Isolde's Past
Remi's POV
The smell hit me before I saw them.
“Whoa,” Jo whistled, spinning dramatically in her chair. “Looks like someone’s back to being the center of attention.”
I blinked at the flowers. Two huge arrangements sat on my desk like they owned the place. One elegant, white and gold. The other—bold reds, deep greens, with a ridiculous note that read: You still look like trouble. But I like trouble.
“Please tell me that one is not from Rowan,” I muttered.
Jo beamed. “Which one? Mr. Fire and Chaos or Mr. Gentle and Devoted?”
I glared. “Don’t give them categories.”
“Well, the gold-and-white bouquet is from Asher. Classy, refined. Came with a small bottle of your favorite perfume. He remembers the details.” Jo picked up the card. “And he signed it with a cute teddy bear doodle. I mean, come on. Marriage material.”
I exhaled, already tired.
“And this one,” Jo went on, waving the red bouquet like it was a flag, “is from him. No perfume, but definitely drama. The card even smells like aftershave. He’s ridiculous.”
“Give me that.” I snatched the card. It was Rowan’s handwriting, alright.
Next time, don’t run. Or at least warn me first.
I tried not to smile. Failed.
“So?” Jo asked, propping her chin on her hand. “i guess you like red flags.”
“Stop it.”
She rolled her eyes. “So…are You gonna pick one of them or just keep pretending you’re not emotionally tangled up like a poorly wrapped Christmas light?”
“I don’t know how to feel,” I admitted, collapsing into my chair.
Jo gave me a long look. “You kissed Rowan.”
“Jo—”
“You kissed him. In the woods. After yelling at him. Like, dramatic love novel scene stuff. I’m just saying… he’s in your bloodstream, girl. His power is higher than Asher. You like him, tell him.”
I dropped my head on the table.
“Okay, okay,” she said, her tone softening. “Let’s talk this out. You’ve got Asher—dependable, loyal, knows your kids, basically your built-in support system. He is part of a mafia, but he is still a good sweet teddy bear that helps the Society.”
“I know.”
“And then you’ve got Rowan. Hot, rich, emotionally constipated, but also possibly going through the redemption arc of the century.”
“Stop,” I groaned.
She grinned. “I’m serious. He’s got baggage. But he’s… trying?”
“I don’t want to fall back into something that broke me,” I said softly. “Even if he’s changing. Even if he says the right things now. I’m not sure I can forget who he used to be.”
Jo leaned forward. “Do you still love him?”
I hesitated.
“That’s not a no,” she pointed out.
“I… it’s not simple, Jo.”
“It never is,” she said. “But don’t punish yourself by staying stuck. Not every love is meant to be safe. And not every safe thing is right for you either.”
I stared at the flowers again.
“You think he sent them just to mess with my head?”
Jo snorted. “If he wanted to mess with your head, he’d show up in person. Probably shirtless. Probably with a slow smirk.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’ve imagined this.”
“Only a hundred times. I mean he is hot. They both her though.”
The door buzzed and an intern popped their head in. “Dr. Laurent? Someone’s here for you.”
Jo’s eyebrows shot up. “Speak of the devil.”
“Please don’t be Rowan,” I muttered.
But it wasn’t.
It was another bouquet.
I stared at the new delivery.
Jo stood beside me, whispering, “Third act love triangle energy…”
I shoved her with my elbow. “Please leave my tragic love life alone.”
“You say tragic, I say spicy.”
I shook my head, picking up the note on the newest bouquet. No name. Just two words.
Choose peace.
I frowned.
Jo gasped. “What the—who sent this? Was it Asher? Rowan? A mysterious third suitor from your past?”
I blinked. “Definitely not Rowan’s style. And Asher’s too straightforward.”
She leaned in dramatically. “Then you have a secret admirer.”
I buried my face in my hands again.
“Welcome back,” Jo said cheerfully. “Work missed your chaos.”
The light in Miss Isolde’s room was soft, filtered through sheer curtains. A vase of fresh flowers sat by the window—lavender and peonies. I set her meds down on the nightstand and checked the vitals on the monitor.
She looked up at me, smiling faintly. “You look tired, darling.”
“I’ve had worse weeks,” I murmured, adjusting the pillows behind her. “How are you feeling?”
“Alive, unfortunately.”
I chuckled. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Some days it is,” she muttered, shifting against the pillows. “But not today. You’re here.”
I gave her a look. “I’m here almost every day.”
“Exactly why I like you more than everyone else combined,” she said with a wink.
I settled in the chair beside her bed. She reached for her tea, and I helped her bring it to her lips.
“Tell me something,” she said after a few sips, voice lower now.
“Sure.”
“You ever wonder how I ended up here? Away from all that marble and crystal and Vaughn pedigree?”
I glanced at her. “I assumed you wanted peace.”
She gave a small laugh. “Peace came later. Escape came first.”
That made me pause. “Escape from what?”
“From the cage.” Her tone was flat. “You see, everyone assumes I married into a fairy tale. Sebastian Vaughn—charming, brilliant, poised. Except he was also cold, selfish, and cruel when no one was watching. And so was I.”
I blinked. I hadn’t expected that.
“I met him when I was nineteen,” she continued, staring past me. “Bright-eyed, reckless. I was a pianist. Poor. From a family that scraped together pennies for me to attend recitals. And he? He owned the damn auditorium. He was my first love.”
My brows lifted. “So you…?”
“Played,” she said, lips twitching. “And played damn well. That night, he asked for my hand before dessert was served.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“He was intoxicating,” she admitted. “He knew it too. He had that Vaughn charm even back then. But beneath it, he believed women were ornaments. Something to show off. Keep pretty. And silent.”
I clenched my hands.
“By twe
nty-two, I was pregnant. By twenty-three, I realized I’d made a mistake. But by then, I was a Vaughn. Trapped in a legacy that did not care who it broke.”
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