Dorian was leaning against the black car, hands in his pockets, the afternoon light cutting across the sharp lines of his navy coat. He straightened when he saw her, a smile ghosting at the corner of his mouth.
"Careful," he said lazily, as if they were the only two people in the courtyard. "The Velvet Tempest might sweep my mother clean off her feet."
Isla stopped short, one brow arching. "Is that why you're lurking out here? To rescue her before she's carried off?"
"Rescue her?" His smile tilted. "No. Just curious to see how you'd look walking out in one piece."
The steward glanced between them, uncertain, then murmured something about fetching the driver and retreated a few steps away.
Isla brushed her fingers over the folded letter in her pocket, considering him. "You do realize you've made my life considerably more complicated."
Dorian pushed off the car, closing a little of the distance. "You make complication look... intriguing."
"That sounds like something you'd embroider on a pillow," she shot back, dryly. "Or tell every woman you inconvenience."
He laughed softly, low in his throat. "And here I thought you'd thank me."
"For what, exactly?"
"For giving them something to talk about besides their own dull little lives." His gaze lingered on her, the playful edge in his tone shadowed by something sharper. "You wear scandal well, Isla Reed."
She met his eyes, refusing to flinch. "Good. I'd hate to waste the outfit."
For a beat, neither of them moved—just the sound of the fountain and the distant call of birds.
Then Dorian's smile deepened, quick and sly, before he stepped back and swept an arm toward the car door. "Until next time, Miss Reed."
_______
The bell over the bakery door chimed as Isla stepped back inside. Warm air wrapped around her—the scent of sugar, yeast, and the faint citrus cleaner Callie liked to use. Afternoon light slanted through the windows, painting long stripes across the floor.
Callie was at the register, sliding a pastry box across to a customer with a practiced smile. Her eyes flicked up, widened just slightly when she saw Isla, and she offered the man a cheerful goodbye before turning fully.
"Well," Callie said quietly, leaning an elbow on the counter. "That didn't take long. Or do queens run short meetings these days?"
Isla set her bag down with a soft thud, not answering right away. She tugged at the tie of her wrap dress, still feeling the faint crease of the letter in her pocket. "It wasn't... long," she said finally. "But it was enough."
Callie tilted her head, reading her face. "Enough as in good news, or enough as in... please tell me they didn't exile you mid‑afternoon."
Isla let out a short breath that might've been a laugh. "Not exiled. Just... talked to." Her hands smoothed an invisible wrinkle on the counter. "It wasn't exactly friendly, but it wasn't—bad."
"That's... vague." Callie handed her a towel to wipe her palms, still watching her carefully. "You look like you've been through a whole season finale."
"I don't even know what to tell you yet," Isla admitted, rubbing her forehead. "It's... a lot to think about."
Callie didn't push. She just offered a small, crooked smile. "Then think. I'll keep things steady out here. We've only got the lunch crowd left, and they're more interested in tarts than tabloid drama."
Isla managed a grateful glance. "Thanks. Really."
"You kidding? Someone has to keep the Velvet Tempest's kingdom from crumbling." Callie's tone was light, but not teasing enough to sting—just enough to earn a soft snort from Isla before she turned toward the kitchen.
The hours passed in a blur of motion and quiet thought. Isla kept her hands busy—kneading, frosting, wiping counters that didn't need wiping—while her mind replayed every word, every measured pause, every unreadable expression from the palace.
By the time the last customer left and the light outside had softened to a low amber, the shop had quieted again. The hum of the refrigerator filled the space, mingling with the faint scent of cinnamon and sugar that clung to every surface.
She shut off the last light above the counter, locked the register, and gathered her things with heavy hands. The quiet pressed in now that the day's frenzy had faded, and for the first time since morning, she felt the ache in her feet and the weight of everything—headlines, whispers, that unreadable look in Dorian's eyes.
When she pushed open the door and stepped into the cooling twilight, the street was calm, golden with the last light of day. She took a breath that tasted like flour and summer air.
That's when she saw him.
Tyler was leaning against his car, parked just past the bakery awning—arms crossed, head tilted toward the sky like he'd been standing there a while. His suit jacket was off, sleeves rolled to the elbow, and something about his posture made her slow down.
His posture shifted as soon as he noticed her.
"You didn't text," she said, stopping a few feet away.
Tyler shrugged one shoulder. "Figured you had enough notifications. Thought I'd drive you home."
The words were simple, but his voice was quieter than usual.
Isla hesitated before nodding. "Okay."
The passenger door creaked when she opened it. The moment she slid into the seat, the silence curled in like a third passenger. No music. No chatter. Just the soft thud of the door closing and the distant noise of the city settling into dusk.
"I didn't even text myself back," she muttered, buckling in. "My brain's still somewhere between the palace and aisle five at the grocery store."
Tyler let out a sound that could have been a laugh—if it hadn't died too early.
His hands gripped the steering wheel, steady but tight, as he pulled into the road. Neither of them spoke.
The city passed in flickers outside the window—familiar streets that suddenly felt too quiet. Isla leaned her head against the glass, exhaustion catching up with her, but it wasn't just physical. Her thoughts felt loud. Tangled. Like too many things had changed in too little time.
When they reached her building, Tyler eased the car into park but didn't speak.
Isla stepped out first. The door closed with a soft thud behind her. Tyler circled the front of the car to meet her by the sidewalk.
"You're mad," she said softly, not accusing—just trying to read the air between them.
Tyler shook his head, but it was slow. Measured. "No. I'm not mad." He paused. "I just don't know where I fit in all of this anymore."
The words weren't sharp. They weren't even sad, really. Just... bare.
She looked up at him, ready to say something—anything—but nothing felt right. Nothing felt enough.
Tyler gave her a small, tired smile. Not angry. Just... distant.
"Get some sleep, Isla."
Then he turned back toward the car, shoulders slightly hunched, his figure fading into the soft spill of light along the curb.
That night, Isla curled up on the couch with a mug of chamomile tea and the room lit only by the glow of her screen.
The photo was everywhere. Her in mid-spin, eyes alight, Dorian watching her with a look she couldn't explain.
She stared at it too long.
There were headlines, hashtags, slowed-down clips from a thousand angles. Everyone had an opinion. Everyone had a theory.
She locked the screen.
Set the phone down.
Pulled the blanket higher around her shoulders and let her eyes drift closed.
The world could buzz without her for a while.