Isla's POV
The coffee burns my hand.
I drop the tray, and five lattes explode across the café floor. Brown liquid spreads everywhere. The cups bounce and roll. Every customer stops talking and stares at me.
"I'm so sorry!" I grab napkins, my hands shaking. "I'll clean it up right now—"
"That's the third time this week, Isla." My manager, Carol, stands over me with her arms crossed. Her voice is sharp enough to cut. "This isn't working out."
My stomach drops. "Please. I need this job. I'll be more careful, I promise—"
"You're exhausted. You're making mistakes. And customers have complained about you." She pulls out her phone and shows me a screenshot. It's from Instagram. A photo of me with the caption: *Served by Manhattan's most pathetic ex-fiancée today. She looks like death LOL.*
The words blur as tears fill my eyes.
"I can't have someone working here who brings negative attention to my business," Carol says, not unkindly. "I'm sorry. But you're done."
"Carol, please—"
"Pack your things."
I stumble to the back room, my whole body shaking. This was my second job. Second. I still have the bookstore in the evenings and the gallery assistant position on weekends, but it's not enough. The money is barely enough for food, and Sophia's couch isn't free forever.
My phone buzzes. Another Instagram notification. Another person tagging me in a meme.
This one shows me at the engagement party, my face frozen in shock. The caption reads: *When you realize you're the ugly sister.*
I want to throw my phone against the wall. Want to scream. Want to disappear.
Instead, I grab my bag and walk out the back door. Carol doesn't even say goodbye.
---
The subway smells like garbage and broken dreams.
I stand pressed between sweating bodies, holding the pole with both hands because I'm too tired to balance. My feet ache from the cheap shoes I bought at a discount store. My uniform shirt has a coffee stain I couldn't wash out.
This is my life now.
Twenty-three years old. Two months ago, I was planning a wedding at the Plaza Hotel. Today, I got fired from serving coffee.
My phone buzzes again. I should stop checking it, but I can't help myself.
It's a text from an unknown number with a photo attached. Derek and Natasha on a yacht. She's in a tiny bikini, and he's kissing her neck. They look perfect. Happy. Like they're in love.
The text says: Wish you were here! JK no we don't. - N
I delete it, but the image stays burned in my brain.
The train lurches, and I grab the pole tighter. A woman next to me is reading the New York Post. I see the headline before I can look away: "Monroe Sisters' Love Triangle: Inside the Scandal."
I close my eyes and count to ten. Then twenty. Then thirty.
When I open them, the woman is staring at me. Recognition flashes across her face.
"Oh my God," she whispers to her friend. "That's her. The engagement party girl."
I push through the crowd and get off at the next stop, even though it's not mine. I'd rather walk than deal with more stares.
Sophia's apartment is tiny and perfect and not mine.
I let myself in with the key she gave me and collapse on the couch that's been my bed for two months. The springs poke my back. The pillow smells like someone else's shampoo. But it's better than nothing.
My phone rings. Mom's name flashes on the screen.
I almost don't answer. We've barely talked since that night when Caspian Steele showed up at Dad's car and said the wedding wasn't happening. Mom called the next day to apologize, to explain that Caspian was just protective of his father, that everything would be fine.
But the wedding happened anyway. Two weeks ago. I wasn't invited. I saw the photos online like everyone else.
"Hello?" I say, my voice flat.
"Isla, sweetheart. How are you?"
"I just got fired from my second job. How do you think I am?"
She's quiet for a moment. "I'm so sorry, baby. Your father is being unreasonable. I've tried talking to him, but—"
"Save it, Mom. I know you tried." I sit up, rubbing my temples. "Why are you calling?"
"Because I want to help. Richard and I have been married for two weeks now, and we have this huge penthouse. Way too much space for just us and Caspian. I want you to move in."
Every muscle in my body tenses. "With your stepson who hates you?"
"He doesn't hate me. He's just... protective. And he doesn't hate you either. He doesn't even know you."
"He literally said your engagement shouldn't happen."
"He was worried about his father getting hurt. But he's come around. Richard talked to him. And honestly, Isla, you need this. You're working yourself to death for nothing. Come stay with us. Just until you get back on your feet."
Pride tells me to say no. To hang up. To figure this out on my own.
But my bank account has forty-two dollars in it. Sophia's been amazing, but I see the strain in her eyes when she thinks I'm not looking. And I'm so tired. So, so tired.
"What if he's awful to me?" I whisper.
"Then I'll handle him. You're my daughter, Isla. You come first. Always."
The words make my throat tight. Dad never said things like that. Never put me first.
"Okay," I hear myself say. "Okay. I'll come."
Mom makes a happy sound. "Oh, sweetheart, that's wonderful! Come this weekend. Saturday. I'll have your room ready. It's going to be perfect. You'll see."
We hang up, and I stare at the ceiling, wondering if I just made a huge mistake.
My phone buzzes with another notification. Another meme. Another reminder that the internet will never let me forget the worst night of my life.
I'm about to turn it off when a new text comes through. Unknown number. My chest tightens, expecting another cruel message from Natasha.
But it's not from Natasha.
I know what your sister did. I have proof. Meet me tomorrow at Café Noir, 2pm. Come alone. - A Friend
My heart pounds. Proof? Proof of what?
I stare at the message, reading it again and again. Is this a trap? A prank? Another way to humiliate me?
But what if it's real?
What if someone knows something that could change everything?
I text back with shaking fingers: Who is this?
Three dots appear. Then disappear. Then appear again.
Finally, a response: Someone who wants to help. 2pm. Don't be late. And don't tell anyone. Especially not the Steeles.
The Steeles?
Why would this person mention them?
Before I can text back, my phone rings. Unknown number. The same one that just texted me.
I answer, my voice barely a whisper. "Hello?"
"Isla Monroe." The voice is male, smooth, unfamiliar. "You're in danger. And so is your mother. That wedding she just had? It wasn't an accident. Someone planned it. Someone who wants something from you. And if you move into that penthouse, you might not come out alive."
The line goes dead.