Isadora leaned back against the door arms crossed, black silk dress clinging like a second skin, eyes dark and burning. No smirk tonight. No playful wink. Just raw, unfiltered fury.
"For our date," she said voice low, shaking. "But it seems you're with another man."
Rowan's heart slammed against her ribs.
"This isn't a date," she said sharp, defensive. "It's dinner. With someone who doesn't assault me. Who doesn't threaten me. Who doesn't make me feel like I'm losing my mind every time he opens his mouth."
Isadora pushed off the door slow, dangerous closing the distance in two steps.
"You think you can just walk away?" she whispered voice cracking with rage. "You think you can sit across from some nobody lawyer, smile at his jokes, let him look at you like you're his? You're mine, Rowan. You've been mine since the moment I woke up in that hospital bed and saw you looking at me like I was nothing. You don't get to give that look to someone else."
Rowan stepped back back hitting the sink.
"You don't own me," she said voice trembling but firm. "You don't get to decide who I see. Who I talk to. Who I..."
Isadora slammed her palm against the mirror beside Rowan's head hard enough to make the glass vibrate.
"I decide," she hissed face inches from Rowan's, eyes glassy with tears she refused to let fall.
"I decide because you let me in. You let me touch you. You let me kiss your cheek. You bit my tongue and still didn't call security. You're lying to yourself if you think this..." she gestured wildly toward the restaurant beyond the door "...is going to fix anything. It won't. He won't. No one will. Because you're already ruined. By me."
Rowan's breathing hitched anger and fear and something hotter warring in her chest.
"You're jealous," she said quiet, cutting.
"That's all this is. Jealousy. You can't stand that someone else might touch me. Might make me laugh. Might make me feel safe. You're not possessive because you love me. You're possessive because you're terrified of losing control. And right now? You're losing it."
Isadora's hand dropped from the mirror fingers curling into fists at her sides.
"I punched my brother for you," she said voice breaking. "Split his lip. Told him no one gets to you. And you're out here with some… Carlos? Some safe, boring, nothing man who'll never make you feel half of what I make you feel?"
Rowan stepped forward closing the last inch of space eyes locked on Isadora's.
"I'm here because I want to feel something that isn't fear," she said voice low, trembling.
"Something that isn't rage. Something that isn't you threatening to destroy me every time you open your mouth. You think I'm yours? You think you can bruise me, kiss me, threaten me, and I'll just… surrender? I won't. I'm not yours. I'm not anyone's. And tonight? Tonight I'm going back to that table. I'm going to laugh at his jokes. I'm going to let him walk me home. And I'm going to let him kiss me goodnight if I want to. Because I can. Because I'm free of you. At least for one night."
Isadora's face crumpled rage giving way to something raw, something broken.
"You're not free," she whispered voice cracking. "You'll never be free. Not from me. Not from this."
Rowan stared at her chest heaving.
"Then prove it," she said softly. "Prove you're more than threats and bruises and obsession. Or leave me alone. For good."
Silence.
Thick. Suffocating.
Isadora's eyes searched Rowan's desperate, furious, terrified.
Then she stepped back once, twice until her back hit the door.
She reached behind her unlocked it.
Looked at Rowan one last time eyes wet, voice barely audible.
"You'll regret this," she said.
Then she turned.
Walked out.
The door closed behind her soft, final.
Rowan stood alone hands shaking, breath ragged.
She straightened her dress.
Wiped her eyes.
And walked back to the table.
Carlos looked up smile instant, warm.
"Everything okay?" he asked.
Rowan sat.
Nodded once small, determined.
"Yeah," she said quietly. "Everything's fine."
She picked up her fork.
Took a bite.
And pretended very hard that the girl who'd just stormed out of the restroom wasn't still burning in her veins.
Because tonight?
She was going to finish this date.
She was going to let Carlos walk her home.
And she was going to let him kiss her goodnight.
Not because she wanted him.
But because she needed Isadora to believe she could.
Even if just for tonight it was a lie.
The restroom door had barely closed behind Isadora when she stormed back into the main dining area of La Scala. Her black silk slip dress clung to her like a second skin, hair wild from the frantic encounter, eyes glassy with unshed tears and pure, unfiltered rage.
Rowan and Carlos were still at their table near the window. Carlos was mid-sentence, laughing softly at something Rowan had just said, completely oblivious to the storm bearing down on them.
Isadora reached them in seconds.
She grabbed Carlos by the back of his collar with one hand yanking him up and out of his chair so violently his wine glass tipped and shattered on the floor.
"She is mine," Isadora snarled voice raw, shaking, loud enough that half the restaurant went silent. "I won't give her to you."
Before Carlos could even register what was happening, her fist slammed into his cheek once, twice, three times in rapid succession. Blood sprayed from his nose on the second hit. He stumbled backward, chair toppling, hands flying up instinctively to protect his face.
People gasped. A woman screamed. Phones came out.
Lexi and Jade who had been watching from the back booth were on their feet instantly.
"Dora... STOP!" Lexi shouted, rushing forward.
Jade lunged too, trying to grab Isadora's arm.
She shook them off like they weighed nothing eyes locked on Carlos, who was now on his knees, blood dripping from his nose and mouth, dazed and terrified.
Isadora kicked him once hard in the ribs.
"You think you can take her?" she screamed, voice cracking. "You think you can sit here, smile at her, touch her, kiss her goodnight? She's mine. You don't get to have her. You don't get to breathe near her."
Carlos tried to crawl backward hands slipping on the floor muttering something incoherent through the blood.
The restaurant manager was running toward them now, shouting for security. Diners were standing, some backing away, some filming.
Rowan had frozen for only a second.
Then she moved.
