Chapter Three: First Night Free

The sun had barely set when Lydia Phillips pulled up to Isla’s building like a woman on a mission. Her matte-black Benz purred at the curb, gleaming under the streetlamps like a panther in wait.

She didn’t knock.

She texted.

Lydia: Five minutes. I brought wine, heels, and zero mercy.

Upstairs, Isla was slipping into a silk blouse when her phone buzzed. She read the message, smirked faintly, then replied:

Isla: I’m no longer married. Let’s make tonight count.

Three minutes later, Lydia was at her door, champagne in hand.

“You look criminally overdressed for a breakup,” she said, eyeing Isla’s sleek, minimalist outfit. “I was expecting a hoodie and a full meltdown.”

“I cried three years ago,” Isla replied, grabbing her clutch. “Tonight, I drink.”

Lydia grinned. “There’s my girl.”

As they drove through the glittering veins of downtown Valmere, Isla rolled the window down slightly. The breeze teased her curls, and for the first time in years, the wind didn’t carry a weight.

It carried freedom.

“So,” Lydia began casually, eyes on the road, “you slapped Seinna with a vase of orchids, told Callum off, and signed the divorce papers in the same hour?”

“Essentially.”

“You’re my damn hero.”

Isla didn’t answer. Her fingers tapped lightly against the car door, her gaze distant.

“What?” Lydia asked, glancing at her. “Don’t tell me you’re second-guessing.”

“No.” Isla shook her head. “I’m just... remembering how hard I tried to be what he wanted.”

Lydia’s jaw tightened. “You mean what Eliana was.”

Isla didn’t flinch.

She remembered the tea. The soft, demure voice she practiced in the mirror. The quiet dresses in pastel tones. Everything curated to match Eliana’s ghostlike grace.

But it had never been enough.

“Maybe it’s because,” she murmured, “no one falls in love with a woman who has a prison record.”

Lydia slammed on the brakes at the red light, then turned in her seat.

“You never went to prison,” she snapped. “That was your psycho stepsister playing puppet master with the tabloids. You were training in Summerdell while they branded you a criminal.”

Isla didn’t respond.

“You could’ve told them,” Lydia said.

“And what would that have changed?” Isla asked softly. “Callum didn’t want the truth. He wanted someone who didn’t disturb the surface.”

Lydia was quiet for a moment. Then she grinned.

“Well, surface be damned. Tonight, you disturb everything.”

They pulled into the underground lot of the Crimson Bar, where the rich and reckless gathered like moths around neon flame. Isla stepped out of the car, heels clicking against the marble.

She didn’t pause at the mirror.

Didn’t adjust her hair.

Didn’t hesitate.

Inside, the second floor opened into a golden haze of music, laughter, and murmured secrets. As Isla entered, heads turned. Eyes followed.

Not because she was loud.

But because power doesn’t announce itself—it simply arrives.

From a private corner of the bar, a pair of eyes watched her entrance like a hawk measuring distance before the dive.

Callum Braxton.

He wasn’t supposed to be there.

Yet there he was—drink untouched, jaw tight, watching the woman he’d released like she was suddenly unfamiliar.

Isla hadn’t seen him yet. She was too busy scanning the crowd, her expression unreadable.

But Lydia saw him.

And she smiled like someone who knew fireworks were coming.

“Drink?” she asked.

Isla nodded. “Something expensive.”

Lydia ordered, then leaned in. “Moonshadow’s here.”

Isla’s brow twitched.

“I thought he dropped off the radar.”

“He didn’t,” Lydia said, handing her a glass. “You did.”

The two women clinked glasses.

From across the room, Callum’s fingers tightened around his tumbler.

He told himself it didn’t matter. That she could dress up, play powerful, flirt with the spotlight.

But then she laughed—freely, for the first time in years.

And that sound…

That sound didn’t belong to his Isla.

Because maybe… maybe she never was.