“I think it wassomething,” Isla says.“Which is more than I got.”
Silence stretches.
Callum runs a hand through his hair.“He wasn’t easy.”
“I’m sure.”
“He was complicated.Selfish.Brilliant.Exhausting.”
“I’m sure,” she repeats, bitter.“But he chose you.Not me.”
Callum looks at her, really looks, and something shifts in his expression.
“He chose you, too,” he says quietly.
Isla laughs, the sound breaking.“No.He didn’t.”
“He sent money.He kept tabs?—”
“He stayed away,” she cuts in.“And that was a choice.”
They stand there, grief crackling between them, attraction humming beneath it in a way she hates.
She hates that he smells like soap, smoke, and something grounding.
She hates that he knows things about her father she will never know.
“Why does this bother you so much?”Isla asks suddenly.“Why does my truth threaten you?”
Callum’s jaw tightens.“Because I loved him.I wasn’t his biological son, but he took care of me and raised me like his own after my father was killed in a plane crash.”
The admission hits hard.
“So did I,” Isla says softly.“I envisioned him coming to one of my concerts.I had dreams that someday we would reunite, and he would ask for my forgiveness.And now, those dreams are just dust in the wind.”
Her chest aches with unshed tears.Tears for the dreams that would never be realized.
Callum looks away first.
For a moment, the anger drains out of the room, leaving only rawness behind.
“You didn’t fake it,” he says finally.
“I’m proud of that,” Isla replies.
“You shouldn’t be.”
“Why?”she challenges.“Because it makes you uncomfortable?”
“Because it hurts,” he says.
“So does pretending.”
Footsteps echo in the corridor outside, pulling them back toward reality.
Callum steps away, creating distance that feels like loss.“This isn’t over,” he says quietly.
“No,” Isla agrees.“It isn’t.Anytime you want to spar, let me know.I’m up for the challenge.”
