Arthur's POV
The room was too loud.
Not in volume—just energy. Everyone had something to prove. A reputation to protect. An agenda to push.
I watched Isla.
She was smiling like a serpent in silk, leaning just the right amount forward, elbow resting on the table while her fingers traced the edge of her notebook.
After her little dagger-stab at Sophie, I wasn't sure if I wanted to strangle her or smirk.
Probably both.
"Alright," I said, voice sharp enough to slice the tension. "Let's get this over with. Theme suggestions?"
Ren raised a brow, tapping his pen lazily against his paper. "Something theatrical. Crimson masks. Black-tie. A little fear, a little power."
"Obviously." That was Sophie.
Alice rolled her eyes. "Sounds like a vampire prom."
"No one asked you, Cherry," Sophie snapped.
"Didn't need to be asked," Alice replied, smile venom-sweet.
Ares laughed under his breath and threw his boot up onto the table. "What about a game of masks? Where everyone draws an identity and plays it until midnight. Mafia roulette."
I stared at him. "You just want an excuse to wear something dramatic."
He grinned. "Would it kill you to loosen up, Arty?"
Only one person ever called me that.
And she was seated across from me now, pretending not to look amused.
Isla Durova. The girl I was forced to carry out of a trap party. The girl I should hate.
The girl who was supposed to die by my hand.
Focus.
I pushed back from my chair a little. "We'll circle back to themes. Let's assign responsibilities."
I listed out the roles—venue scouting, costume arrangements, guest security, performance planning. Isla added notes, sharp and efficient. Alice volunteered for costume selection—naturally. Ares claimed the bar and entertainment. Ren took venue intel.
Sophie tried to angle herself into every category, speaking with sugar but moving like a shadow.
Isla didn't flinch.
She didn't argue or challenge. She just smiled.
But I could tell.
She was winning.
And she knew it.
The planning kept going. People bickered, pitched, scribbled. But my mind kept drifting.
To the way Isla had looked at me Saturday night. Just before she passed out. That tiny flicker of trust… or maybe recognition.
I didn't want to think about it. Didn't want to remember the weight of her in my arms, the way she'd held my face and called me—
"Arty."
My jaw clenched. I hated that name.
I hated that she made it sound like something soft.
"Arthur?" Isla said now, snapping me back to the table.
She was watching me, pen twirling between her fingers.
"You okay there?" she asked, voice light but probing.
"I'm fine," I said flatly. "Just distracted by all the noise."
"Must be hard," she murmured, "being the responsible one."
Ares leaned over toward Alice. "Told you he was in love with misery."
Alice snorted.
I ignored them both.
Because I was starting to think…
This party wasn't going to be the only thing falling apart.