THE VOW WE NEVER MADE

CHAPTER 7: THE FAMILY DINNER

POV: Isla

I've faced scary things before.

Job interviews. Client presentations. That time I had to tell my grandmother I'd dropped out of business school to pursue design. The reading of her will.

But none of those prepared me for Sunday dinner at the Blackwell estate.

"Stop fidgeting," Adrian murmurs as we pull up the long, tree-lined driveway. His hand finds mine, warm and steady. "You look perfect."

I look down at the dress Margot selected—a cream silk wrap dress that's elegant without being flashy, paired with simple heels and minimal jewelry. My armor for the evening. It feels like going into battle.

"Easy for you to say. These people are your family."

"That's not the reassurance you think it is."

The estate is exactly what I expected: a sprawling Georgian mansion in the Hamptons, all manicured lawns and old money. The kind of place that has a name. (It does: Ashford House, which has been in the Blackwell family for four generations.)

Sophie hated it here.

"It's like a museum where we're the exhibits," she once told me. "Everyone performing their roles. Mother as the perfect hostess. Father as the captain of industry. Adrian as the heir apparent. And me as the family disappointment."

"You're not a disappointment."

"Not to you. But to them? I'm the daughter who didn't marry well, didn't pursue a respectable career, didn't fit the mold. Adrian's the only one who gets a pass because he's successful enough that they can overlook his emotional unavailability."

The memory makes my throat tight.

Adrian must sense it because his grip on my hand tightens. "We can leave anytime. Just say the word."

"And give your mother the satisfaction? Absolutely not."

He almost smiles. "There's the fire I was looking for."

A butler—an actual butler named James—greets us at the door and leads us through rooms filled with antiques and artwork that probably cost more than my entire apartment building. Everything is pristine, perfectly placed, utterly devoid of warmth.

We find Victoria and Richard in the formal sitting room—because of course they have multiple sitting rooms. Victoria is perched on a cream sofa in a Chanel suit, martini in hand. Richard stands by the fireplace in a navy blazer, reading glasses perched on his nose as he reviews something on his phone.

They look like they're posing for a Town & Country spread.

"Adrian," Victoria says, setting down her drink with practiced grace. "You're late."

"We're five minutes early, Mother."

"I said seven. It's 7:05."

"Traffic on the Montauk Highway."

I glance at Adrian, who's lying smoothly. There was no traffic. We were exactly on time. But apparently, Victoria Blackwell needs something to criticize.

"And Isla." Victoria's gaze sweeps over me, cataloging and judging in one efficient motion. "How... quaint. That dress is Zimmermann, isn't it?"

"Yes," I say, surprised she can tell.

"Hmm. I suppose it's appropriate for someone on a budget."

"Mother—" Adrian starts, his voice dangerous.

"It's fine," I interrupt, squeezing his hand. "I like supporting Australian designers. And I prefer pieces that are beautiful without being ostentatious."

It's a direct shot at Victoria's head-to-toe Chanel, and we both know it.

Her eyes narrow fractionally, but her smile doesn't waver. "How refreshing. Principles over prestige. I'm sure that will serve you well in our family."

"That's enough," Adrian says coldly.

"Richard," Victoria calls, completely ignoring her son. "Come meet Adrian's little charity case."

I feel Adrian go rigid beside me, his entire body tensing like he's about to explode. Richard finally looks up from his phone, regards us with the same enthusiasm one might show a quarterly earnings report.

"Isla," he says, extending a hand. His grip is firm, brief, perfunctory. "I've heard a great deal about you."

"All good things, I hope."

"That remains to be seen."

Jesus Christ. And I thought my estranged brother was cold.

"Shall we move to the dining room?" Victoria suggests, already standing. "Dinner is served at 7:15 precisely. I do hope everyone appreciates punctuality."

The jab is clearly directed at Adrian, who looks like he's contemplating homicide.

We follow them to a dining room that could seat twenty, though tonight there are only four place settings. I'm seated across from Adrian, flanked by his parents like I'm being interviewed. Or interrogated.

Probably both.

The first course is served—some kind of soup that probably has a French name I can't pronounce. I wait to see which spoon to use, following Victoria's lead.

"So, Isla," Victoria begins, dabbing her mouth with a linen napkin. "Adrian tells us you're a graphic designer."

"Yes. I have my own freelance business."

"How enterprising. And lucrative, I assume?"

"It pays the bills."

"Just the bills? How modest." She takes a delicate sip of soup. "I suppose that's why my grandmother's inheritance must be quite appealing."

