Chapter 10: CHAPTER TEN

Isabella was seated by the window of her apartment at Drake Tower as a brutal storm raged outside, the world beyond her window a blur of sheets of rain. The city lights smeared in rivers of rain streaks and glass on the wet asphalt like droppings of diesel puddles. Isabella was just staring blankly at everything outside her mind, replaying everything that had happened that day. The memory of Christian’s fleeting exposure to vulnerability, however, remained in the air: his voice low and strained, his eyes unveiling unfathomable depths of concealed fear — and the chill of Victoria’s mysterious afterthoughts over our meal. Every flash of lightning illuminated the stormy sky — and, for a moment at least, the outline of a figure standing across the street became visible. The figure’s outline stood out crisply against the corona of neon signs, and for a moment, Isabella felt uncomfortably cold.

She lowered the window shade slowly, trying to hide from the storm outside and the storm inside. The rain drummed against the glass, like her heart. She hunched herself in, trying to rattle the splintered pieces of her resolve. That was how she viewed it: the tensions of the day winding around and around into a tight ball in her mind — each memory a testament of what she had battled against it — and what she had sacrificed. She remembered the gruelling fights, the searing glances from Julian, and how Victoria’s words had lain like poison in the atmosphere.

Thunder rumbled in the distance as Isabella’s thoughts wandered back to Christian’s hushed promises of support, his declarations that they would meet whatever came head-on together. Even that reassurance felt fragile tonight. And just like that, the lightning arced, and suddenly it was there again, the figure, just a shadow in a haze of a spectrum that swept back, drawing away and disappearing until there was only the one who stood perfectly still, who stared even as the light ran into the distance. She ran to the window, pressing her face against the cool glass, heart racing. “Who are you?” she thought desperately. But as her eyes swept the street, the figure was swallowed back into the night, carrying away with them the echoed lump of sound and discomfort. The feeling of being watched had never left her; the storm had carried away not just the rain but the hidden darkness of the evening as well. It was as if so many eyes were locked upon you, and with each rumble of thunder that pierced down, she felt herself grow terrier in size. She knew she had to go, to put the street that was already empty behind her, but an uneasy feeling wouldn’t leave her — was this a cruel prelude to the violence she had narrowly escaped, or a final, poignant message on the eve of another brought to you by someone emerging from a dark period in her past? Their fury was still calmly in her breath in the eye of not knowing.

Isabella gathered her own courage, retrieving the small, ornate key that Gabriella had gifted her earlier, then tiptoeing through the darkened halls of Drake Tower. The upper floors were empty, the silence broken only by the hum of the outside city. She approached a large wooden door, the front embossed in fine filigree. Guided by intuition, perhaps, her hands shaking, she inserted the key into the lock, clicked it, and opened the door to a long abandoned music room. Dust motes swirled in the dim light that poured through a stained-glass window, freckling rows of antique instruments and clusters of yellowed sheet music with fragmented tints. It was a miraculously beautiful space, infused with the echoes of desire and the pangs of loss.

Iza stepped in, tiptoeing around, looking for anything out of the ordinary. In one corner, a grand piano stood under a fine film of dust, the keys untouched and mute. When she moved in closer, she saw an abandoned notebook resting on the top of the piano bench. Intrigued, she wiped the cover clean and opened it. It was a private confession, oddly encyclopedic, on pages filled to the edges with thin, immaculate handwriting. (Victor) The map my son would have gotten if my son was there, and with it was a letter from Christian in a script written in this free-flowing, free-spirited way addressed to Victoria because it was a testament because it was his own experience and a raw, unprotected one when he talked about how he struggled with the auditory nerve, right? Christian was in pain; all of this was Elena in some way, she could tell: the hair cutting, the devotion to work, the darkness peeking behind his cold eyes.

Before she had the chance to get her bearings, soft footfalls reverberated down the interminable hallway outside, getting louder by the moment. Isabella paused and looked toward the closed door behind her. The sound was measured, almost rehearsed, and a chill crept up her spine. In the dim light, a shadow zipped past the door, a quick and purposeful motion. Terror flooded her, and she pressed the notebook firmly against her chest, her heart hammering in her head. She pressed herself flat against the icy wall, her heart pounding, half shivering, waiting for the intruder to reveal herself.

And in the hallowed halls of Drake Tower that night, things were decidedly slower as Isabella took off in search of Victoria, looking for a little clarity after the crazy day. Keeping close to the wall, she squeezed into a small alcove a few feet from the office door, where voices could be heard over the low thrum of ventilation. She crept closer, stealthy, till she could hear the conversation. Inside, Victoria was quick, viperous. “She’s too far gone,” Victoria said, her tone cool and derisive. “We don’t want to take any chances before the gala.” A second voice, silky and chilling, replied, “Leave it to me.” That unmistakable timbre of Julian’s voice cut through the conversation and caused Isabella’s stomach to churn with rage and terror.

Every word they said was poison; they had a literal way to kill her. Isabella strained to catch every syllable, her ears laundering the betrayal taking form before her. That was chilling—the suggestion being that they’ve been working together to get her to do things that would break her when push comes to shove. The realization made her gasp; the very people she had hoped would stand behind her were working for her downfall. This fuel manifested in secrets she gnawed on, turned into ideas and new knowledge inside her mind, and so her hands quaked a bit as she began to creep away, as she contemplated a strategy for how to deal with this new enemy. Her pounding heart matched footfall; each thud screamed for her to move faster, but that time was not on her side. The shadows of the corridor wrapped around them as silence purred the need through every creak of the old building. Isabella had to do something; she had to protect herself and her loved ones before the event of this betrayal could take full form. In the tension of that moment, as the last reverberations of the conversation ebbed into silence, cold dread set in. The stakes had never been higher, and she had never been nearer to running out of time to save her future.