Isla's POV
The flash blinds me.
I throw my hand up too late. The photographer is already running backward down the street, his camera clicking like machine gun fire. Another one appears from behind a car. Then another.
"Isla! How does it feel to lose your man to your sister?"
"Did you know they were sleeping together?"
"Is it true your father disowned you?"
I run faster, my heels stabbing the sidewalk. My vision blurs with tears, but I don't stop. Can't stop. Behind me, more flashes explode. More voices shout questions that cut like knives.
My phone won't stop buzzing in my hand. Text after text after text. I shouldn't look, but I do.
*You deserved this. - Unknown*
*Poor little rich girl LOL - Unknown*
*Your sister is hotter anyway - Unknown*
I turn the corner and slam into someone.
"Watch it!" a woman snaps, shoving me away.
I stumble, catch myself on a parking meter, keep running. My lungs burn. My feet scream. But the photographers are still following, still shooting, still turning my worst moment into tomorrow's headline.
A black car pulls up beside me. The window rolls down.
"Get in." It's Marcus, my father's driver.
I yank the door open and collapse inside. Marcus hits the gas before I even close the door. The photographers chase us for half a block, then give up.
"Where to, Miss Monroe?" Marcus asks, his voice gentle.
"I don't—" My voice cracks. "Just drive. Please."
He nods and turns toward Central Park. Away from the hotel. Away from the party where my life exploded.
My phone rings. Dad's name flashes on the screen.
I should ignore it. I should throw the phone out the window. But some stupid part of me—the part that still wants him to say he's sorry, that he loves me, that he's on my side—makes me answer.
"Where are you?" Dad's voice is sharp. Angry.
"In the car. Marcus is—"
"Come back to the hotel. Now."
"I can't. Everyone's staring. The photographers—"
"You think I care about photographers?" He's yelling now. "You just embarrassed this entire family in front of everyone who matters!"
The words punch the air from my lungs. "I embarrassed you? Dad, Derek dumped me! Natasha—"
"Natasha did what any smart woman would do. She saw an opportunity and took it. You, on the other hand..." He makes a disgusted sound. "You're too difficult to love, Isla. Your mother told me. Derek told me. Even your college professors complained about your attitude."
Each word is a slap.
"That's not true," I whisper.
"Derek said you cared more about dead painters than your own relationship. That you were cold. Distant. Always putting your art first." Dad's voice drops lower, more dangerous. "You drove him away. You drove him straight into Natasha's arms. And now you've made us all look like fools."
"He cheated with my sister!"
"He found someone who actually appreciates him! Someone warm and loving, not some ice princess who thinks she's too good for everyone."
The car feels too small. Too hot. I can't breathe.
"I loved him," I say, and I hate how my voice shakes. "I would have married him. I would have—"
"You would have bored him to death." Dad cuts me off. "Just like you bore everyone else with your endless talk about art history and museum exhibits. No man wants a wife who's more interested in paintings than in him."
"That's not fair—"
"Life isn't fair, Isla. It's about making smart choices. Your sister made a smart choice. You made a terrible one. And now you're going to pay for it."
My stomach drops. "What does that mean?"
"It means you're cut off. No more allowance. No more credit cards. Your trust fund stays locked until you turn thirty. I'm not funding your little art fantasy anymore."
"Dad, I need that money. My apartment, my student loans—"
"Should have thought of that before you let Derek slip away. Maybe hunger will teach you what your mother and I couldn't—that a woman's value is in who she marries, not what degree she hangs on her wall."
"You can't do this!"
"I already did. Your cards are frozen. Your apartment lease ends next month, and I'm not renewing it. You want to survive? Figure it out yourself. Or better yet, apologize to Derek. Beg him to take you back. Maybe if you grovel enough, he'll forgive you."
"Grovel?" The word tastes like poison. "To the man who humiliated me in front of three hundred people?"
"To the man you lost through your own stupidity. Yes."
Something inside me breaks. Not my heart—that's already shattered. Something deeper. The part of me that believed my father loved me. That believed I mattered to him at all.
"I hate you," I whisper.
"You'll thank me someday." His voice is cold. Final. "When you finally grow up and learn how the world really works. Until then, you're on your own."
He hangs up.
The phone drops from my hand. I stare at nothing, my whole body numb.
"Miss Monroe?" Marcus glances at me in the mirror. "Are you all right?"
"No." The word comes out strangled. "I'm not. I'm really, really not."
He pulls over near the park. "Do you want me to call your mother?"
"She's at the party. Probably consoling Natasha. Or congratulating her."
"I don't think—"
My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number.
Told you I'd win. Enjoy being poor. - N
Natasha. Of course it's Natasha.
Another text comes through. Then another. Photos from the party. Me running. Me crying. My face twisted with pain. Someone turned them into memes already.
When your sister steals your man
RIP Isla Monroe's dignity
How to ruin your own engagement party in one easy step
I'm going to be sick.
"Marcus, I need—" But before I can finish, my phone rings again.
Mom's name flashes on the screen.
I answer, desperate for someone—anyone—to tell me this is all a nightmare.
"Isla, sweetheart, where are you?"
"Central Park. Dad just... Mom, he cut me off. He said I'm too difficult to love. He said—"
"I know, baby. I heard him." She's crying too. "I'm so sorry. Your father is being cruel and unfair, and I told him so. But Isla, I have something to tell you. Something important."
"What?" I can't imagine anything being important right now.
"I'm getting married. Next month. To Richard Steele."
The name sounds familiar, but my brain is too scrambled to place it.
"Richard is wonderful," Mom continues. "And he has this beautiful penthouse on Fifth Avenue. There's plenty of room. You can move in with us. You'll have a home again. A fresh start."
A fresh start. The words sound impossible.
"What about Dad?"
"Your father and I have been over for years. You know that. This is my chance at happiness. And yours too. Richard's son lives there—Caspian. He's thirty-one, very successful, CEO of Steele Industries. He's a little intense, but—"
A knock on the car window makes me scream.
A man stands outside. Tall. Dark hair. Gray eyes like a winter storm. He's holding up his phone, showing me a picture of Mom and some silver-haired man kissing.
Marcus rolls down the window. "Can I help you?"
"Isla Monroe?" the man asks, his voice cold and sharp.
My heart hammers. "Yes?"
"I'm Caspian Steele." His eyes lock onto mine, and there's something dangerous in them. Something that makes my skin prickle. "And your mother's engagement to my father? It's not happening."