Chapter 6: A Promise and a Lie

The morning light was soft and pale, pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows in golden streaks. Isabel stirred slowly, caught in that hazy place between sleep and memory.

The sheets were warm.

The room was quiet.

For a moment, she forgot where she was.

Then her eyes fluttered open—and the memory hit her like a whispered confession.

The older stranger.

Her breath caught.

She was alone.

His side of the bed was cool. The scent of him lingered—rich and clean, with that touch of leather and spice. Her legs tangled in silky sheets she hadn’t meant to fall asleep in. She stretched slightly, and the fabric of the shirt shifted around her.

His shirt.

It was far too big. The sleeves drooped off her shoulders, swallowing her frame, but the way it smelled—the way it felt—wrapped her in a strange, intoxicating warmth.

Her bare thighs brushed against the Egyptian cotton. She exhaled slowly, remembering his hands, the way his voice had gone low when he asked her to stay.

“Stay the night.”

She had. God, she actually had.

Pushing herself upright, she ran a hand through her hair and looked around. No sign of him. The penthouse felt different in daylight—less like a dream, more like a question.

And then she saw it.

A folded piece of paper on the nightstand.

Her pulse skipped as she reached for it, fingertips brushing the edge. She unfolded it slowly, eyes scanning the dark ink.

“Didn’t want to wake you.

Text me if you ever want to finish that kiss.”

—A

[phone]

A number. No name. No promise. Just… possibility.

She let the note fall to her lap and stared out the window.

What was this? A mistake? A thrill? A story she’d laugh about one day?

She couldn’t tell.

All she knew was that something about him had shaken loose a part of her she didn’t know existed.

He hadn’t tried to own her. Or impress her. Or even ask for more.

But he’d wanted her.

And worse—she’d wanted him, too.

She slid out of bed carefully, gathering her things. Her dress from the night before lay in a soft heap near the bathroom door. Her heels beside the velvet couch. She moved through the room in silence, not ready to leave but knowing she couldn’t stay.

As she pulled her jacket over her dress, she caught her reflection in the hallway mirror.

Flushed cheeks. Messy hair. A strange, faraway look in her eyes.

She barely recognized herself.

Her phone buzzed from inside her bag, sharp and sudden.

She grabbed it, expecting Jenna.

But it wasn’t her.

It was a calendar alert.

SICILY TRIP – PACK BAGS.

The words hit like a cold slap. Reality crashing back in.

She stared at the screen, her stomach twisting. Hot stranger’s number still burned on that scrap of paper.

She tapped open a new message. Hesitated.

Then typed:

“Maybe someday, stranger.”

And hit send.

By the time Isabel stepped out of the building, the city had stretched into full daylight. The streets hummed with weekend energy—coffee carts, distant horns, a jogger brushing past with earbuds in. But inside her, everything still felt muted.

She walked instead of calling a cab, needing air. Movement. Time.

His number burned in her back pocket.

Her lips still tingled from his kiss.

It wasn’t love—she knew that. It wasn’t even something she could explain. But it had been real. Honest. More honest than anything she’d felt in months.

And now it was over. Or maybe not. Maybe it would hang there, like an open door she wasn’t brave enough to walk through again.

By the time she got back to her apartment, her legs ached and her brain had gone quiet.

Jenna was sprawled on the couch in sweats, hair in a messy bun, eyes wide the moment Isabel walked in.

“Oh my God.” Jenna bolted upright. “You didn’t come home last night.”

Isabel set her keys on the counter and dropped her bag with a soft thud.

“No,” she said, too softly.

Jenna stared, mouth open. “Wait. Are you wearing his shirt?”

Isabel looked down at the oversized button-up, sleeves rolled to her elbows. Her cheeks flamed.

“Jesus, you are,” Jenna gasped, then grinned like she’d just been handed front-row tickets to the most scandalous show in town. “You—Isabel Buster—stayed the night?”

“I didn’t sleep with him,” she said quickly.

“Not completely,” Jenna raised a brow, not missing the distinction.

“I don’t know what happened,” Isabel admitted, sitting down hard on the couch. “We kissed. We… touched. It got heated, and I stopped it. He didn’t push. He just—”

“Let you breathe?”

Isabel nodded. “He was… respectful.”

Jenna whistled, collapsing beside her. “And hot.”

Isabel groaned, covering her face with both hands. “So hot.”

They both laughed, but hers faded first.

There was still a weight pressing down on her chest.

“He left before I woke up,” she said quietly. “Just a note and his number.”

“Did you text him?”

“Yeah. Just… something small. I said, Maybe someday, stranger.”

Jenna blinked. “Wow. That’s either the beginning of a romance novel or the end of one.”

“I’m not sure which.”

Silence settled between them.

Then her phone buzzed again.

Another calendar alert. A second reminder, like the universe really didn’t want her to forget.

SICILY TRIP – DEPARTURE.

“Ugh,” she muttered, leaning back.

Jenna leaned over. “Is that your dad’s thing?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you actually going?”

Isabel paused.

It was the question she’d been trying not to answer since she picked up his call two nights ago.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly.

“Okay, well… let me rephrase,” Jenna said, sitting cross-legged. “Do you want to go?”

“No. Not even a little bit.”

“Then don’t.”

“It’s not that simple.” Isabel sighed. “He said Vivian really wants it. That he really wants it. He said—he made it sound like it was my last chance to fix things.”

“And is that what you want?” Jenna asked gently.

Isabel was quiet. Her mind pulled in two directions—toward the man whose touch still lingered on her skin, and toward the man who once left her life without warning.

“I don’t know what I want anymore.”

Jenna reached for her hand. “Then maybe this trip isn’t about fixing anything. Maybe it’s just about finding out.”

Isabel swallowed, her throat tight.

“Maybe,” she whispered.