Isabelle’s POV
NYU was buzzing the way big cities always are before 11 a.m. Phones in hand. Coffee in the other. Deadlines dragging feet. Laughter masking anxiety. None of it touched me.
I was focused on one person.
Jordon Whitmore.
I spotted him easily. Sitting with a pack of other frat boys on the low steps of Delta Theta Chi. Hoodie half-zipped, legs spread, surrounded by the scent of privilege and boys who still believed the world bent for them.
He was laughing at something. Loud. Head tilted back like life had never once humbled him.
That was about to change.
I walked toward them, unhurried, letting my presence do the talking. My heels struck the pavement with that sharp, rhythmic finality of a woman who knew she belonged anywhere she entered.
A few of the guys went quiet.
Jo
