Join us?
Oh hell no.
I take a step back so fast I nearly trip over the corner of a rug. My face must be saying everything I’m trying not to shout.
“This was a fucking mistake,” I mutter, already turning on my heel.
“Huh?” he says, confused. “Wait?—”
“I’m not into sharing,” I snap over my shoulder. “Tell Amanda to stick to Craigslist next time.”
I slam the door behind me. Fresh air slaps my face, but it’s not enough. I feel sick. The kind of sick that starts in your chest and claws its way through your spine.
My phone buzzes again.
Same number.
Dad’s office.
Fuck.
Five missed calls. This one’s about to go to voicemail when I swipe to answer. “Yeah.”
Chapter 1
Isabel
Melbourne
My heart races as I clutch my boarding pass, the familiar flutter of anticipation mingling with a knot of anxiety in my stomach. I miss home with an intensity that surprises me, a feeling that’s grown sharper over these three years away. The Melbourne airport buzzes around me, a symphony of rolling suitcases and murmured goodbyes. I’ve deliberately avoided London, throwing myself into work, into skill-building, into anything that would keep my mind occupied and my feet firmly planted on Australian soil. But now, as the moment of return approaches, I feel my carefully constructed walls beginning to crack.
‘For the flight to London, we kindly ask passengers to prepare for boarding at gate B19.’
The voice on the speakers cuts through my thoughts, crystal clear and somehow both welcome and terrifying. My heart doesn’t just flutter, it performs a complete acrobatic routine in my chest.
Perfect timing. My hands tremble slightly as I check my phone one last time.
The carpet beneath my feet muffles my footsteps as I walk toward gate B19, my designer carry-on rolling silently behind me. The boarding pass feels warm and slightly damp in my palm as I present it to the attendant. Her eyes widen slightly at my original seat assignment, but I barely notice as I make my way down the jet bridge, the recycled air cooling the thin sheen of nervous sweat on my forehead. A young mother catches my eye, her baby finally peaceful in her arms, and I feel a small surge of satisfaction about our earlier seat swap.
Dad will have that vein pulsing in his forehead when he finds out, the one that appears whenever I fail to act like the ‘proper politician’s daughter.’ I can almost hear his voice: “Image is everything, Isabel.” But I’ve never been able to stomach the first-class pretense, the artificial deference, the way money supposedly makes you worth more than the person in seat 32F. Last time, some entitled businessman couldn’t take a hint, his cologne-heavy presence becoming increasingly suffocating until I had to involve the crew. The memory still makes my skin crawl.
I sink into my economy seat, surprisingly comfortable despite what Dad would say, and begin my settling-in ritual. Laptop out, headphones on, phone switched to airplane mode. The window beside me offers a view of Melbourne’s skyline, the city that became my unexpected sanctuary. My throat tightens as I take in the familiar landscape one last time. The sun catches on the glass buildings, creating a farewell light show just for me.
The decision to come to Melbourne wasn’t easy. The position offered was far from my usual comfort zone, both geographically and professionally. I remember standing in my flat, staring at the offer letter, my hand shaking as I held my phone, Dad’s number ready to dial. The fear of solitude had been paralyzing – I’d already done the whole ‘starting over’ thing more times than I cared to count. But now, three years later, my chest aches with a different kind of pain. Melbourne, with its coffee-scented laneways and spontaneous weather changes, has woven itself into my DNA.
They say your life flashes before your eyes in crucial moments, but that’s just movie magic. Instead, I feel the weight of a thousand small memories pressing against my ribs: impromptu beach trips with Chloe and her terrible navigation skills, the late-night food runs with my team after impossible deadlines, the first time I successfully ordered coffee in a local café without feeling like an outsider. These moments don’t flash, they simmer, they steep, they settle into my bones. The friendships I’ve forged here aren’t just connections; they’re lifelines tattooed on my heart, permanent and precious, transcending the physical distance I’m about to put between us.
As the engines begin their steady roar, I close my eyes and let myself feel everything – the excitement, the dread, the love, the loss. London awaits, with all its complications and expectations, but Melbourne has taught me something invaluable: home isn’t always where you’re from; sometimes it’s where you learn to be yourself.
I still remember my first day here with painful clarity. The heat wasn’t just uncomfortable, it was an entity with malicious intent, pressing against my skin like hot, damp hands. I pictured it as a living thing, a shimmering specter wrapping around my throat, squeezing until my lungs burned. So drastically different from London’s perpetual gray drizzle that framed my entire existence. The air conditioning in my temporary housing unit sputtered pathetically, and I spent that first night sprawled across sweat-dampened sheets, convinced I’d made a catastrophic mistake.
However, as the days bled into weeks, my body adapted to Melbourne’s temperamental summer climate with surprising resilience. My skin stopped feeling like it was constantly on fire, and I discovered the sweet relief of sea breezes in the evening. The transformation wasn’t just physical; the people here radiate a warmth that has nothing to do with temperature. My colleagues welcomed me with genuine smiles and invitations, not the calculated networking maneuvers I’d grown accustomed to in Tokyo and Hong Kong’s legal circles. I found myself laughing—actually laughing—during lunch breaks and after-work drinks.
The trips along the Great Ocean Road with wind whipping my hair into untamed curls; the girls’ nights with Chloe, Fran, and Priya where we drank too much wine and spoke truths we’d never dare in daylight; even the grueling work hours at the firm—it felt like I’d stumbled into some alternate universe where Isabel Barlow was allowed to simply exist rather than perform. I discovered my authentic voice buried beneath years of practiced elocution, and in those moments, I truly believed I found my place in the world, that elusive corner of heaven fate had somehow, miraculously, reserved just for me despite my father’s best efforts to map out every inch of my existence.
But with my final exams came the barrage of recruitment offers from prestigious law firms, each envelope bearing the weight of expectation. They hover above my head like the sword of Damocles, glinting dangerously in my peripheral vision whenever I dare to imagine a future of my own making. Then, as if the universe sensed I might actually choose happiness, Dad’s call shattered everything. His voice, crisp and authoritative as ever, demolished the precious sanctuary I built brick by painstaking brick. Because that’s what Lucas Barlow always does. He doesn’t just change plans; he obliterates alternatives.
I’ve never been truly free to chart my own course. I remember with crystal clarity the afternoon Nanny Alice told me, her eyes soft with pity, that by the time I could barely toddle, Mom and Dad already mapped out my entire educational trajectory—from primary school through to law school. At eight years old, I laughed at the absurdity. By sixteen, I understood it was my inescapable reality. The prestigious boarding schools, the elocution lessons, the carefully selected extracurriculars—all breadcrumbs leading to the path they’d predetermined.
