Kyle's Point of View
I tapped my nails against the side of my glass, watching as Isabella's face twisted with barely concealed frustration. It was delicious—the way her eyes darkened, her lips pressing into a thin line as she struggled to keep her composure.
She thought she could have it all—George's affection, Ryan's guilt, even the slightest chance at happiness. Pathetic. Not on my watch.
I swirled my drink, letting the silence stretch between us before I finally spoke, my voice dripping with feigned concern.
"You look exhausted, Isabella," I said smoothly. "Pregnancy taking a toll? Or is it just hard keeping up with all these men who think you're something special?"
Her fingers clenched against the fabric of her dress. Good. Let her feel it.
I leaned forward, lowering my voice to something just above a whisper. "You know, George is sweet now, but men like him always have an agenda. He's playing you, darling. Just like Ryan did. And do you know? He'll be my husband soon."
