Rescued by the billionaire

CHAPTER TEN: Carrington foundation part two

I chuckled softly, the only thing I could manage in that moment, and said to her, “You look beautiful.”

It sounded so inadequate, too simple for what she looked like standing there—but it was all I had. She smiled, just barely, but it was enough to make my heart skip a beat.

We arrived at the event shortly after, and from the moment we stepped in, I became sharply aware of just how many eyes were on her. Heads turned. Conversations paused mid-sentence. It wasn’t anything she was doing—she wasn’t putting on a show, wasn’t trying to draw attention. She just *had* that presence. That quiet kind of elegance that people couldn't help but notice.

And suddenly, I felt a bit protective. Maybe even possessive. Every lingering glance felt personal, every whispered comment a challenge. She walked beside me like nothing was out of the ordinary, completely at ease, while I was tense beneath the tux.

Then my mom appeared, flanked by a small army of friends and associates, all dressed to impress and smiling just a little too widely. They descended on us like we were the evening’s main attraction.

The compliments came quickly, aimed squarely at Isobel.

“So stunning—who is she?”

“Is she single?”

“I have a son who’d *love* to meet her.”

“I mean, *look* at her—why hasn’t she been snatched up?”

I swear to God, if I had to hear one more person ask if she was single or pitch their son like it was some kind of auction, I was going to lose it.

But before I could open my mouth, my mom—bless her—cut them all off with the grace of a seasoned diplomat and the sharpness of a dagger.

“She’s not on the market,” she said with a firm smile. “So perhaps focus on the actual event instead of matchmaking.”

There was a pause—a flicker of awkward laughter—and then they moved on, trailing off like a tide receding after a failed invasion.

I glanced at Isobel. She was still smiling, cool and unbothered. Me? I was still trying to remember how to breathe.

---

ISOBEL

Even with me right there at Aaron’s side, it didn’t matter—women still couldn’t keep their eyes off him. They lingered in doorways, glanced over champagne flutes, stole double-takes as we walked past. And he didn’t even notice. Or maybe he was just used to it.

Instinctively, I stepped closer to him, my shoulder brushing his arm. It wasn’t dramatic or obvious—just a subtle shift, a silent proclamation to the room: *He’s with me.* Or at least, *I want him to be.*

But who was I kidding?

He didn’t belong to me. Not really.

I could pretend all I wanted, lean into his presence, let people assume whatever they liked—but deep down, that quiet voice inside me wouldn't shut up. *You don’t know if he sees you the way you see him.*

Because I didn’t.

To him, maybe I was still just the girl he pulled from the beach months ago. The girl with the bruised hands and legs and wide, frightened eyes. A responsibility. A memory. A moment of decency on his part.

And I hated how that thought twisted something in my chest.

Because I wasn’t that girl anymore.

At least—I didn’t want to be.

But with every glance he didn’t return, every polite smile he gave me and every effortless one he gave others, I felt the question pressing harder against my ribs: *What if I’m still invisible to him?*