Silas’s POV
Isla f*****g Hart.
Standing just inside the doorway, one hand still wrapped around her clutch like she might need it to anchor herself. Her hair is pulled back, loose strands framing her face, skin warm and glossy. She looks… lighter. Softer even. Like someone who slept well and didn’t wake up afraid.
That’s new, that lands wrong. Her eyes find mine again.
Just for a second. And in that second, something old and sharp opens inside her. Not anger, but disgust.
Her face betrays her before she can stop it—the microsecond hitch in her breath, the way her shoulders stiffen, the tension pulling at her mouth before she smooths it out. She recovers quickly. She always did.
But I saw it, I always see it. Isabella stands first.
“Oh—Isla!” she says warmly, genuinely pleased. “Welco
