Isla's POV
The champagne glass slips from my fingers.
I watch it fall, spinning through the air like my whole life is spinning, and I can't move. Can't breathe. Can't do anything but stare at Derek as he stands on the stage with a microphone in his hand and a smile that makes my stomach hurt.
"I have an announcement," he says again.
Three hundred people stop talking. The ballroom goes so quiet I can hear my heart breaking.
This is wrong. This is all wrong. We practiced this moment a hundred times. Derek was supposed to say how much he loved me. How excited he was to marry me. How I was the best thing that ever happened to him.
But his eyes—those blue eyes I thought I knew—they're cold. Like he's looking at a stranger. Like I'm nothing.
"I'm calling off the engagement."
Someone gasps. Maybe it's me. I'm not sure anymore.
My brain tries to make sense of the words, but they don't fit together right. Calling off? Our engagement? Today? Right now? In front of everyone?
"I'm in love with someone else," Derek continues, and now he's not even looking at me. "Someone real. Someone who actually cares about making me happy instead of spending all her time with paintings and dead artists."
My face burns. Every person in this room knows he's talking about my art degree. About the hours I spent studying at Columbia. About the dreams I had of working in a gallery someday.
"Natasha," Derek says, reaching his hand toward the crowd. "Come here, baby."
No.
No no no no no.
But yes. Because my little sister—beautiful, perfect Natasha with her blonde hair and sweet smile—she walks out of the crowd. She's wearing red. Blood red. And she's smiling like she won something.
Derek pulls her close and kisses her. Right there. In front of everyone. At my engagement party.
I can't move. My feet are glued to the floor. My Vera Wang dress—the one Mom and I picked out together, the one that cost more than a car—suddenly feels too tight. Like it's crushing me. Like I'm drowning.
The cameras flash. Of course there are cameras. This is Manhattan. There are always cameras.
"Isla." My father's voice cuts through the noise. He's next to me now, but he's not hugging me. Not protecting me. His face is red and angry. "How could you let this happen?"
Let this happen?
"You drove him away," Dad hisses, quiet enough that only I can hear. "Your mother warned you. Your art obsession, your difficult personality. Natasha knows how to treat a man right. Maybe you'll finally learn something."
The words hit harder than a slap.
I look at Mom. She's across the room, her hand over her mouth, tears in her eyes. But Dad's already walking away. Toward Natasha. Toward my sister and my ex-fiancé who are still kissing on the stage.
Everyone is staring at me.
Three hundred people. Three hundred witnesses to my complete destruction.
My phone buzzes in my clutch. Once. Twice. Ten times. Twenty. The texts are already starting. The posts. The photos. #IslaMonroe is probably trending by now.
I have to get out of here.
My legs finally remember how to work. I turn and run, my heels clicking on the marble floor. Someone calls my name, but I don't stop. Can't stop. I push through the ballroom doors and into the hallway and I run.
Behind me, I hear laughter. Natasha's laugh. High and bright and victorious.
The elevator takes forever. I stab the button over and over, my whole body shaking. When the doors finally open, I fall inside and slam my hand on the close button.
The last thing I see before the doors shut is Derek and Natasha, standing together at the top of the stairs, watching me run away.
The apartment is dark when I get there. Not home—my parents' house isn't home anymore. This is Sophia's place. My best friend's couch where I've been crashing since... since when? Since three hours ago when I still had a fiancé and a future and a family who loved me?
My phone won't stop buzzing.
I finally look at it.
The photos are everywhere. Me, frozen on the dance floor, looking pathetic and shocked. Derek and Natasha kissing. The headlines: "Manhattan's Most Humiliating Breakup." "Monroe Heiress Left at the Altar—For Her Own Sister."
There's a voicemail from Dad.
"You're cut off," his voice says, flat and cold. "No more allowance. No more credit cards. Until you learn that your value is in who you marry, not your ridiculous art career, you're on your own. Your sister understands how the world works. It's time you did too."
The phone slips from my hand.
I have nothing. No fiancé. No money. No family.
I'm twenty-three years old, and my life just ended.
But then Mom calls.
"Sweetheart," she says, and she's crying. "I'm so sorry. Your father is... he's wrong. About everything. But Isla, I have news. I'm getting remarried. To Richard Steele. And you're going to come live with us. In the penthouse. You'll have a home again."
"Mom, I don't—"
"His son lives there too. Caspian. He's a little intense, but—"
A knock on the door interrupts her.
I open it without thinking.
And standing there, with a photo on his phone and murder in his dark eyes, is the most terrifyingly handsome man I've ever seen.
"Isla Monroe?" he asks, his voice like ice and smoke.
"Yes?"
"I'm Caspian Steele." His gray eyes rake over me, cold and assessing. "And we need to talk about your mother's very convenient timing."