92

THEA

I dress with one person in mind.

Isla De Vries Montgomery, Ezra’s ex-wife.

The last time I saw her, it was at that mall while I held Ezra's black card in my purse. And even if all the voices in my head are screaming at me to step back and just give up on this, I shove them back, grip my bag tighter, and step out of the car, heels clicking against the marble of one of the most luxurious malls in the city.

My reflection flashes in the glass doors as they glide open.

I’m dressed in soft beige tones with a cut that screams old money—one of my quieter HMA designs. Statement enough to be noticed. Subtle enough to be dangerous. My hair is slicked back, my lips painted with nude gloss.

I walk in with every inch of confidence I’ve earned from years of being the only woman in most boardrooms, where even the smallest flinch or shake is considered a weakness due to gender biasedness.

But underneath?

Desperation.

Silent and sharp in my veins.

If she’s not here, I’ll try the next mall. And the next. And again. I don’t care how long it takes. I’ll find her.

To. day.

I drift through the aisles, running my fingers across racks of silk and sequins I don’t care about. I try on dresses I don’t need. I let sales attendants zip and pin and praise me like I’m royalty. I nod, I smile, I twirl even when I know everything is an act.

Because my eyes are scanning. Always scanning.

And time moves strangely here. Minutes blend into hours and hours feel like fog. At some point, I lose track of how long I’ve been here—how many sections I’ve passed, how many times I’ve pretended to check the stitching on something imported and overpriced.

I debate asking the concierge. Just a simple, Has Mrs. Montgomery stopped by today? But I stop myself.

No. She’d hear of it. Somehow. And I want her guard down. At least.

So I keep moving.

And then, as I cross into a new wing of the store with racks of cashmere coats, it pierces the air.

That voice.

Sharp. Lilting. Expensive.

“I said I wanted the navy, not the midnight. Do you people not understand shades?”

I freeze.

And slowly, I step around the display and into the next section—

And there she is.

Isla.

Hair blown out to perfection, sunglasses perched on her head like a crown. Her lips are painted red, heels are six inches and sharp enough to stab. She’s holding a cocktail of garment bags and shopping assistants in her wake.

Her eyes lock on mine mid-sentence.

And she stills.

Just for a beat.

Then—

“Oh,” she says with a sugary smile, tilting her head slightly. “Look who the wind dragged in.”

I smooth my dress with a single flick of my fingers and smile back.

“Ms. Isla.”

“Darling.” She takes a slow step forward, an assistant matching her step, blazer in hand. She eyes me up and down. “You look… flushed. Shopping therapy, I assume?”

I let the smile stay. Cold and precise.

“Just hunting,” I say softly.

“Ah.” She arches a brow. “Well, the racks are full. But I doubt you’ll find anything in here that’ll keep a man like Ezra.”

I take a step forward too.

And just like that, the world quiets around us.

The assistants vanish into background noise, the one between us stiffening, the air thickening with the scent of perfume. My nails dig into my bag strap as I whisper,

“We need to talk. Please.”

And she smiles wider.

Which means she knows exactly why I'm here but she sighs and turns away from me like I'm nothing but lint on her sleeve, eyeing a silk blazer held up by the trembling assistant.

Sneaky manipulative bitchy vampire.

“God, this shade of green is criminal,” she says, tone featherlight and bored. “I’d sue if it didn’t clash with my lawyer’s tie.”

She waves a manicured hand lazily. “Take it back. And find the Balmain set in ivory. If you fail again, I’ll assume you’re color blind.”

The assistant bows and scurries off, some of the rest following suit.

And then she glances at me. Languid. Like I’m a mosquito she’s deciding whether or not to squash.

Finally, she says, “Leave us.”

The team of attendants evaporates.

She takes her time as she unbuttons her coat, sets her sunglasses on the counter, then turns to me with a tilted head, arms folding as she leans against the glossy display table.

“So.” She drags the word like a sword from a shaft. “You want something.”

“I want you to take me to Ezra.”

