculous art obsession. Natasha knows how to treat a man right. Maybe now you'll learn."
I stare at him. At this man who's supposed to love me, protect me. "You knew?"
He doesn't answer. He doesn't have to. I see it in his eyes—he knew. Maybe he even helped plan this.
The room spins. Everyone's whispering now, phones out, taking pictures. Of me. Of my humiliation. Of the moment my entire life falls apart.
I have to get out.
I push past my father, past the shocked guests, past the ice sculpture of two swans I picked because they mate for life. What a joke.
"Isla, wait!" My mom's voice, but I can't stop. If I stop, I'll break into a million pieces right here on this marble floor.
I run.
My heels catch on my dress and I stumble, nearly falling. Someone laughs. Actually laughs. I kick off my shoes and keep going, barefoot, not caring anymore.
The hotel hallway blurs past. Behind me, I hear Derek's voice on the microphone again: "Sorry for the drama, folks! Let's party!"
Let's party. Like he didn't just destroy me in front of everyone who matters in Manhattan.
I slam through the exit doors and the night air hits me like a slap. It's raining. Of course it's raining. Because this night can't get any worse, right?
Wrong.
"Isla Monroe!" A flash blinds me. Then another. And another.
Paparazzi. Somehow they're already here, cameras clicking like hungry insects.
"How does it feel to be dumped for your baby sister?"
"Did you know they were together?"
"Are the rumors true that you're impossible to love?"
That last one—it punches the air from my lungs. Impossible to love. Is that what everyone thinks?
I run again, into the rain, into the dark, anywhere but here. My dress is soaked. My makeup is running. I must look insane.
I don't care.
My phone buzzes in my clutch. Text after text after text. I pull it out with shaking hands.
Sophia: OMG ARE YOU OKAY?? I'm coming to get you!
Unknown Number: lol guess ur sister was prettier
Another Unknown: saw the video already, its EVERYWHERE
Dad: Come back inside. We need to discuss your behavior.
My behavior? MY BEHAVIOR?
I throw the phone. It skitters across the wet pavement and I hope it breaks. I hope everything breaks.
More flashes. More cameras. More voices asking how it feels to be humiliated, rejected, replaced.
A car pulls up—black, expensive. The window rolls down and my father leans out. "Get in the car, Isla. Now."
"No."
"You're embarrassing the family."
I laugh. It sounds wrong, broken. "I'M embarrassing the family? Not Natasha? Not Derek?"
"They're in love. These things happen." He says it so casually, like my heart isn't shattered on the ground. "Get in the car and we'll fix this. Find you someone better. Someone who can handle your... difficulties."
Something inside me snaps.
"No," I say again, louder. "I'm done. Done with you, done with this family, done with all of it."
"If you walk away now, you're cut off. No more apartment, no more allowance, no more trust fund. Nothing."
The rain pours harder. I'm already soaked, already ruined. What's a little more destruction?
"Fine," I whisper.
Then I turn and walk away from my father, from my old life, from everything I thought I knew.
Behind me, I hear him shout: "You'll come crawling back! You're nothing without this family! Nothing!"
Maybe he's right.
But I'd rather be nothing than stay in a world where my own sister can steal my fiancé and my own father can call it love.
I walk until I can't anymore. Until I collapse on a bench in Central Park, soaking wet and utterly alone.
My phone—wherever it landed—starts buzzing again. I can hear it from here, vibrating against concrete.
One notification after another.
The video must be everywhere by now. My humiliation, viral. My pain, entertainment.
I close my eyes and let the rain wash over me.
When I open them again, I make myself a promise: I will survive this. I will rebuild. And one day, everyone who laughed will regret it.
I just have to figure out how.
My phone finally stops buzzing. In the sudden silence, I hear footsteps.
Someone's coming.
I look up, and through the rain, I see a figure approaching. Tall, expensive suit, walking with purpose.
He stops in front of my bench.
"Isla Monroe?"
I don't recognize the voice. Don't recognize anything about him except the look in his eyes—not pity. Something else. Something that makes my breath catch.
"Who's asking?" I manage.
He holds out an umbrella, shielding me from the rain for the first time tonight.
"Someone who can help you destroy everyone who hurt you tonight," he says. "If you're interested in revenge."