Betrayed by love

Isabella's POV

A slam of the door behind me might have been the finality of a sentence I could not take back. My hands quivered a bit as I clutched in my grip a purse which felt like a concrete object that weighed a ton. Fast, I hurried through the dark street, Adrian's voice in my ears—unjustly blaming me, excusing himself, half-truth after half-truth. I could not have remained in that house for another second.

My phone buzzed in my palm. Adrian. Two seconds later, I pressed decline. Buzz. Decline. Buzz. After the fifth call, I shoved it deep into my purse, my jaw clenching with so much tension it hurt.

I had no destination in mind; I just needed to put distance between myself and home. Walking forward, I found a dull neon glow ahead. A bar. Without thinking, I walked straight toward it.

Inside, the air was filled with the fetor of liquor and smoke. I took a seat on a stool at the counter and gestured for the bartender.

“Whiskey,” I said with a voice tougher than I had intended.

The glass landed on the counter. I quickly threw it back, letting the burn allay the ache in my chest for even a few moments.

Yet that stupid phone buzzed against my thigh, and I ignored it. “Another,” I muttered.

By my third round, the brightness of my head was all good while my anger at least had blurred edges. But the ache inside still wouldn't go away. Once more, my phone buzzed on the counter. Adrian. I flipped it over and pushed it away.

“Long night?” A voice came from my left.

I slightly turned my head to face a guy who had been there, phone glued to his ear, though I realized almost instantly he was not talking to anyone. He slid in next to me, effectively ending the fake call.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark hair, trimmed to perfection. His eyes, stormy gray, met mine for the briefest of seconds before he shifted his gaze and ordered a drink.

I didn't reply to him. I just muttered something like, “Something like that,” and concentrated on my glass.

Time just went on while he sat in silence without saying anything, nor did I. All this while, I could feel him, like a stillness, calm yet unperturbed by the silence; it was that which unsettled me.

As soon as I stood to head to the rest room, the floor seemed to tilt beneath me. My knees buckled and I grabbed the counter, yet even this tenuous hold was not enough.

Before I could go down, a steady hand caught me.

“Easy,” he said, his arm firm around me.

“I am fine,” I lied, trying to pull away.

“You're about to fall on your face. That doesn't look fine,” he said, a calm firmness in his voice.

Still resisting him, he led me toward the ladies' room. There, I leaned against the sink, looking into the mirror. My makeup was smudged, my eyes were glassy—I hardly recognized the woman staring back at me.

“Maybe you ought to slow down,” he said, lounging against the doorframe.

I shot him a glance in the mirror. “You don't know me.”

“True,” he said, unperturbed, “but I can tell you are not here because you love whiskey on Tuesday nights.”

My throat constricted. I turned back from the mirror and mumbled, “Adrian.”

“Boyfriend?” he probed.

“Husband.” The word nearly shattered me.

He pondered silently for a moment before continuing, “And you'd rather drink than take his calls.”

His bluntness stung, but I couldn't challenge it. I crossed my arms, my voice shaking. “Maybe I don't want to hear his lies.”

“Or maybe you want him to be able to feel how it is when he calls and cannot get through to you,” he said softly.

I froze as I looked into his eyes. He did not mock me. He did not pry. He was just... steady.

“Who are you?” I suddenly needed to know.

“Victor,” he said simply.

I nodded slowly. “Isabella.”

He repeated my name as if evaluating it: “Isabella.”

The way he said it drew me closer. The room felt smaller, charged. The hammering of my pulse rang in my ears. I didn't plan it; I didn't think it through. I simply reached up and kissed him.

For a moment, he did not move. I felt his hesitation. Then his hand slid to my waist, holding me steady, and he kissed me back.

When we pulled apart, I was gasping for breath.

“That's wrong,” I whispered as soon as the words passed my lips.

“Yeah,” Victor said, but his eyes were still locked with mine, and he did not let go.

The faraway silence started wrapping around us in thick layers of unuttered words in between. My phone buzzed on the top of the bar. Neither of us made a move to answer it.

“I shouldn't—” I started.

“Then don't,” he cut in softly.

But I didn't walk away.

After this, everything seemed to blur: the bar, his arms leading me outside, the calm dim of the city, his low and steady voice grounding me when my own thoughts were spinning too fast. I knew I should stop. I didn't.

The next time I opened my eyes, sunlight streamed through an unfamiliar curtain. My head was pounding, and I pushed myself upright slowly, dread pooling in my stomach.

Hotel room.

Then a shot of panic coursed through my chest. I turned toward the nightstand. A folded note lay on top. My hands shook as I unfolded it.

Last night was great. – Victor

The note slipped from my fingers; I collapsed forward and folded my arms upon my knees, chest tight and heart racing.

Nearby, my phone lit up on the small side table, displaying dozens of missed calls.

My throat suddenly constricted. They came crashing down on me—shame, anger, regret.

“What have I done?” I whispered to the silence.

But nothing answered, only heavy silence in this strange room, filled with the truth that I could not escape.

To further ruin an already miserable day, I picked myself off the floor and called my lawyer.

“Let’s meet.” I said, as soon as she picked up the phone, foregoing all small talk.