Not for me.
For yourself.
But she didn’t.
Her mother leaned in and patted her hand.
“Then you bring home Drew Travers.”
A pause.
“Or Montgomery, depending on who’s asking.”
My jaw locked.
Isa’s fingers tightened around the mug.
Her mother smiled.
“And I thought, well, there she is. There’s my girl. You didn’t fall apart. You traded up.”
The words hit like a fist.
I couldn’t move.
Couldn’t breathe right.
“He’s not—” Isa started.
My heart kicked.
Her mother talked over her.
“Don’t be modest. You bagged yourself an NFL baller with real money behind him. Not old money, maybe. New money. But honestly?” She laughed, bright and ugly. “New money is better than old money. New money spends. Old money lectures.”
Isa’s face went pale.
I waited.
I waited for her to stand.
To laugh.
To say no.
To say that wasn’t what I was.
That wasn’t what we were.
That I wasn’t a better catch because my father sat on business-news panels and moved billions around before breakfast.
That I was Drew.
Just Drew.
Her mother reached over and cupped Isa’s cheek.
“Forget Tristan Vale,” she said softly, like she was giving motherly comfort instead of carving me open. “You snagged a much bigger prize.”
