Page 93 of Because I Liked A Boy
The kitchen hadn’t changed. Same oak cabinets, same battered kettle on the stove, same faint hum from the old fridge. It smelled like Liam—cedarwood, faint beer, and something steadier I couldn’t name. Like him.
He leaned against the counter, beer bottle dangling from his fingers, blue eyes fixed on me like I was a puzzle he wasn’t sure he wanted to solve.
I sat on the edge of a stool, my suitcase abandoned by the front door, the ridiculous bunny slumped against it. My palms pressed flat to the counter, grounding me under the weight of his stare.
“You haven’t told me why you’re here,” he said at last. His voice was low, measured, but the edge underneath it cut sharp. “Not really.”
“I told you. It’s my father.”
Something flickered across his face anger, recognition, maybe both. He set the bottle down with a dull clink. “Yeah, I saw the headlines. Him parading around like nothing happened, like Sofia didn’t have her life ripped out from under her. And Penelope dragged in front of cameras, posed like a doll. Fifteen, and he’s treating her like a pawn.”
I flinched. Hearing it out loud was worse.
“So where the hell were you, Isabella?” His gaze cut back to me, sharp. “While he shoved her into the spotlight where were you?”
The words landed like a slap. I didn’t have an answer he’d accept. I hadn’t been here. I hadn’t been anywhere near.
“I couldn’t…” My voice cracked; I forced it steady. “I didn’t know how to face it. Any of it.”
He scoffed, rubbing his jaw. “So you left. Again.”
“I had to.”
“No.” His eyes narrowed. “You chose to. You ran, Isabella. You always run.”
The truth stung more than the accusation. “I didn’t come here to fight with you.”
“Then why did you?” Softer now, rougher. “Why show up after seven months of silence? Why me?”
“Because I didn’t know where else to go. And because you…” My voice caught. “You knew Nathan. Better than anyone. I thought maybe you’d understand.”
Something in his expression faltered before he masked it with another swallow of beer. “You don’t get to use him like that.”
“I’m not.” I swallowed. “I just need somewhere to breathe. For a little while. And I need to figure out how to get her out of his house.”
That made him still.
“You think you can take her from him?” Low, controlled, edged with steel.
“I have to.”
Silence stretched. Heavy. Unforgiving.
Liam blew out a slow breath, finished the bottle, set it down with a soft thud, then pushed off the counter. “You’re still a mess,” he muttered as he brushed past me to the sink. “But if you’re serious about this about Penelope you’ll need more than guilt and a suitcase.”
It should have cut. Maybe it did. But underneath the harshness was something steadier. Reluctant support.
For the first time in months, I wasn’t running. “Then help me,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
That night, sleep didn’t come.
I lay on the narrow bed in Liam’s guest room and stared at the ceiling while the city pressed in from every side. Car horns drifted through glass, a siren wailed somewhere distant, but it wasn’t the noise that kept me awake. It was everything else.
Hunter’s betrayal still burned in my chest, but that wasn’t what dragged me back here. It wasn’t what had my fingers clawed into the sheets until my knuckles ached. This wasn’t about him anymore.
It was about Penny.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her the last time I’d been in London still just a kid, tucked behind Nathan’s leg, shy eyes peeking at me like I might vanish if she blinked. And then I had vanished. I’d left her in his house, under his rules, in his world.
