Rowan sat up.
Cleared her throat.
Made her voice light practiced, convincing.
"Yeah, Mom. I'm home. It was good. Really good. Carlos is… nice. We talked. Laughed. I'm just tired."
A pause then Clara's smile audible through the wood.
"Good. I'm glad, sweetheart. Sleep well. Love you."
"Love you too."
Footsteps retreated.
Rowan lay back down.
Stared at the dark ceiling.
And whispered to no one, to the empty room, to the ghost of Isadora's grip—
"It was good."
A lie so thin it hurt to say.
But she said it anyway.
Because the alternative admitting that tonight had ended in blood, in rage, in a restroom kiss she still tasted was too much.
She closed her eyes.
Tried to sleep.
Failed.
>>>>>>
Isadora shoved past the two guards like they were paper dolls shoulders slamming into their chests, heels digging into the pavement for leverage.
Grayson reached for her arm; she twisted free with a snarl, elbow catching him hard in the ribs. The second guard lunged too slow.
She was already sliding into the driver's seat of the black Escalade parked curbside, engine still warm from the ride over.
"Miss Ravencroft... stop!"
She slammed the door.
Locked it.
The keys were in the ignition (security protocol: always ready to move fast). Her foot hit the gas before the guards could reach the handle.
Tires screeched sharp, angry rubber burning black streaks across asphalt as the SUV lurched forward.
Grayson swore, already on his radio.
"She's driving. East on 7th. No tail. She's too fast."
Behind the wheel, Isadora didn't look back.
Her knuckles still bruised and split from punching Ryan bled fresh onto the leather steering wheel. Blood smeared the gear shift. She didn't care.
The city blurred past red lights ignored, horns blaring, her pulse louder than the engine.
The black silk dress rode up her thighs as she floored the accelerator, wind tearing through the open window, hair whipping across her face.
Tears hot, furious streaked her cheeks, mixing with the drying blood on her lip from yesterday's bite.
"She thinks she can date someone else?" she muttered voice cracking, raw. "Thinks she can walk away? Thinks she can kiss him goodnight while I'm sitting in that fucking office bleeding for her?"
Another red light.
She ran it.
A cab swerved horn screaming.
She didn't flinch.
Her phone buzzed on the passenger seat Lexi, probably. Jade. Guards. Marcus.
She didn't look.
She didn't answer.
The SUV roared through the next intersection tires howling, engine straining.
Club was twenty minutes away if she drove like this.
Fifteen if she didn't care about survival.
She didn't.
Not tonight.
Not after seeing Rowan walk back to that table.
Smile at him.
Let him think for even one second that he had a chance.
Isadora's foot pressed harder.
The speedometer climbed.
And somewhere ahead safe inside her own home Rowan was probably still smiling at Carlos, still pretending tonight could be normal.
She had no idea what was coming.
No idea that the girl who'd kissed her cheek, bruised her chin, and bled on her floor was now racing through the city like a missile with no off switch.
No idea that the next time they saw each other...
it wouldn't be in a consult room.
Isadora slammed the door of her sleek black sports car, the engine still humming with unspent fury as she abandoned it curbside.
The image of that smug lawyer's hand on Rowan's arm burned in her veins, hotter than any high.
She pushed through the club's heavy doors, the bass-heavy music slamming into her like a wave.
The air was thick with sweat, perfume, and the metallic tang of spilled liquor. Heads turned whispers rippled through the crowd as they recognized her, the infamous Ravencroft heiress, but she ignored them, her athletic frame (all 50kg of toned abs and coiled muscle from endless restless workouts) cutting through the throng like a blade.
At the bar, she didn't bother with pleasantries. "Vodka, neat. Keep 'em coming," she snarled at the bartender, her voice laced with that signature arrogance, her dark eyes flashing defiance.
The first shot burned down her throat, a familiar fire that dulled the edges of her rage. But it wasn't enough. Never enough.
She knocked back a second, then a third, the alcohol pooling in her empty stomach like liquid courage.
Her mind drifted to Rowan those calm, unyielding eyes that saw through her bullshit, the way Rowan's hands had steadied her during detox sessions, professional yet so achingly close.
"She hates me," Isadora thought, a bitter smile twisting her lips. "Good. Hate me all you want, Doc. I'll make you need me." The obsession coiled tighter, possessive and yandere-sharp, fueling her spiral.
Spotting a familiar face in the VIP lounge a dealer she'd partied with before she slipped away from the bar. "Got the good stuff?" she muttered, her voice low and urgent, slipping him a wad of cash without a second thought.
He nodded, discreetly passing her a small vial of cocaine. In the dim bathroom stall, heart racing, she lined it up on the porcelain sink and inhaled sharply.
The rush hit like lightning, sharpening everything the lights brighter, the music louder, the ache for Rowan deeper.
She leaned against the wall, eyes fluttering shut, imagining Rowan's composed facade cracking under her touch. "You'll come for me. You always do."
>>>>>
Rowan phone rang, jolting her from the thought. Lexi's name on the screen. Rowan hesitated, then answered, her voice steady but edged with exhaustion. "What is it, Lexi?"
"Rowan, thank God you picked up!" Lexi's voice was frantic, laced with the club's distant thrum in the background.
"It's Isa... she ditched us after that mess with your date. We tried calling her a million times, but she's not picking up. Jade and I are freaking out. She's probably spiraling again... you know how she gets."
Rowan pinched the bridge of her nose, pretending the concern twisting in her gut was just professional duty. "And why are you calling me? I'm not her babysitter."
