Page 379 of Rosetti Family New York
"Yes."
"Sophisticated. Available."
"Probably."
Isabella turns to look at me, searching my face for something I can't identify. "Why didn't you go with her?"
The question hangs in the air between us, heavy with implication. Because I can't stop thinking about you. Because you've gotten under my skin in ways I don't understand. Because no other woman has ever made me feel like I was holding something precious when I touched them.
But I can't say that. I just need to fuck this woman and get her out of my damn system.
"Because I told you to stay close," I say instead. "And I meant it."
It's not the whole truth, but it's all I can give her right now. The thought of dancing with Tanya left me cold.
Isabella studies my face for a long moment, then nods slowly. "We should mingle more. People will expect it."
She's right. We spend the next hour working the room, and I watch her perform with growing fascination. She charms the mayor's wife with genuine interest in her charity work. She deflects inappropriate comments from drunk donors with graceful humor. She remembers names, asks follow-up questions, makes everyone feel like the most important person in the room.
But I can see the cost. The way her smile never quite reaches her eyes. The slight tremor in her hands when she thinks no one is looking. The careful distance she maintains even while appearing completely engaged.
She's exhausted from being what everyone needs her to be. Just like she was exhausted when I had her pressed against the bookshelf, when she finally let someone see past the performance.
"I need some air," she says quietly as we finish talking to a group of art collectors. "Just for a moment."
I guide her toward the terrace doors, my hand on her lower back feeling the tension coiled in her muscles. The summer night air is warm against our skin, and the sounds of the party fade to a comfortable murmur behind us. We're alone on the private balcony, city lights glittering below us like fallen stars.
"Better?" I ask.
She nods, setting her champagne glass on the stone railing with careful precision. "Thank you. I just needed to stop performing for a moment."
The honesty in her voice surprises me. No deflection, no careful politeness. Just truth, raw and simple.
"Is that what you call it? Performing?"
"Isn't that what we're all doing?" She turns to face me, and in the soft light from the ballroom, she looks younger. More vulnerable. "Playing roles, saying the right things, being what people expect us to be."
"Some more than others."
"You're not performing in there?"
I consider the question. "Maybe. But I chose my role. You had yours chosen for you."
Something flickers across her face at that. Recognition, maybe. Or pain. "I should go back inside. People will notice if we're gone too long."
She moves toward the terrace doors, but I catch her hand, stopping her. For a moment, we just stand there in the warm night air, the sounds of the party distant and meaningless. Her pulse beats steadily under my thumb, and I remember the way it raced when I touched her in the library. The way she whispered my name like a prayer.
"Isabella," I start, but she pulls away gently.
"Let's go," she says quietly. "Before I forget how to be what you need me to be."
We return to the ballroom, and Isabella transforms back into the society princess. She smiles and charms and says all the right things, never once betraying whatever she felt on the terrace. But now I can see the exhaustion in the set of her shoulders, the way her smile is starting to fray around the edges.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of handshakes and small talk and carefully coded conversations. Isabella never leaves my side, never lets her composure slip. To everyone watching, she looks like a woman who chose to be here, who's exactly where she wants to be.
But I know better now. I can see the cracks in her armor, the places where the performance is wearing thin. And every time I catch her struggling to maintain the facade, I think about how she felt in my arms. How real she was when she stopped pretending to be what everyone else needed.
By the time we're walking toward the exit, I'm angry at myself for reasons I don't want to examine. Angry that I refused Tanya without thinking, angry that I'm more interested in Isabella's exhaustion than the networking opportunities I'm missing, angry that I keep thinking about how she tasted when I kissed her.
