(Isobel's Point Of View)
On a whim, I decided to go back to New York.
With Julien.
The plane was quiet at this hour; first class was half empty, the kind of luxury I'd never experienced before. The cabin smelled faintly of lemon polish and warm upholstery. A soft hum under the seats matched the steady thrum in my chest.
Julien sat beside me, his laptop open and face lit by the screen. He'd been mostly silent since we boarded, giving me space — a deliberate, careful sort of silence that felt like both shelter and accusation.
My phone buzzed for the fifteenth time. Etienne's name lit up the screen in stark white letters.
I declined the call.
"You should probably turn that off," Julien said quietly, not looking up from his screen.
"I will." But I stared at it another moment, watching it vibrate against the leather armrest like a small, insistent animal.
Then I powered it down completely. The click of the power button sounded absurdly loud in the hush.