She laughs.

Not a kind laugh. Not even a bitter one.

It’s the kind that’s meant to remind you how far below her you are.

“Oh darling, I didn't realise we were entertaining heaters now.” She says, wiping a tear from the corner of her eyes. “See, baby girl, the bond is broken— I heard,” she says smoothly, almost with a yawn. “He made sure of that. So why, exactly, are you still crawling after him?”

I don't think as I blurt,

“Because I love him.”

She blinks, her expression doesn’t change as she eyes me blankly.

“Love,” she echoes, voice light. “How quaint.”

I take a step closer. “Please. I just need to see him. I need to know he’s okay.”

Isla’s lashes flutter. “He’s not.”

That freezes me.

She continues, more to herself than to me. “No one is, after father drags them through the Rift.” Then, she focuses on me again. “It’s not some romantic abyss, sweetheart. It’s the Underworld’s gilded cage. It’s a cage built for royalty who forget how to kneel.”

“I don’t care. I just—” I inhale, forcing my voice not to shake. “I just want to see him.”

She smirks. “And what makes you think you can? You’re human. A pesky little fly. Not even bonded anymore.”

I blink fast, swallowing the sting. “Because I still feel it.”

Because it’s not about the bond. It’s about him.

Her eyes flare as she stares at me in silence. Long enough for it to feel like punishment.

“You still feel it?”

I say nothing.

Then she sighs and turns, idly plucking a silk scarf off the counter. She rubs the fabric between her fingers, looking utterly uninterested.

“You think you're the first woman to stand in front of me with stars in her eyes?” she says calmly. “I was his wife, darling. We grew up together. I’ve seen all of it. I’ve seen him bleeding. Broken. Barely breathing. I’ve seen him kill. I’ve seen him kneel to grief.”

She turns slowly, her voice sharpening.

“And I’ve seen him walk away from love like it was nothing but dust on his boots.”

Hers.

“I know,” I whisper.

That startles her. Slightly.

“I know he pushes people away. I know he breaks things he doesn’t mean to. I know what he is. And I love him anyway.”

Her smile wavers.

I press forward, chest tightening.

“I love him when he’s cruel. When he’s distant. When he looks at me like he hates me because he’s trying so hard not to love me. I love him when he saves me, and… I love him when he leaves.”

Pathetic, I know.

A sprinkle of lies. I know.

The silence settles upon us like a fog and it's just her breathing. And me shaking.

“And I know you loved him once too,” I add softly. “Maybe you still do. Maybe you hate him for it. I don’t know. But you get it. You know what it’s like to be tethered to him and still be on your knees, maybe wondering why it hurts so much.”

Her eyes flicker.

And for the first time, something soft and unguarded flashes through her expression.

Pain. Maybe.

Regret?

Anger?

Amusement?

Then she straightens again, her mask slipping back on like a second skin.

“Well,” she says breezily as she turns away and starts walking off. “this has been… adorable. But I’m afraid I have more fulfilling things to do today. Like watching paint dry.”

“Please,” I beg again, voice cracking now. “Please, Isla. I… I’ll give you anything.”

She halts in her step and turns, eyes narrowing slightly. “Anything?”

I nod. “Whatever you want. Just tell me what it is.”

Isla steps closer and her perfume hits me again.

She studies me for a moment. Like really studies me.

Then, her voice drops.

“Why would you trade something for a man who chose to be erased from your life?”

“Because I never chose that,” I answer. “And if I don’t try, if I don’t fight, then what the hell was the point of surviving all of this in the first place?”

There’s a pause.

Then—quietly, tightly—Isla says, “You’ll owe me. No questions. No delays. When I ask, you pay.”

I didn't even contemplate before nodding. “Done.”

She exhales, lips tilting up. Then she pulls her phone out and dials.

“No,” she says into the receiver. “We’re not shopping anymore. Bring the car around.”

She hangs up and turns to me, eyes flat.

“Let’s go see if love is enough to break into hell.”