Shattered illusion
Isabella's point of view
The weight of George's hand on my wrist felt heavier than it should have. Not just because of his grip, but because of what it meant. What it confirmed.
The air between us thickened, charged with something unspoken but undeniable. The neon lights from the diner flickered against the cold pavement, casting his sharp features in flashes of red and white. His eyes held mine, calm. Controlled. Too controlled.
I swallowed hard, my pulse roaring in my ears.
People were just a few feet away. Oblivious. Laughing. Drinking coffee. Living their normal lives.
But my world had tilted.
I yanked my arm back, but George's grip tightened just enough to make a point. Not enough to hurt. Yet.
"I'm not yours," I hissed through clenched teeth.
His lips curved, but it wasn't a smile. More like a slow unraveling of amusement, like he had already predicted every move I would make.
