Chapter 150
CHAPTER 37
“I’m going to have one,” he said, more to himself than to her, as he poured another measure of scotch into his glass. The bottle made a soft clink as he set it back down on the table. He leaned back in his chair, the picture of disinterest, swirling the liquid in his glass. “Sit down,” he said, gesturing vaguely to the chair across from him. “And tell me—what is this all-important thing you wanted to talk about?”
Isla hesitated, her fingers fidgeting in her lap as she sat down. The words she had rehearsed earlier felt tangled on her tongue, and the weight of his unreadable gaze didn’t help. She searched for an opening, for the right way to begin, but in the end, her nerves got the better of her.
“I’ve been applying to art schools,” she blurted out, her voice uneven.
Graham raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable as he stared at her. For a moment, he said nothing, and the silence stretched between them like a taut string. Then, finally, he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.
“I see,” he said slowly, his tone measured. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to release the funds from your trust then.”
His words took her by surprise.
“According to my father’s will,” he continued, his voice taking on a detached, almost clinical quality, “I’m the trustee of your fund until you either turn twenty-one or get married. Whichever comes first.”
There it was again—that cold, mocking edge in his voice, accompanied by a faint, self-deprecating smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He leaned back in his chair, cradling his glass as though the conversation was no more significant than discussing the weather.
“But,” he added, drawing the word out with deliberate care, “since neither of those things is happening anytime soon, I’ll speak to the lawyers and have the funds released early. There’s about four million in there, give or take. That should be more than enough to cover your tuition and... whatever else you might want to do afterward. Maybe start a business or make an investment. Will that be all?”
His words landed like a slap, leaving Isla reeling. There was no warmth in his voice, no trace of the man who had once fought so hard to win her over. The indifference in his tone felt like a knife twisting in her chest.
He was dismissing her. The sharp edge in his tone cut through Isla’s fragile resolve, but she refused to back down. Her heart slammed against her ribs, a frantic rhythm that screamed for her to say what she needed to.
“No,” she whispered to herself, summoning the courage buried beneath the crushing weight of his indifference. She had to speak up—had to tell him how she felt, even if it tore her apart.
“Abo-about what happened in New York,” she began, her voice trembling, her words barely holding together. “I just wanted to say—”
But Graham’s gaze snapped to hers, cold and unyielding. His stare was like steel, sharp enough to pierce through her halting words. “Forget it,” he said curtly, his voice like a door slamming shut. “It was a mistake.”
The finality in his tone sent a jolt of pain through her chest. A mistake. Isla’s breath caught, her throat tightening as though a noose had wrapped around it. She felt the rejection like a physical blow, one that left her weak and unsteady. His words lingered in the air like an unspoken challenge: don’t bring this up again.
She opened her mouth to speak, but the look in his eyes made her falter. His gaze had darkened, narrowing into slits of suppressed anger. There was a storm brewing beneath his calm exterior, a storm that made her instinctively want to shrink back.
It scared her—this version of Graham. The one who looked at her as if she were nothing more than an inconvenience, a mistake he wished he hadn’t made. Isla closed her eyes, the sting of his rejection cutting deeper than she thought possible. For a brief moment, she allowed herself to feel the weight of it all.
This must’ve been how he had felt every time she had pushed him away, she realized. The realization left her breathless, her heart heavy with guilt. She struggled to steady herself, to breathe through the suffocating air that seemed to grow heavier by the second.
“A mistake,” she whispered under her breath, her voice barely audible. “Was that really all it was?”
Graham’s jaw clenched, the muscles working as if he were physically restraining himself. He didn’t answer, didn’t even acknowledge her question. Instead, he turned his gaze away, as though the sight of her was too much to bear.
“If there’s nothing else,” he said, his tone clipped and impatient, “then you can leave.”
He reached for his glass of scotch, downing what was left in one long, deliberate sip. It was as if he were trying to drown whatever emotions he refused to let surface.
But Isla wasn’t finished. She couldn’t let it end like this.
“Yes, there is,” she said, her voice cracking under the weight of her emotions. “You’re not really going to sell Thornfield Manor, are you?”
Her question hung in the air like a fragile thread, and for a moment, she thought she saw something flicker in his eyes. But it was gone just as quickly, replaced by a hard, unyielding mask.
“That’s none of your business,” he said flatly, his tone cutting through her like ice. “Now get out.”
He poured himself another glass of scotch, his movements sharp and deliberate, and took a long drink, as though the liquor was the only thing keeping him steady.
“Graham, please!” Isla’s voice rose, desperate and trembling. “It’s my home too!”
“It was your home,” he snapped suddenly, his voice laced with venom. His piercing gaze locked onto hers, his frustration boiling over. “It was your home, Isla. But as you’ve made perfectly clear to me—time and time again—you don’t want a family or a home here. So why do you care now?”
Isla felt the floor give way beneath her, her world tilting dangerously. His words hit her like a tidal wave, pulling her under, leaving her gasping for air.
“Evelyn’s family is going to buy the property,” he continued, his tone cold and final. “It’s already decided.”
“No, no, no—Graham, please!” Isla shook her head wildly, tears streaming down her face. “You can’t do this. You can’t sell Thornfield Manor—please!”
Her voice broke with every word, her desperation spilling out like an open wound. This wasn’t just a house to her—it was her sanctuary, her connection to a life and a family she had lost.
Graham’s jaw tightened, his frustration palpable. He still refused to look at her, his gaze fixed somewhere distant, as though detaching himself from the situation entirely.
“This is for the best, Isla,” he said firmly, his voice like a hammer driving nails into her heart. “Don’t make a scene.”
“Please!” she begged, her voice cracking under the weight of her anguish. “I’ll do anything—anything you ask—but don’t sell Thornfield Manor!”
At her words, Graham froze. His glass hovered halfway to his lips, and his gaze finally snapped to hers.
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