Page 83 of Breaking Isolde
“Is this another Board fairy tale?” I’m too tired for this shit.
She shakes her head. “No, it’s real. They’re the Board’s private enforcers. Guys who track down anyone who tries to run. They hunt you. And not in the fun, game-show way. They break your legs, drag you back, and sometimes… people don’t come back at all.”
I laugh, bitter. “So, what? I stay here and wait for Rhett to chain me up and fuck a dynasty into me?”
Charlie doesn’t laugh. “It’s not that simple. I told you, they want an heir. But you have power. More than you think. If you leave, you lose it all, your life is your greatest weapon. Here, you can make them pay for every minute you’re alive.”
It’s supposed to be a comfort, but it isn’t. I look at her, and she looks back, and for a second I wonder if she’s here to stop me or just to witness it.
“Thanks,” I say, voice small. “I’m really feeling the hope right now.”
Charlie nudges the suitcase with her foot. “If you’re gonna run, at least pack a bit lighter.”
I snort, then surprise myself by crying. It starts with a whimper, a hitch in my chest, then the flood. I bury my face in my hands, sitting on my bed, and sob until I can barely breathe.
Charlie says nothing. She just stands there, silent, until I’m done.
When the tears slow, she puts a hand on my back. “It’s okay to hate him,” she says, meaning Rhett. “You don’t have to forgive him.”
I nod, snotty and raw. “But I’m stuck with him anyway.”
She shrugs. “Maybe. But he’s stuck with you too.”
I laugh, a wet sound, and wipe my nose. “What do I even do?”
Charlie looks at me, and for once there’s something like compassion in her eyes. “You fight. Any way you can. Just don’t let them win.”
The door rattles, startling us, then opens.
Rhett.
He stands in the doorway, black suit immaculate, hair combed and gelled like he’s at a funeral—his own, maybe. His eyes are stone, but there’s something wild underneath.
I jump up, fury back in an instant as Charlie slowly slips out and shuts the door behind him.
“How did you—” I start, but he holds up a key, twirls it on his finger.
“Always had one,” he says. “Did you really think I just lock-picked my way in every time?”
“Fuck you,” I snarl, and I mean it.
He steps in, closes the door. “You can’t run from this, Issy.”
I reach for something to throw. The nearest thing is a textbook, so I hurl it at his head. He ducks, and it smashes into the door.
“You think you own me now?” I grab a pen, a hairbrush, a glass of water—anything. I launch them one by one. The pen bounces off his shoulder, the hairbrush hits him in the chest, the water soaks his face and shirt, but he doesn’t flinch. The glass shatters against the wall, shards everywhere.
“You’re such a fucking narcissist,” I scream. My voice is ragged. “You’d sell out your own kid just to get your name on a plaque.”
Rhett stands there, letting it hit him, letting me scream. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just watches as I tear my room apart.
It’s only when I run out of things to throw that Rhett finally moves, wiping the water from his face. He sits on the bed, right in front of me, and says, “Done?”
I want to claw his face off. I want to bite and scratch and rip and tear until there’s nothing left. But I’m tired, so tired.
I collapse on the far side of the bed, sobbing into the sheets.
He waits.
