ISLA
I was on the terrace.
Not the Tower’s terrace, but the terrace.
The one from the induction night, marble and moonlight, the city glittering below.
Except now the ballroom behind me was silent, the champagne dress was gone, and I wasn't crying.
I was just standing there.
And so was he.
Gideon looked the same with a dark suit, silver eyes, and the specific quality of stillness he had that made rooms rearrange themselves around him.
But the walls were down. Not lowered carefully like I sometimes caught in unguarded moments.
All the way down. Like they'd never existed.
He said my name.
Just that. Just Isla.
The way he said it when he was covered in blood in the corridor after the rescue, like a prayer and a relief simultaneously, except quieter. Just for me.
I didn't run
