Face to face with my nightmare

Isabelle -

"WHAT !" I said aloud.

I swallowed back the bile rising in my throat, fighting the urge to flee. I wanted to scream, to run out of the ballroom, to put as much distance between Logan and me as possible. But my mother’s arm held me in place, her nails gently digging into my skin, a silent reminder that I had to play along. To be the dutiful daughter at her perfect wedding dinner.

“And Isabelle,” my mother continued, turning to me, her smile still too wide. “Logan is going to be part of our family now. Isn’t that wonderful? I knew you’d be thrilled.”

Thrilled. The word hung in the air like a cruel joke. This wasn’t just about enduring a few awkward moments at a dinner party. Logan Sinclair was going to be my stepsister. The boy who had tormented me for years, the source of so many of my insecurities, was now my family !

I forced a tight-lipped smile, though my hands were shaking, clasped together to steady myself. “Yes,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “It’s… wonderful.”

My mother didn’t notice the strain in my voice. She was already distracted, her eyes scanning the room, likely searching for the next group of guests to impress. “I need to speak with Robert,” she said absentmindedly, already stepping away. “You two catch up. I’m sure you have plenty to talk about.” With a final airy wave, she disappeared into the crowd, leaving me standing face to face with Logan.

A suffocating silence descended between us. The laughter and clinking glasses from the party seemed distant, muffled by the roaring in my ears.

“So,” Logan said, his voice breaking through the heavy air, “how’s life treating you, Isabelle?"

I glared at him, anger bubbling up despite my best efforts to stay calm.

“Why do you care Logan?” I asked, my voice shaking despite myself.

“I care because—well, we’re family now, Isabelle. Like it or not.”

Family. The word sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through me. It was almost laughable how he could stand there, acting as if we were suddenly bonded by something deeper than shared torment and pain. My fingers curled into fists, nails digging into my palms as I struggled to keep my emotions from boiling over.

“Family?” I repeated it bitterly. “You must be joking.” I shook my head, taking a step back from him, needing space. “I don’t know what kind of game you think you’re playing, Logan, but I’m not interested. Just leave me alone.”

His expression shifted—there was a flicker of something in his eyes.

“I’m not playing games,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost soft. “I know I was a jerk back then, Isabelle, and I—”

I cut him off, shaking my head. “No. You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to show up in my life after everything you did and act like we can just talk it out. You were a nightmare, Logan. You made my life hell, and I don’t need your apologies now.”

My voice was rising, my control slipping. I hated that he still had this effect on me, that even now, all these years later, he could make me feel small and powerless, like the broken girl I had been in high school.

Logan’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t say anything. He just stood there, looking at me with those infuriatingly calm eyes, as if he had all the time in the world to listen to my anger.

I couldn’t stand it.

Before he could respond, I spun on my heel and walked away. I didn’t care if it was rude; I didn’t care what my mother would say, and I certainly didn’t care about the people around me casting curious glances. I just needed to get away from him.

The bar came into view, and I made a beeline for it. I needed something to take the edge off, to drown out the emotions threatening to overwhelm me. The bartender, a tall man with dark hair and a kind face, smiled as I approached.

“What can I get you, miss?” he asked politely.

“Whisky. Neat,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended. I didn’t care. I needed something strong. He didn’t ask any more questions; he just turned and poured me a glass, setting it in front of me with quiet efficiency. I took it in my hands and knocked it back in one swift gulp, the liquid burning down my throat, leaving a dull warmth in its wake.

I set the empty glass down, and for a moment, the world blurred around the edges, the sharpness of reality softening ever so slightly. But it wasn’t enough. I needed more. “Another,” I muttered, barely meeting the bartender’s gaze.