The silence in the room stretched thin—like a string pulled so tight it might snap.
Cyrus just stood there, motionless, his breath caught somewhere between his chest and his throat, while Isabella trembled in front of him. Her tears had stopped falling, but her eyes still shone wet under the dim light, filled with something rawer, darker—fear.
And that fear turned quickly into rage.
She took one step forward, then another, until her shadow spilled over his. "You think you're nice, don't you?" she said, her voice trembling. "You think because you smile softly and talk gently and pretend to care, that somehow makes you better than the rest of them?"
Her tone cut through him like a knife made of glass—each word sharp and splintering.
Cyrus blinked, stunned. "Isabella, I—"
"Don't," she snapped, cutting him off. Her voice cracked, and she bit her lip as if the sound of it made her want to cry again. "Don't you dare say my name like that."
