Composed.Controlled.Immaculate.
Inside, she feels emotionally raw.
“You did that on purpose.”
The voice comes from behind her, low, controlled, threaded with fury held on a tight leash.
Isla closes her eyes briefly.
Of course, he followed her.
She turns slowly.
The man from earlier stands a few feet away, posture rigid, dark hair still damp from the mist outside.He’s shed his coat and rolled his sleeves as if holding himself together has already cost him too much.Once again, he’s wearing a kilt, which is ridiculously good-looking on him.
Up close, the awareness hits her again, unwanted and unwelcome.He is solid in a way that feels earned.Real.Not polished like the men circulating the room.
“What exactly did I do on purpose?”Isla asks coolly, knowing he’s referring to her song at the funeral.
“You turned his funeral into a spectacle,” he says.“Congratulations.”
Her temper snaps to life.“It already was one.”
“At least it was his spectacle and not yours.”
“How?”she fires back.“Because they were glorifying him and making him into some perfect human being?”
His eyes flash.“Because they were mourning.”
“I hardly call that mourning.It was more pretentious.Besides, do you think I care?”
He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh.“You humiliated him?”
By telling the truth, she thinks, but she doesn’t say it yet.
“Do you have any idea what you set off in there?”he continues, stepping closer.“The press is already tearing it apart.You didn’t just speak for yourself, you turned his absence into a public verdict.”
“I didn’t make his absence a public verdict,” Isla snaps.“He did.All I wanted was for people to be honest about him.”
His gaze searches her face, as if he’s looking for something to grab onto.“Honest would’ve been waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”she demands.“For someone to give me permission to exist in the story of my own father?I’ve waited twenty-four years.How much longer do I need to wait?”
Silence crackled between them.
She feels eyes on them, glances quickly averted, conversations lowering in pitch.Their tension has weight.Gravity.And people are beginning to notice.
“Not here,” he says tightly.“If you’re going to do this, don’t do it in front of an audience.You’ve already done that once today.”
Isla’s mouth curves into something sharp.“Funny.That didn’t seem to bother you when the audience was worshipping him.”
His jaw flexes.“Come on.”
She should refuse.
She doesn’t, because it feels good to get out this brewing anger.
They move down a side corridor into a smaller sitting room that smells faintly of leather and old books.The door closes behind them with a soft, final click.