There it is. Less than five minutes, and we're already at the real reason for this dinner.

"Mother," Adrian says, his voice ice. "We're not doing this."

"Doing what, darling? Making conversation? Getting to know your fiancée?" She turns to me with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "I'm simply curious about the timeline. Your grandmother passed in December, yes? And the will stipulates marriage by your twenty-seventh birthday, which is..."

"June fifteenth," I supply, refusing to be intimidated. "And yes, I need to be married by then to inherit."

"How convenient that Adrian proposed right after the will reading."

"Not convenient. Fortunate."

"Is there a difference?"

"Convenient implies opportunism. Fortunate implies luck. I consider myself very lucky to be marrying Adrian."

It's not entirely a lie. Parts of it are even true.

Victoria's smile sharpens. "How romantic. And Adrian, you're lucky too, I'm sure. After all, this engagement serves multiple purposes, doesn't it? Positive publicity after Sophie's death, a way to appear more human to your board, and of course, the satisfaction of playing hero to your dead sister's best friend."

"That's enough." Adrian's voice could cut glass.

"Is it? Because I'm simply trying to understand this sudden romance. You two barely knew each other before Sophie died—"

"We've known each other for seven years," Adrian corrects.

"Barely spoke during those seven years, from what Sophie told me. And now, six months after her death, you're engaged?" Victoria shakes her head. "It's rather transparent, darling. Even for you."

"What exactly are you implying?" I ask, my own temper rising.

"I'm not implying anything. I'm stating facts. You need a husband for money. Adrian needs good PR and perhaps a way to assuage his guilt over Sophie. It's a business arrangement dressed up as romance. Hardly the foundation for a lasting marriage."

"You don't know anything about our relationship," Adrian says, his jaw clenched so tight I'm worried he'll crack a tooth.

"Don't I? Adrian, I've known you for thirty-two years. You don't do impulsive. You don't do romantic. You certainly don't do emotional." She turns to me. "Has he told you he loves you yet? Actually said the words?"

My silence is answer enough.

"I thought not. Because this isn't about love. It's about convenience and compensation. And when it inevitably falls apart—and it will—you'll walk away with your money, and my son will be left more isolated than ever."

"That's not—" I start, but she cuts me off.

"Oh, please. Let's not pretend this is anything other than what it is. A transaction. My son excels at those. Emotional connections, however, have never been his strong suit."

"Victoria, that's enough." Richard finally speaks, his voice carrying unexpected authority. "You've made your point."

"Have I? Because I don't think Isla fully understands what she's getting into. This family, Adrian's world—it will eat her alive. She doesn't belong here."

"You're right," I say quietly, setting down my spoon with deliberate care. "I don't belong here. I'm not old money. I didn't go to the right schools or join the right clubs. My idea of a good time is food truck lunches and movie nights, not charity galas and society dinners. I say what I mean instead of hiding behind polite cruelty. So no, Mrs. Blackwell, I don't belong in your world."

Victoria looks triumphant.

"But Adrian doesn't belong here either," I continue, and her expression falters. "He's spent his entire life trying to fit into a mold you created, trying to be the perfect son, the perfect CEO, the perfect Blackwell. And it's made him miserable. Sophie knew it. I know it. The only person who doesn't seem to know it is Adrian himself."

"How dare you—" Victoria starts.

"I dare because someone needs to say it. You've spent thirty-two years making him feel like emotions are weakness, like vulnerability is failure, like anything less than perfection is disappointment. And then you wonder why he struggles with intimacy? Why he keeps people at arm's length? You did that. You and Richard and this entire toxic family dynamic."

The room goes silent.

"Sophie told me once that Adrian had the biggest heart of anyone she knew," I say, softer now. "But that he'd spent so long protecting it that he forgot how to let people in. She was right. And I think she'd be really sad to see him sitting here, letting his mother tear down the woman he's supposed to be marrying, because he's too well-trained to fight back in the way that really matters."

I turn to Adrian, who's staring at me with an expression I can't quite read.

"I'm sorry," I tell him. "But I can't sit here and let her do this. To either of us."

"You should leave," Victoria says, her voice shaking slightly. "You're clearly not ready for this family."

"You're absolutely right. I should leave." I stand, napkin dropping to my plate. "But I'm not leaving alone."

I offer my hand to Adrian. "Come with me. Please."

For a moment, he doesn't move. Just stares at my outstretched hand like it's something foreign. Then his gaze shifts to his mother, to his father, to the opulent dining room that's never felt like home.

And he takes my hand.