She shoved past the table dress catching on a chair and threw herself at Isadora from behind.
Arms wrapped around Isadora's waist tight, desperate.
"Please, Isa," Rowan begged voice breaking, right against her ear. "I beg you. Stop. Please stop."
Isadora went rigid mid-motion, fist still raised.
The entire restaurant seemed to hold its breath.
Isadora's chest heaved once, twice then she finally registered the arms around her. Rowan's voice. Rowan's warmth. Rowan's trembling.
She dropped her fist.
Slowly.
Carlos was still on the floor curled, coughing blood, clutching his side.
Lexi and Jade reached them Jade pulling Isadora back by the shoulders, Lexi stepping between her and Carlos like a human shield.
Rowan didn't let go.
She kept her arms locked around Isadora's waist face pressed to her back, voice muffled against silk.
"Please," she whispered again. "No more."
Isadora's whole body was shaking rage, grief, jealousy, shame, all crashing together.
She stared down at Carlos bleeding, terrified, ruined for the night.
Then she looked at Rowan's arms around her.
And something inside her finally cracked.
She didn't fight anymore.
She just… sagged.
Rowan felt it the sudden weight and tightened her hold to keep Isadora upright.
The manager arrived red-faced, shouting for security.
Isadora's security Grayson and the other guard were already pushing through the crowd, badges out, voices calm but commanding.
"Ma'am, we need to leave. Now."
Isadora didn't resist.
She let them guide her Rowan still holding on from behind toward the side exit.
Rowan only let go when they reached the door.
Isadora turned once eyes red-rimmed, voice barely audible.
"You're going home with him?" she asked small, broken. "After this?"
Rowan's throat worked.
"I don't know," she whispered. "But tonight… I need to be somewhere that isn't with you."
Isadora stared at her long, searching.
Then she nodded just once.
And let the guards pull her out into the night.
Rowan stood there alone in the doorway dress wrinkled, hands shaking, staring at the chaos she'd left behind.
Carlos was being helped up face swollen, blood everywhere, manager calling an ambulance.
Diners were whispering. Filming.
And Rowan knew without needing to check exactly what would be online in minutes.
She turned back toward her table.
Carlos was looking at her dazed, hurt, confused.
"Rowan… what the hell was that?"
She swallowed hard.
"I'm so sorry," she said voice cracking. "I didn't know she would..."
She couldn't finish.
She just stood there shaking, tears finally spilling over.
Carlos reached for her slow, gentle.
She flinched.
He stopped.
And in that moment Rowan realized:
She wasn't just protecting herself from Isadora anymore.
She was protecting everyone else from what Isadora could do to them.
And she wasn't sure anymore where safety ended…
and destruction began.
Rowan pulled up to Carlos's apartment building at 10:40 p.m.
The drive back from La Scala had been quiet too quiet Carlos holding a wad of napkins to his nose the whole way, blood already dried dark on his collar and cuffs.
He'd tried to make small talk once or twice ("I've had worse in law school intramurals"), but the words died fast. Rowan kept her eyes on the road, knuckles white on the wheel, stomach still churning from the restaurant.
She parked at the curb.
Carlos turned to her face swollen, one eye already purpling, but voice gentle.
"You sure you're okay to drive home?" he asked. "I can call you a cab. Or… stay if you need to talk."
Rowan shook her head small, tight.
"I'm fine," she lied. "I just need to be alone tonight. I'm sorry. About everything."
He studied her for a long moment concern etched around the bruising.
"It's not your fault," he said quietly. "Whatever that was… it's not on you."
Rowan looked down at her hands still trembling faintly.
"Yeah," she whispered. "Thanks for saying that."
He hesitated then leaned over and kissed her cheek soft, careful, nowhere near her bruised chin.
"Text me when you get home," he said. "Please."
She nodded.
He got out.
She watched him walk inside slow, limping slightly until the lobby door closed behind him.
Then she drove.
The streets were empty enough that she made it back to Brooklyn Heights in under twenty minutes.
She parked two blocks away from the brownstone habit from years of late shifts and walked the rest of the way in the cold, heels clicking too loud against the sidewalk.
The night air stung her lungs, sharpened her thoughts.
She slipped inside quietly.
The house was dark except for the hallway lamp Clara always left on. Upstairs, Clara's bedroom door was closed; Noah's light was off. No one stirred.
Rowan climbed the stairs slow, careful avoiding the creaky third step.
In her room she locked the door.
Kicked off her shoes.
Stood in front of the mirror in her black dress wrinkled now, mascara smudged from the restroom tears she hadn't let fall in front of Carlos.
She looked at her chin bruises darker now, finger-shaped, impossible to hide much longer.
She touched them winced then turned away.
Changed into soft pajama pants and an old college hoodie.
Sat on the edge of her bed.
Phone buzzed Carlos.
Carlos: Got home okay? Hope you're alright. Tonight was… a lot. But I'm glad we tried. Text if you need anything. Sleep well.
She stared at the message.
Typed:
Home safe. Thank you for being kind. I'm sorry again. Goodnight.
Sent.
Then she turned the phone face-down.
Lay back on the bed staring at the ceiling.
She could still feel the arms locked around her waist, the whispered threat: You won't go tonight with anyone.
And she had gone anyway.
She had sat across from Carlos.
She had let him kiss her cheek.
She had walked home alone.
But she hadn't told her family.
Not Clara.
Not Noah.
She couldn't.
They'd worry. Clara would cry.
Noah would ask questions she didn't know how to answer.
And the truth a seventeen-year-old billionaire heiress assaulted a man in a restaurant because of me was too big, too ugly, too impossible to say out loud.
So when Clara knocked softly at 11:30 p.m. voice muffled through the door:
"Honey? You home? How was it?"