Chapter 2
Isabella's POV
The first time, he glances at the screen, frowns slightly, then dismisses it. The second time, the third time, his expression grows uncomfortable. I notice his jawline tightening slightly—his tell when he's tense or irritated.
"What's wrong?" I ask quietly.
"Nothing." His tone is casual, but his eyes won't quite meet mine.
The fourth time it buzzes, he finally leans close to my ear, voice apologetic. "Babe, I need to step out and take a call. The producer needs something urgent."
My heart sinks. "Now? Everyone's here."
"I know, but..." His fingers gently stroke the back of my hand. "Ten minutes, tops. I promise I'll be quick. Tonight is your big night—I won't miss it."
His tone is sincere, his eyes full of apology.
I sigh and nod. "Fine. But hurry back."
"Thank you, babe." He kisses me lightly on the lips, then turns toward the back door.
I watch him leave, unease creeping through me.
Maybe it really is just work. Don't overthink it.
I force my attention back to the guests, continuing to chat and smile, but my gaze drifts toward the back door again and again.
Ten minutes pass.
Twenty minutes pass.
Marcus still hasn't returned.
I'm starting to fidget. Katya quickly notices my unease and pats my hand. "Don't worry, honey. Men always have things to handle."
"I know." I force a smile, but my fingers grip the champagne flute's stem tightly.
A few more minutes crawl by. I can't take it anymore.
"I'm going to check on him," I tell Katya, setting down my glass.
"Go ahead." She winks. "And drag him back. Everyone's still waiting for photos of you two."
I nod and weave through the gaps between shelves, heading for the back door.
The back door opens onto a small courtyard where I keep books waiting to be restored and empty cardboard boxes. I push through, and cold air carrying the scent of fallen leaves hits my face.
The courtyard is quiet.
Too quiet.
I walk forward along the familiar path, rounding the corner past the stacked boxes. Then I hear voices.
Marcus's voice, low and carrying a tenderness I rarely hear.
"I know you're in Nova City... No, not now... I said, Olivia, not right now..."
My footsteps stop.
Olivia.
The name drives into my chest like a cold knife.
I hold my breath and walk forward a few more steps until my view clears the corner's obstruction.
Marcus stands in the shadows of the courtyard, his back to me, phone pressed to his ear. But he's not alone.
A woman stands in front of him.
She's wearing a black trench coat, long hair falling over her shoulders. In the dim light, I can't make out her features clearly. But her movements are clear—she lifts her hand, fingertips trailing across Marcus's cheek, intimate enough to make my stomach turn.
Marcus doesn't pull away.
He just reaches up to catch her wrist, slowly lowering it, but he doesn't completely let go.
"Olivia, don't do this..." His voice holds no real refusal, more a complicated resignation.
Olivia Montague. Rising star. Marcus's ex-girlfriend.
He once said they broke up three years ago. Said it was ancient history. Said I had nothing to worry about.
And now she's standing here, her hand in his, the two of them close enough to almost touch.
My hand grabs the nearby wall, nails digging into rough brick crevices.
"Why not?" Olivia's voice carries deliberately suppressed coyness, but the tail end is sharp. "You still think about me. Marcus, you know we're the same kind of people. That bookstore girl... what can she give you? A room full of moldy old books? A boring life stuck in a small neighborhood forever?"
She laughs, the sound sharp and grating.
My breath catches in my throat.
Marcus will argue back, won't he? He'll say "that's not true," he'll say "Isabella is important to me," he'll push her away, and then...
But he says nothing.
He just stands there silently, holding her wrist, looking at her.
"This isn't the place to talk." He finally speaks, voice very low.
"Then where should we go?" Olivia takes another small step forward, almost pressing against his chest. "Your apartment? My hotel? It's been three years—we have so much to catch up on, Marcus. Don't you miss me at all?"
Three years.
My mind feels like someone just poured a bucket of ice water into it, buzzing empty.
They broke up three years ago, and now—
My legs start to weaken.
No. This isn't right. This can't be real.
"Marcus?" I hear my own voice ring out in the courtyard, so faint it's almost blown away by the wind, yet still breaking that intimate stillness.
He whips around.
The moment he sees me, the shock and panic on his face are almost impossible to hide. He quickly releases Olivia's hand and steps back, but the movement comes too late.
"Isabella." He says my name, voice still fairly steady, but his eyes dart around. "What are you doing out here?"
I look up at him, then at Olivia.
The streetlight finally illuminates her face.
She's beautiful. That precise, magazine-light kind of beautiful. Sharp yet alluring features, tall figure, every movement carrying a confidence and glamour I could never learn.
She shows no embarrassment, even seems somewhat leisurely. She looks me over once, lips curving in a faint smile, like she's evaluating the quality of some merchandise.
"So you're the bookstore owner?" she asks, her tone carrying polite curiosity but with an undercurrent of looking down. "Marcus mentions you often. Says you're very... wholesome."
Wholesome.
Coming from someone else, that word might be gentle praise, but from her mouth, it sounds like charity from on high.
"Often?" I hear myself repeat mechanically.
Marcus quickly steps forward, reaching out to take my hand. "Isabella, let me explain. This isn't what it looks like—"
I instinctively step back, avoiding his touch. My arm hits the cold wall, but it's like there's a thick layer of air between us—I can't feel the pain.
"Then what is it?" I ask, voice trembling lightly.
"Olivia happens to be in Nova City filming." He begins. "She came to catch up with me, that's all. Old friends meeting up, chatting."
Catch up.
Old friends.
I look at the distance they just separated, at Olivia's confident posture moments ago, at the flickering light in Marcus's eyes—there's tension there, evasion, but not the certainty I was hoping for.
"Catching up requires being that close?" My voice is getting dry. "Requires her... touching your face? Requires her asking if you miss her?"
Marcus's expression freezes for a moment. "You heard that?"
"I heard everything." Tears pool in my eyes. "Every word."
He's silent for a few seconds, as if weighing his words, then finally just sighs. That sigh carries resignation and fatigue, but almost no guilt.
"Isabella, you're misunderstanding." But the patience in his tone is already dropping. "Olivia and I were just discussing work. Her new movie needs to cast a male lead, and she wants me to—"
"Work?" I cut him off, my voice rising involuntarily. "Work requires her to look at you like that? To say should we go to your apartment or my hotel?"
Olivia laughs softly, the sound carrying undisguised satisfaction.
"See, Marcus? I told you she'd misunderstand." She walks to his side, linking her arm through his without hesitation. "These ordinary little girls could never understand things in our world. It's perfectly normal for exes to stay in touch, right?"
Ordinary little girl.
Exes.
Stay in touch.
I stare at Olivia's arm linked with Marcus's. He doesn't shake her off, doesn't even show a hint of discomfort.
"Marcus." I speak, my voice already trembling. "Push her away."