ISABELLA
I hated that he was calling me now. Of all the times to remember I existed, Logan decided the perfect moment would be right after I’d heard another woman laughing at the doorway like she owned the place. The sound had sunk beneath my skin, curled somewhere between my ribs, and festered.
I didn’t turn. My feet remained planted halfway up the stairs, one hand gripping the wooden rail so tightly that my knuckles had gone pale. I was already three steps from freedom, from the smirks and glances I didn’t want to see, from her perfume that was probably clawing its way into the house.
"I have a headache," I said flatly, keeping my gaze on the gold-framed painting at the end of the hallway. "Not in the mood for small talk or large talk or any talk at all. "
There was a pause, then his
