Isabelle blanches for a heartbeat, then shoves her cruelty back on like armor.
“You...speak French?”
Wren lifts a shoulder, cool as ice. “Enough to know when someone’s being a bitch.”
A laugh punches out of me, helpless and stunned.
That’s the moment Isabelle breaks.
Not dramatically—she’s too disciplined for that—but the veneer cracks.
Her lips freeze mid-smile. Her pupils tighten. A tremor flashes through her jaw so fast anyone else would miss it.
For Isabelle Merteuil, being laughed at is the unforgivable sin. The line you don’t cross unless you want a war.
She recovers in a single inhale. “Always full of surprises,” she says coolly. “You’ve been that way since freshman year. Walking around the quad with your study partners, so focused on your equations you never notice who else is there.”
Wren blinks once. “I’m sorry—what?”
Isabelle’s smile is smooth, false, weaponized. “Some people just...attract attention. Even when they don’t mean to. Even when it’s not theirs to take.”
The last phrase lands with extra weight—possessive, bitter.
Wren’s brow furrows. “I don’t remember ever talking to you, Isabelle.”
“That’s the thing,” Isabelle murmurs. “You never have to do much. Just exist in the right place. With the right people.”
Her gaze flicks to me one more time, assessing whether I’m still playing along, then she adjusts her sunglasses.
“Well,” she says softly. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”
She turns and disappears into the café, heels clicking with finality.
The quad exhales around us. Conversations resume. Phones get pocketed.
Wren squeezes my hand once, jaw tight. “What the hell is her problem?”
I swallow hard. Part of me wants to tell her everything—the bet, the dare, the whole ugly beginning. But if I tell Wren the truth, she’ll never agree to be mine.
Better to let Isabelle think she’s still winning. Let her think I’m still playing. Eventually she’ll get bored and move on to her next game.
At least, that’s what I’m hoping.
But something about what she just said bothers me.Freshman year. Study partners. The right people.
A flicker of a memory reels through my head: Isabelle leaning into Theo outside the café, fingers on his arm, that tiny recoil he tried to smooth over. The way her eyes followed him when he walked away.
I didn’t think much of it then.
Now paired with that line—the right people—it makes my stomach twist.
“Long story,” I say quietly, shelving the thought for later. “But tell me, genius, how do you speak French like that?”
She studies me, not buying it, but letting it go for now. Something in her eyes says, “we’re coming back to this.”
“I spent summers in Paris with my mom,” she says finally. “She had flute masterclasses. I did day camps with French kids. It stuck. We went every year until karate got too intense.”
I thread our fingers tighter and guide herforward, needing to move, needing to think about something other than Isabelle’s games.
