It’s when she turns fully toward me that the real blood hits the floor.
“And Isa…” Her voice goes soft, almost thoughtful, which somehow makes it worse. “I heard your conversation in the training room. Your debutante mother? The one who advised you‘to lock down Vale for her six-three NBA grandbabies and everything that comes with the Vale’s money vault?’”
The world stops.
No.
No no no.
My whole body goes ice cold.
Tristan’s face drains.
Stella doesn’t stop.
“Does he know?” she asks lightly. “That you targeted him? Went after him like a desperate WAG wannabe?”
My throat closes.
Every sound in the library sharpens and blurs at the same time.
I can feel people noticing now.
I shake my head.
“It’s not like that,” I hear myself say. The words crack coming out. “Not anymore.”
My eyes fly to Tristan’s.
He’s staring at me like I’ve become somebody else.
“No,” I say again, faster now, panicked enough to hate myself for it. “Maybe maybe it started—I don’t know—maybe my mother said things, but it’s not like that now, Tristan, I swear?—”
His expression is unreadable.
That’s worse than anger.
Because anger I could fight.
Unreadable just leaves you falling.
Tears spring hot and immediate to my eyes.
I hate Stella.
I hate myself.
I hate the room.
I hate the fact that some stupid ugly part of what she said isn’t even totally false.
And because humiliation is a violent little thing, it yanks the truth straight out of me before pride can stop it.
“I’m in love with you,” I sob.
The words hang there.
Hideous.
