*Isabella's POV*
"The what?" I practically screamed, the word tearing out of my throat. My hand, which had been reaching for my cocktail, froze mid-air. The entire bar seemed to go quiet for a second, or maybe that was just the blood rushing to my head. Fiancée? The word echoed in my head, a foreign, ugly sound. Utter, complete shock.
"I think it wasn't him, it was his brother, though," Vanessa said with a casual little shrug, as if she were commenting on the weather, not dropping a nuclear bomb into my life.
"What the hell are you talking about?" I asked, my voice suddenly feeling tight and small. My heart was starting to do this frantic, panicked thumping against my ribs.
"I think one of them was about to get married," Jasmine said, leaning forward. "We remember seeing them in pictures, you know, in those magazines at the supermarket."
"Yeah, but then suddenly, nothing," Vanessa added. "And we can't find the article either," she said, her expression shifting from smug to frustrated.
"It's like they've vanished," Jasmine said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"Into the depths of the internet," Vanessa finished dramatically.
Oh my God. What did they say? Fiancée? About to get married? My mind was a fucking whirlwind, a chaotic mess of questions and accusations. Was it Jacob? Was it Damien? How the fuck could I not know this? How could they just... erase it?
"You two are exhausting," I said, forcing a laugh that sounded fake even to my own ears. I snatched my glass and took a large gulp, the liquid doing little to soothe the sudden dryness in my throat. "Stop reading all those fucking gossip magazines. You believe any old shit."
"Stop, what?" Vanessa asked, her eyes narrowing.
"Is she for real?" Jasmine chimed in, shooting Vanessa a look that said, I told you so.
"I think... I'm gonna head home," I sighed, the fight draining out of me. I suddenly felt so fucking tired. This night had been a mistake from the start.
"Oh, come on, have a drink," Vanessa said, her tone softening. She reached out and put a hand on my arm.
I looked from her pleading eyes to Jasmine's skeptical face. "Fine," I muttered, picking up my glass again. "Just a drink."
The rest of the night was a fucking blur. That "one drink" turned into three, then four, the alcohol a pathetic attempt to drown out the words that kept echoing in my head. Jasmine and Vanessa, sensing my withdrawal, eventually backed off, and the night devolved into a loud, meaningless haze of music and cheap cocktails. I don't even remember saying goodbye.
Later, Tony picked me up, his face an impassive mask as he held the car door open for me. The quiet interior of the car was a stark contrast to the noisy bar, but it offered no comfort.
He drove me back to the mansion, I got back around midnight, the cool night air doing little to sober me up as I stumbled slightly, my hand bracing against the heavy wooden door to steady myself.
Hearing that one of them was engaged, that there was a fiancée somewhere in the picture, was like getting shot in the heart with a poisoned arrow. And the poison was called doubt.
It was fucking stealthy, creeping feeling coursing through my veins, clouding every thought, every memory. The apartment. The "partner" declaration. The way they held me. The Jet ski. The "I love you's". It all felt tainted now, cast under a shadow of suspicion.
Was it Damien? Was it Jacob? When the hell was this? Why didn't I fucking know? The questions swirled in my head, a chaotic storm, each one more painful than the last. I couldn't get it out of my fucking head. The not knowing was eating me alive from the inside out.
I'll have to ask Damien. The thought cut through the fog with terrifying clarity. I have to. First chance I get.
The house was quiet, a complete contrast to the noisy chaos of the bar I'd just left. I stumbled through the hallway, the heels I'd been so proud of a few hours ago now feeling like bloody torture devices. The alcohol was still buzzing in my veins, a dull, pleasant hum that was doing a shitty job of drowning out the poison of doubt that had taken root.
"Hello Damien," I said, my voice a little too loud, a little slurred, as I walked into the living room.
And then I saw him. He wasn't on the couch, but lying back in one of the armchairs, his head tipped back, his eyes squeezed shut. He wasn't relaxing. He looked like he was in fucking agony, his face pale and etched with pain.
"Fuck, Damien, what's wrong?" I asked, all traces of my drunken daze vanishing in an instant, replaced by a cold, creeping fear. I rushed over to him.
"I... it hurts," he ground out, his voice strained. He slowly placed a hand over his heart, the gesture so terrifying, it made my blood run cold.
"Your chest?" I asked, my voice rising in panic. My mind started racing, a thousand horrible scenarios flashing through it. "Damien, are you having a heart attack?!" I practically shouted, the words tumbling out of my mouth in a panicked rush. "Let me call 911!" I started fumbling for my phone in my tiny handbag, my hands shaking so badly I could barely grip the bloody thing.
"No.."He said stopping me as I was dialing the number "I'm not... " He said confusing me further. "It's Jacob" he added.
"I'm not..." he said, his breath hitching. He was confusing the hell out of me. Not a heart attack? Then what the fuck was it? He took a ragged breath, his eyes still squeezed shut as if the words themselves caused him physical pain.
He finally opened his eyes and looked at me, and the raw, unadulterated anguish I saw there made my stomach clench.
"It's Jacob," he said.