CHAPTER 177
ISABELLA
I cleaned my eyes with my hands and sniffled, clearing my throat. Charlotte drew back slowly, searching my face. I could tell that she had so many questions, especially considering the fact that I looked like hell — and felt like it — especially in this expensive engagement gown that now felt like a punishment.
She exhaled, and I did too, looking down so she wouldn’t notice the redness of my eyes. I was sure my cheeks were puffy and red as well.
She then stepped aside and gestured me in. Her apartment stretched before me, large and luminous, every surface catching the light that poured in from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Pale walls reflected the morning sun, and a minimalist open kitchen gleamed like polished marble. Every detail seemed intentional — the soft neutral tones, the carefully arranged books on the shelves, the delicate glassware catching the light just so. The faint scent of clean linen and citrus lingered in the air, crisp and comforting.
It was exactly the kind of space she’d once dreamed about, a reflection of the ambition and taste I had always admired in her. For a heartbeat, a pang of envy struck me — the life she had built, the calm and order around her — and I swallowed it down, forcing my gaze forward. I moved to the chair she indicated and sat, letting the stillness of the apartment settle around me, both grounding and intimidating.
“Do you want something to drink?” she asked, her voice careful, almost tiptoeing. It struck me that our friendship, too, was fragile now — like she was walking on eggshells. She should, as a matter of fact.
“Wine,” I said. “White, please.”
She disappeared into the kitchen. I pressed my palm to my forehead, trying to push my thoughts into order and still the little migraine that was threatening to start.
By the time she returned, carrying two glasses, I had my breathing under control again.
She sat across from me, handed me a glass, and poured for herself. The wine was pale and crisp; I lifted it to my nose and inhaled. “Very good,” I murmured.
She smiled faintly, a small curve of her lips that lit her eyes just enough to warm the air between us. “A gift from my boss. He has good taste.” Her fingers lifted delicately to her lips, pressing a soft kiss to her hand, the movement graceful and measured. “But his taste in wine… that’s impeccable,” she added, the words curling around the room like the faint aroma of aged oak and ripe berries, as if even her voice could conjure the richness of the bottle she spoke of.
I studied her as she spoke. She looked thinner, a little tired, but still beautiful in a way that was all her own. Her eyes were watchful, searching. And her hands — I noticed now, for the first time — were bare. No ring.
My gaze lingered there, then I looked up at her face. “What happened?” I asked quietly, nodding toward her fingers. The last time I saw her I seemed to remember her wearing an engagement ring.
Charlotte sank back into the couch with a long, soft sigh. The apartment hummed around us — the low thrum of the city far below, the faint clink of the air conditioner. I was still jittery, perched on the edge of my chair, and she was close enough that I could have reached for her if I’d wanted to, but far enough away for both of us to breathe.
“We broke off the engagement…” Her voice softened, tinged with something I couldn’t quite name — regret? Sadness? I swallowed hard, but she waved her hand, cutting me off gently.
“But let’s not talk about me,” she said, drawing to the edge of the seat, her eyes searching mine. “Look at you — sitting here in this exquisite red gown, red-rimmed eyes, flushed cheeks. You’re trembling, Isabella. You said you needed my help, and now you’re here, after all this time… after everything, even though you promised never to speak to me again. Let’s talk about you. You. What you’re feeling. What brought you here. That’s the story I want to hear.”
Her words wrapped around me like a lifeline. I blinked back tears, suddenly aware of how much I’d bottled up, how much I had left unsaid and hidden from the rest of the world — and how two years without a friend had made it even worse.
“I… I don’t even know where to start,” I admitted, my voice trembling despite my best efforts.
“It’s me, Isabella,” she said finally, voice steady. She folded her hands in her lap and looked at me the way you might look at an old, fragile thing you don’t want to break. “Tell me everything. Start at the beginning. I swear on my life I will not fail you this time.”
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