I am done

Isabella

“Not Misha,” I managed to say, my voice a mixture of disbelief and mortification.

He smirked, the corner of his mouth tugging upward in that infuriating way of his. “Not Misha,” he confirmed, his voice low and amused.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded, stepping back and crossing my arms over my chest, as if that could somehow shield me from the sheer awkwardness of the situation.

“I came to check on you,” he said, leaning casually against the doorframe like he hadn’t just zipped me into a dress. “I saw what Clarissa did."

“Well, you’ve checked. I’m fine. You can go now.”

He didn’t move. Instead, his gaze flicked over me, lingering just a second too long on the dress. “The blue suits you,” he said, his tone oddly sincere.

Heat rushed to my cheeks, and I looked away, pretending to adjust the skirt. “Thanks,” I muttered.

There was a pause, heavy with unspoken words. Finally, he said, “Clarissa doesn’t speak for all of us.”

That caught me off guard. I glanced up at him, searching his face for signs of sarcasm or mockery, but all I saw was... honesty.

“Good to know,” I said cautiously, unsure where this was coming from.

“She’s… complicated,” he added, rubbing the back of his neck. “But don’t let her get to you. She doesn’t know you.”

I blinked, surprised by the unexpected kindness in his voice. For a moment, the smug, polished Logan I’d come to expect wasn’t there. Instead, he seemed almost genuine.

“I’m fine,” I said eventually, my voice quieter now. “But thanks.”

He nodded, and for a second, it looked like he might actually leave. But then he hesitated, his hand hovering over the doorframe.

"Don't let her drag you into her mess. She doesn’t care about the fallout.”

I tilted my head, studying him. “Is that your way of saying you’re not on her side?”

“I’m on my own side,” he replied with a wry smile. “But no, I’m not teaming up with her, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

I didn’t know whether to believe him.

“Good to know."

He lingered a moment longer before straightening and stepping back into the hallway.

"You must come down; they are about to cut the cake."

I nodded, watching as he disappeared around the corner.

As the door clicked shut behind him, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. My fingers brushed against the zipper he’d fixed, the memory of his touch still warm on my skin.

*********************************************

My blue gown swished softly as I entered the ballroom, ignoring my mother’s barely stifled groan from across the room. Her disapproving gaze lingered on me for all of two seconds before she turned back to her conversation with some distant relative, no doubt plotting ways to scold me later.

Clarissa, on the other hand, was less subtle. She was standing near the dessert table, her expression shifting from smug to sour in record time when she spotted me. Her carefully orchestrated sabotage had clearly failed, and the sight of her barely contained annoyance filled me with triumph.

I floated through the room, plastering on a polite smile and nodding at the occasional guest who acknowledged me. The cake-cutting ceremony had begun, and everyone gathered around to cheer as my mother and her new husband fed each other overpriced fondant.

The evening was dragging, but I could see the finish line in sight. I was counting down the minutes until I could make my escape when a voice I hadn’t heard in years stopped me cold.

“Well, well. If it isn’t Isabella.”

I turned, my stomach sinking as I came face to face with Trent.

Of course.

“Trent,” I said flatly, crossing my arms.

“Wow,” he said, his eyes raking over me in a way that made me want to disappear. “You’ve really... changed.”

I almost laughed. The nerve. Did he think I’d forgotten? The years of mocking, the snide comments, the relentless teasing?

“Funny,” I said, tilting my head. “You haven’t changed at all.”

He grinned, clearly missing the venom in my tone. “Come on, don’t be like that. We had some good times, didn’t we?”

I raised an eyebrow. “If by ‘good times,’ you mean you making my life miserable, then sure. A blast.”

He chuckled, brushing off my words like they didn’t matter. “You always were dramatic.”

“Right,” I said, my patience wearing thin. “Well, it was great catching up, Trent, but I have somewhere to be.”

I turned to leave, but he stepped into my path. “Hey, wait. I’m serious. You look amazing tonight. Maybe we could... catch up properly?”

I blinked at him, stunned by his audacity. “Let me get this straight. You spend years making me feel like dirt, and now you want to—what? Take me out for coffee? Pretend that never happened.”

He had the decency to look sheepish for a split second before recovering with a lazy smile. “People change, Isabella.”

“Yeah,” I said, my voice icy. “Some people do. Clearly, you’re not one of them.”

Before he could respond, I brushed past him, my heels clicking sharply against the floor. The nerve of that man. The night was over for me. I’d played the part, endured the drama, and survived the party.

Finally, I was done. Done with the gowns, the glares, the ghosts of high school past. Done with the Sinclairs, at least for tonight.