"Because she'll pick up for you," Lexi pleaded, her tone desperate. "
Please, Doc. She listens to you... well, sorta. We know she's at that club downtown, the one she always hits when she's pissed. The Vortex. Just... save her. Before she does something stupid. Again."
Rowan sighed, the pretended hatred cracking just a fraction.
Despite everything the recklessness, the obsession, the way Isadora flirted shamelessly in every therapy session, batting those eyes and whispering provocations that made Rowan's pulse race she knew the truth.
She was affected by Isadora too.
That glimpse of vulnerability beneath the arrogance, the way their sessions simmered with unspoken tension, bodies inches apart during check-ins, breaths mingling.
It was messy, unethical, but the pull was there, electric and undeniable. "Fine," Rowan muttered, grabbing her keys. "I'm on my way. But this ends tonight one way or another."
She stood abruptly, her composure masking the storm inside, and headed for her car. The engine roared to life as she peeled out, the city lights blurring into streaks.
"What am I doing?" she thought, gripping the wheel tighter. But she knew: saving Isadora. Again. And maybe, just maybe, letting the cracks widen a little more.
>>>>>>
The Vortex throbbed like a living thing, bass rattling the bones in Rowan's chest as she pushed through the crowd.
She spotted Isadora almost immediately.
In the far corner of the VIP section, slumped against a velvet banquette, legs sprawled, head tipped back. A half-empty bottle of vodka dangled from lax fingers.
A thin line of white powder still dusted the glass table in front of her.
Two strangers hovered nearby, laughing, one of them reaching to brush hair from Isadora's face like she was a toy.
Rowan's jaw locked so hard her teeth ached.
She crossed the room in six long strides.
"Back off," Rowan said quiet, lethal. The two strangers looked up, saw the murder in her eyes, and scattered without argument.
Isadora didn't even flinch at the voice. Her eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide, lashes heavy.
Cheeks flushed from alcohol and whatever cocktail of pills she'd chased the coke with.
Her athletic frame looked smaller like this vulnerable, wrecked. Rowan hated how much that sight still twisted something inside her.
She crouched in front of the low table, voice low and furious.
"Isadora. Look at me."
Isadora's head lolled slowly. Her lips curved into a slow, sloppy, dangerous smile when her hazy gaze finally focused.
"...Rowan?" The word came out slurred, dreamy. "Fuck. I'm hallucinating now… wow. Best one yet."
Rowan's hand shot out, fingers closing around Isadora's chin not gentle, but not cruel. Firm. Forcing those heavy-lidded eyes to meet hers.
"You're not hallucinating, dumbass," Rowan snapped, voice rough with everything she was trying not to feel. "It's really me. And you're really fucked right now."
Isadora blinked slowly. Then laughed a soft, broken sound that ended in a cough.
"Always so mean when you're worried…" She tried to lean forward, almost tipping off the seat. Rowan caught her shoulders instinctively, steadying her.
Isadora's head dropped against Rowan's collarbone like it belonged there. "You smell like hospital… and anger. My favorite combination."
"Shut up." Rowan hauled her up with surprising ease Isadora was light even at her strongest, and right now she was dead weight wrapped in designer silk and bad decisions.
One arm hooked under Isadora's knees, the other around her back in a bridal carry that made several phones lift in the crowd. Rowan ignored them. "We're leaving."
Isadora's arms looped loosely around Rowan's neck as she was lifted.
Her face immediately buried itself against the side of Rowan's throat, lips brushing skin in a lazy, drunken nuzzle.
"Mmm… you're so strong, Doc," she murmured, breath hot and vodka-sweet. "Knew you'd come. Always come for me."
Rowan's grip tightened reflex, not affection. (She told herself.)
"Stop talking."
"Make me." Isadora's tongue flicked out, just barely grazing the pulse point under
Rowan's jaw. A shiver Rowan refused to acknowledge raced down her spine. "Bet you'd like that. Pinning me down. Telling me what a bad girl I am…"
Rowan's stride didn't falter, but her voice dropped to something dangerously quiet.
"Keep pushing, Ravencroft, and I'll leave you in the alley to sleep it off with the rats."
Isadora giggled high, delirious, heartbreaking.
"Liar. You'd never."
Rowan kicked the club door open with her foot, cold night air hitting them both like a slap.
Isadora shivered violently in her arms, curling tighter against Rowan's chest.
"Cold," she whined, nosing under Rowan's jaw again. "Warm me up."
"You're lucky I'm not dumping you in a cold shower instead."
Rowan strode to her car a sensible black SUV parked illegally on the curb.
She maneuvered Isadora into the passenger seat with clinical efficiency, buckling her in even as Isadora's hands kept trying to wander sliding over Rowan's waist, tugging at her coat buttons.
"Gonna kiss it better?" Isadora slurred, head lolling toward Rowan as the seatbelt clicked. "Promise I'll be good if you do…"
Rowan slammed the door, rounded to the driver's side, and dropped into the seat. She gripped the wheel until her knuckles bleached white.
"You," she said through clenched teeth, not looking at the girl beside her, "are going to detox. Properly. No more games. No more showing up at my dates. No more hitting people. No more this." She gestured sharply at Isadora's disheveled, drugged-out state.
Isadora's smile was slow, hazy, but the obsession underneath it burned clear even through the fog.
"You say that every time…" she whispered, reaching out to trace a clumsy finger along Rowan's jaw. "And every time… you still come."