"Adrian James Blackwell," Victoria hisses. "If you walk out that door—"

"You'll what, Mother? Disinherit me? Disown me? Tell the board I'm unstable?" He stands, still holding my hand. "Do whatever you want. I'm done performing for you. I'm done pretending this family is something it's not. And I'm done letting you treat people I care about like they're beneath us."

"People you care about?" Victoria's laugh is bitter. "Adrian, you don't care about her. You're using her—"

"I love her."

The words ring out in the silent dining room, shocking everyone—including me.

Adrian looks at me, and something in his expression makes my heart stop. "I love her. Maybe I have for a while and was too stubborn to admit it. Maybe it happened these past few weeks. I don't know. But I know that she's the only person besides Sophie who's ever made me feel like I could be something other than what you wanted me to be. And if that's not enough for you? Then I'm sorry you wasted thirty-two years raising a son you never actually wanted to know."

He pulls me toward the door, and I follow in a daze, my mind spinning from his confession.

Did he mean it?

Or was it part of the performance?

We're halfway down the marble hallway when Richard's voice stops us.

"Adrian. Wait."

We turn. Richard stands at the dining room entrance, looking older than he did five minutes ago.

"Your mother is..." He pauses, searching for words. "She's afraid. Of losing you the way we lost Sophie. Of watching you make what she perceives as a mistake."

"That doesn't excuse her behavior," Adrian says.

"No. It doesn't." Richard moves closer, and I realize this might be the most emotion I've seen from him. "But for what it's worth—Sophie would have liked her. Isla. She would have been glad it was her."

Adrian's hand tightens on mine.

"Sophie told me once, toward the end, that she wished you'd meet someone who could break through your walls. Someone who wouldn't let you hide." Richard looks at me, really looks at me, for the first time. "I think she knew you were that person. Maybe that's why she talked about you so much. Why she was always trying to—" He stops, clears his throat. "I think she was hoping something like this would happen. Just not the way it did."

"Mr. Blackwell—" I start.

"Richard. Please." He extends his hand, and this time, the handshake is genuine. "I apologize for my wife's behavior. And for my own silence. We're not good at this—at family, at emotion. At any of the things that actually matter. But if you're willing to give us another chance, I'd like to try to do better."

I look at Adrian, letting him make the choice.

"We'll see," Adrian says finally. "But Mother needs to apologize to Isla. Properly. And she needs to stop treating this like a business negotiation."

"I'll speak with her."

"And Dad?" Adrian's voice cracks slightly. "I miss Sophie too. Every day. And I know you blame me for the accident—"

"I don't blame you." Richard's eyes glisten. "I blame myself. For not being there enough. For not seeing how much she was struggling. For not telling her I loved her often enough." He takes a shaky breath. "Don't make my mistakes, Adrian. If you love this girl—and I believe you do—then love her out loud. Say it. Show it. Don't wait for a someday that might never come."

Adrian nods, unable to speak.

We leave the estate in silence, both processing what just happened. It's not until we're back in the car, pulling away from Ashford House, that either of us speaks.

"Did you mean it?" I ask quietly.

"Which part?"

"The part where you said you loved me."

Adrian is quiet for so long I think he's not going to answer. Then he pulls the car over to the side of the road, puts it in park, and turns to face me.

"I don't know," he says, and it's the most honest thing he's ever told me. "I don't know if I meant it or if I said it to hurt her or if it's somewhere in between. I don't know what I'm feeling, Isla, because I've spent so long not feeling anything that I can't tell the difference between real and pretend anymore."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer I have."

We sit there in the darkness, the truth hanging between us like smoke—visible but impossible to grasp.

"Take me home," I finally say.

"Isla—"

"Please. Just... take me home."

He does.

And when we get back to the penthouse, I go straight to my room and close the door, leaving Adrian standing alone in the entryway, looking lost in his own home.

I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying his words.

I love her.

Maybe I have for a while.

And the devastating follow-up: I don't know if I meant it.

This is why fake relationships are dangerous.

Because somewhere between breakfast conversations and movie nights and defending each other to his terrible family, the lines blurred.

And now I'm lying in the dark, wearing his ring, living in his home, and wondering if the man I'm fake-engaged to might actually love me.

Or if I'm just desperately hoping he does.

Because God help me, I love him.

I love his terrible morning grumpiness and his hidden sweet tooth and the way he listens when I talk about design. I love how he defended me tonight, how he stood up to his mother, how he held my hand like I was the only stable thing in the room.

I love Adrian Blackwell.

The real him, not the fiction we've created.

And I have no idea what to do about it.