Cyrus didn't move. Couldn't.
The air between them was heavy, fragile, filled with everything neither of them could say. Isabella took one step back, then another, her trembling hands curling into fists at her sides. The pain in her eyes was so clear it almost hurt to look at her. She wasn't cold. She wasn't cruel. She was just—breaking. Forcing herself to do something that was tearing her apart from the inside.
And he saw it. Every flicker of hesitation. Every shallow breath. Every unshed tear trembling at the corner of her lashes.
"Isabella…" he whispered, his voice soft, trembling, desperate.
She froze.
His tone was so gentle—barely even a sound—but it was filled with so much pleading that it nearly undid her.
Her lips quivered. She shook her head once, quickly, like a child trying not to cry.
