Isabella
The first thing I register is the light. A cruel, uncompromising slash of white across a ridiculously expensive Egyptian cotton sheet. The second is the throb behind my eyes, a frantic drumbeat of regret.
I push myself up on my elbows. The room is vast, impersonal, and definitely not mine. Floor-to-ceiling windows display a panoramic view of the city, a view that costs more per night than my first car. The other side of the king-sized bed is empty. The sheets are cool.
He’s gone.
Chase.
A fizz of panic, sharp and unpleasant, cuts through the alcoholic haze. What did I do? I remember the elevator. His hand on my back. The intense, unnerving focus of his eyes. The rest is a blur of whiskey and defiance.
My dress is pooled on a chair, a sad black puddle. My phone is on the nightstand, buzzing insistently. A persistent, angry vibration that makes my teeth ache.
I reach for it, my hand shaking slightly. The screen is a constellation of notifications. Dozens of texts. Missed calls from numbers I don't recognize. And the headlines. Oh God, the headlines.
My finger hovers over a link from a gossip blog. The title screams: 'JILTED BELLA Greer’S DESPERATE REVENGE REBOUND.'
Before I can click, the screen changes. An incoming call. Chloe.
My thumb hits the green icon out of pure, morbid instinct.
“Izzy? Thank God. I’ve been calling all morning. We’ve been so worried.”
Her voice is a thick syrup of fake concern. It makes my stomach turn.
“Don’t be,” I say, my own voice a dry rasp. “I’m fine.”
“Fine? Darling, are you sure? Where are you?”
“I’m at a hotel.”
“A hotel,” she repeats, drawing the word out. “Oh. I see. Julian and I were just hoping you’d made it home safely. Alone.”
The unspoken accusation hangs there, glittering and sharp.
“Why are you calling, Chloe?”
“I’m worried about you, of course,” she says, her tone dripping with saccharine pity. “After we saw the pictures… well, we were just horrified for you.”
“What pictures?” I ask, even though my blood is turning to ice.
“Oh, you haven’t seen them? Poor thing. You should probably look before someone else shows you. Page Six has the clearest ones. The ones of you leaving with… him.”
My fingers feel like sausages as I navigate back to the browser. I click the link. And there it is. A grainy, long-lens photo of me and Chase walking out of the hotel. His hand is possessively on my back. My head is held high, but the camera flash catches a glint of desperation in my eyes. I look wild. Cornered.
He just looks powerful.
“They’re calling him your ‘mystery mechanic’,” Chloe says, her voice laced with amusement. “Something about the cut of his suit not quite hiding how rough his hands look. It’s all terribly romantic, in a gritty, working-class sort of way.”
I scroll down. Another photo. Us getting into a sleek, black car that I don’t recognize. The caption reads: 'Sources say Greer appeared intoxicated as she was led away by the handsome but unknown companion, a stark downgrade from billionaire fiancé Julian Vance.'
“You did this,” I whisper, the words barely audible. “You called them. You gave them the story.”
“Why would I ever do that, Izzy?” she asks, feigning a wounded gasp. “This reflects badly on all of us. On the family. Julian is beside himself. He said you looked so… broken. Grasping at the first man who showed you a moment of attention. He feels responsible, which is just so sweet of him.”
Every word is a carefully placed stiletto heel, grinding into the wound.
“He doesn’t get to feel responsible,” I say, my voice gaining a hard edge. “He abdicated that right when he put a baby inside you.”
There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. “There’s no need to be vulgar. This isn’t about me. This is about your behavior. Honestly, Bella, what were you thinking? Who even is he?”
“His name is Chase.”
“Chase,” she muses. “Just Chase? No last name? No family I should know?”
The question is a trap. She already knows the answer. The tabloids have found nothing, which means he's a nobody.
“His name isn’t your concern, Chloe.”
“Well, I just hope he’s a nice man. For your sake. Even if he can’t afford… well, you know. Julian said his suit was probably a rental. It’s the heart that matters though, right?”
My grip tightens on the phone. She’s not just mocking me. She’s building a narrative. Painting me as the pathetic, cast-off woman who fell into the arms of the first available, unsuitable man. She’s making my one act of defiance look like a cry for help.
“Is there anything else?” I ask, my tone clipped.
“Actually, yes. Daddy wants to see you. This afternoon. He’s very… disappointed. This whole mess is tarnishing the Greer brand.”
Of course. The brand. Not his daughter’s broken heart. His hotel chain’s reputation.
“I’ll be there.”
“Good. And Izzy?” she adds, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Just some sisterly advice. Don’t bring your new friend. I don’t think Daddy is ready to meet the help just yet.”
She hangs up.
I stare at the phone, at the picture of my own public humiliation. She’s won. She and Julian, they’ve taken my pain and twisted it into a weapon against me. They’ve made my escape look like a pathetic stumble.
I throw the phone across the room. It hits the plush carpet with a pathetic thud, failing to give me even the satisfaction of a good smash.
A wave of nausea rolls over me. I need to get out of here. I stand up too quickly, and the room spins. I brace myself against the polished mahogany of a dresser.
My clothes. I need my clothes. I spot my clutch purse on the nightstand, next to where my phone was. I grab it, my movements jerky. I need my keys. My wallet. A shred of my former life.
My fingers fumble inside, brushing against lipstick, my credit cards, and something else. Something small and stiff.
I pull it out.
It’s a card. Not a business card. Thicker. Heavier. The color of charcoal, with no gloss. In the center, embossed in a simple, severe silver font, is one word.
Chase.
Beneath it, a phone number. Nothing else. No company. No title. No address.
Chloe’s words echo in my head. *Just Chase?* *A mystery mechanic.* *The help.*
They think he’s nobody. They’re laughing at me for falling so far, so fast. From the heir of the Vance hotel empire to a man with nothing but a name on a piece of cardstock.
I sink down onto the edge of the bed, the card cool against my palm. The public mockery is just beginning. The whispers at the country club, the pitying looks from old friends, the triumphant smile on Chloe’s face when I see her next.
They expect me to hide. To crumble. To disappear under the weight of my shame.
A cold, hard anger begins to crystallize in my chest. It pushes out the hurt, the humiliation. It gives me something to hold onto.
They’ve written their narrative.
Now, I’ll write mine. With him.
I stare at the phone number on the card. It’s a lifeline. A weapon. A wild, reckless idea taking shape in the wreckage of my life.
They think he’s my downgrade. My moment of desperation.
I’m going to make him their worst nightmare.
