“Isabel Barlow, I’m running out of patience!” The barely controlled rage in Dad’s voice makes me step backward instinctively, bumping against Nathan’s solid chest.
Memories crash over me like a tidal wave, pulling me under.
I’m not in the drawing room anymore.
I’m almost eight again. Telling my father I wouldn’t go to the bordering school after the endless argument.
He turned so fast I barely saw it coming.
The slap wasn’t just pain—it was punishment, lesson, warning. My cheek exploded in heat, and I stumbled back, dazed, crashing into the edge of the nightstand. The vase—Mom’s favorite—tipped and shattered against the marble floor. The sound was deafening. A thousand shards like tiny screams all around me.
I still hear it sometimes, in my sleep.
But it wasn’t the broken glass that stuck with me. It was his eyes—cold, proud, like I was a stain he couldn’t scrub out fast enough.
I remember the silence that followed. No apology. No regret. Just the rustle of paper and the quiet order to have my things packed.
The next morning, I was in the car. Then the gates closed behind me.
No phone calls. No letters. No Nathan. Just cold stone walls and the echo of my father’s voice, reminding me I’d brought it on myself.
I don’t know when my breaths turned to gasps. The walls feel too close. Too loud. Too full of ghosts I’ve tried so hard to bury.
I try to pull air into my lungs, but it’s like trying to breathe through a straw. The air won’t come. My vision blurs around the edges, dark and tight and closing in.
“Isabel?” Nathan’s voice breaks through the noise. Sharp. Alert. I must’ve made a sound, or maybe he just knows. Of course he knows.
I feel his grip on my hand tighten, steady. Warm. Real.
“Look at me,” he says, lower now, a command wrapped in concern. I try, but it’s hard—too hard.
Behind him, my father is still talking. Barking something. I can’t make out the words, but I feel them. The weight. The disdain. The judgment I was raised to carry in silence.
But Nathan doesn’t let it slide.
He spins around, fury radiating off him like heat.
“That’s enough!” he snaps, his voice thundering. “Not one more damn word to her. You’ve done enough damage for one lifetime.”
The Duke starts to speak, but Nathan doesn’t let him.
“She doesn’t owe you anything. Not her presence. Not her pain. Not even her breath.”
Silence crashes over the room like a dropped curtain.
Nathan turns back to me. The fire in his eyes softens the second they land on my face. He sees it. The way I’m crumbling.
Without another word, he wraps an arm around my waist and lifts me to my feet. He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t hesitate. Just moves—guiding me gently but firmly through the room, out the door, down the hall.
Then—air.
We step onto the terrace, and the night hits me like a blessing. Cool, crisp, quiet. My lungs pull it in greedily. Still shaky. Still tight. But it’s air. It’s something.
Nathan doesn’t let go.
He pulls me into his chest, arms strong and steady around me, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of my head.
“You’re okay,” he murmurs. “You’re safe. You hear me? I’ve got you, Izzy.”
