Page 38 of Breaking Isolde

She finds a corner and posts up, back to the wall, observing.

I finally signal Jules with a tilt of my glass. “There,” I say. “She’s arrived.”

He smirks. “She looks like a suicide note wrapped in a debutante’s corpse.”

Bam grunts, “She’s hot,” like it’s an insult.

Colton doesn’t look, but I can see the tension in his hand on the glass.

On the far side, Dr. Abelard is deep in conversation with a cluster of alumni. He spots Isolde, and his expression darkens. Ms. Valence, beside him, turns with slow precision, taking in Isolde’s presence with a long, up-and-down assessment. She whispers something into Abelard’s ear. He nods.

The orchestra starts. The noise of conversation dims, replaced by the hollow echoes of string and piano. The first dance is a formality—donors and Board members pair off, making their circuit around the floor like sharks in formalwear.

Isolde stays put, unmoved. I catch her watching me, and for a second our eyes lock. I raise my glass, salute her. She doesn’t respond.

Her refusal is more effective than any display of submission.

By the end of the night, her rebellious streak will be put to rest. For now, she can wander by herself, enjoying the reprieve before the storm.

The first set ends and the crowd dissolves. I know her well enough to predict her next move. She’ll try to escape to the balcony for air.

It’s time to make my move.

She slips through the double doors, heading for the stairs. I give her ten seconds’ head start, then follow.

On the landing, I find her alone, facing the dark quad below. The air is freezing; the wind makes her hair whip around her face.

She doesn’t turn when I step up behind her.

“Nice dress,” I say.

She lifts her chin. “The mask is a little much.”

I lean on the railing beside her. “You wore it anyway.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

I tilt my head. “You always have a choice.”

She lets out a slow exhale, fogging the air. “Why am I here, Rhett?”

“Because you wanted to see what’s underneath the mask,” I say. “Of Westpoint. Of me. Of yourself.”

She laughs, bitter. “You’re not that deep.”

“Man, Isolde, you’re further solidifying why I can’t just be fucking nice to you.”

She pulls her arms around herself, hugging tight against the cold. “Let’s skip to the part where you tell me what you want.”

I take my time answering. “Tonight, I want you to obey me and let them see you.”

She glares. “Why?”

“Because you’ll never understand the Hunt until you know what it’s like to be stalked by every eye in the room. Until you know what it means to be the center, the object, the thing every predator wants.”

She faces me, the mask making her unreadable. “I already know what that’s like.”

I shake my head. “You think you do. But you’re still playing with firecrackers. This is where the real arson starts.”