The longer I recalled my last few days, the more I noticed other small changes too. The way he handled things now as President. The way he didn’t seem to care if his decisions made him look weaker in the eyes of the club.
I’m pulled out of my thoughts when a soft hand lands on my forearm. “Is it not good?” Bel—or rather, Isabelle—asks gently from beside me. “Do you want me to make something else? Something light… maybe garlic-shrimp salad?”
I quickly shake my head, forcing a small smile. Hopefully one that passes for contentment.
My plate is still full, a mound of pasta slowly going cold. I haven’t had much of an appetite lately.
The longer I stay at the club under the weight of the past, and the uncertainty of whatever future waits for me, the more restless I feel.
“I’m okay,” I reassure her softly. “Just… not very hungry.”
Her face falls immediately before she brightens a little. “Oh! What about an avocado sandwich? You used to love those.”
God. I barely spoke to her back then, and she remembers something like that? Even when I was probably a complete bitch to her, considering Glory was horrible to all the club girls.
I chuckle awkwardly, a little embarrassed by the memory of my younger self. “I’m fine, Isabelle. I promise. The pasta’s great. I just… can’t eat much these days.”
“Oh,” she murmurs, her brows knitting with concern.
Sometimes I get the feeling she is trying too hard to make up for what happened with Glory. Not that any of it was her fault. Or any of the club girls’.
I’ve seen the same pattern with the Ol’ Ladies too. They try to include me in their gossip, their jokes, their little circles around the clubhouse. Trying to make me feel like I belong here. I don’t.
But Isabelle’s way is different. Her language is nurturing and food. So she keeps feeding me.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her fear has a way of killing your appetite. Until today, because she’s still looking at me like I’ll decide on a meal I will definitely eat—and she’ll be happy to make it.
I swallow hard, trying not to focus on the raw eagerness lighting up her face. “Isabelle, why are you… why is everyone—” I turn my head, scanning the dining hall corridor discreetly. “Why is everyone acting like this? I’m only here temporarily. None of you need to go overboard with this… hospitality, okay?”
There’s an edge in my voice that makes her flinch. Guilt immediately prickles in my chest. I hadn’t meant to say it so bluntly, even if it’s the truth.
“I…” She clears her throat. “I don’t know about the others, but—god.” Her head suddenly drops into her hands and her breathing turns ragged.
Concern has me reaching for her shoulder before I even think about it. “Izzy?” I squeeze gently. “You okay?”
She takes several seconds to pull herself together before looking up. Her eyes are glassy, her nose pink as she sniffles. “I—I was there, Charlotte,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “God… I saw T-Trixie and Juggles—” She cuts herself off, shaking her head rapidly.
Horror floods her eyes, like she’s seeing that night again—the basement, the ropes, Glory and I tied up beneath the club. “—I’m so s-sorry, Charlotte,” she chokes. “I was so w-weak. I couldn’t stop it. But I swear to you, I—I left. I wasn’t… I didn’t…”
Relief warms my chest, even though I already knew this. Isabelle wasn’t one of the girls who hurt me. I remember her stepping into the cell that night with the others. But I also learned a while ago she had walked out before ever laying a finger on me.
“You couldn’t,” I say gently, offering her a small smile.
“W-What?” she croaks.
“I know you left the cell. Ruin told me a few days ago. He didn’t want me wondering why Trixie and Juggles were kicked out of the club and you weren’t.”
Her shoulders sag as a long breath leaves her.
I nudge her lightly with my shoulder, snorting. “Honestly? He tells me random, stupid things all the time now. It’s like he physically can’t shut up around me.”
She lets out a watery laugh, eyes widening at the way I’m casually roasting her VP. There’s a lot more where that came from. And I don’t care.
“He’s been… different since you left,” she murmurs. “So has Wolf.”
I shrug, unwilling to talk about the two confusing men.
I turn toward her fully, abandoning my untouched pasta. A grin spreads across my face. “So,” I drawl teasingly, “tell me about that guy you were texting the other day. Nick, was it?”
