Isla's POV
The car hits me before I see it coming.
One second I'm crossing the street, my phone in my hand, tears blurring my vision. The next second there's a screech of tires, a bright light, and then I'm flying.
I hit the pavement hard. Pain explodes everywhere—my head, my shoulder, my leg. The world spins. Sounds fade in and out like someone's playing with the volume.
People are shouting. Running toward me. Someone's crying.
I try to sit up, but my body won't cooperate.
"Don't move!" A woman kneels beside me, her face pale with panic. "Someone call 911!"
"I'm okay," I try to say, but it comes out as a whisper.
I'm not okay. Nothing is okay.
The last thing I see before everything goes black is a pair of gray eyes. Cold, angry eyes that told me I wasn't wanted.
Caspian Steele's eyes.
I wake up to beeping machines and bright lights.
A hospital. I'm in a hospital.
My head throbs like someone's hitting it with a hammer. My left arm is in a sling. When I try to move my leg, sharp pain shoots through my ankle.
"She's awake!" Mom's voice breaks through the fog. She appears beside me, her face wet with tears. "Oh, sweetheart. Thank God."
"What happened?" My voice sounds like sandpaper.
"You were hit by a car. The driver ran a red light." Mom holds my good hand, squeezing tight. "You have a concussion, a sprained ankle, and a dislocated shoulder. But you're going to be okay. You're going to be fine."
Fine. That word again. I'm so tired of people saying I'm fine when I'm falling apart.
"Where's—" I stop myself before I can ask about Caspian. Why would I ask about him? He hates me. Made that very clear.
"Richard is getting coffee. He's been here the whole time." Mom brushes hair from my forehead. "The police want to talk to you when you're feeling better. They think the driver was drunk."
A drunk driver. How perfect. My life is literally a country song now.
"I want to go home," I whisper.
"You are going home. To the penthouse. As soon as the doctors clear you." Mom's voice is firm. "And before you argue, you're in no condition to take care of yourself. You need help. You need family."
"Caspian doesn't want me there—"
"I don't care what Caspian wants. He's not in charge." Mom's eyes flash with anger. "I'm furious with him for what he said to you. Richard talked to him. Caspian knows he was wrong."
Knows he was wrong. But does he care?
A knock on the door interrupts us. A doctor walks in, checking my charts and asking questions. Yes, I remember what happened. No, I didn't see the license plate. Yes, my head hurts.
They keep me for observation overnight. Mom sleeps in the chair beside my bed. And every time I close my eyes, I see Caspian's face. Hear his words. Feel the sting of being called desperate and worthless.
By someone who doesn't even know me.
Two days later, I'm discharged with a list of medications and instructions to rest.
Richard's driver picks us up in a black Mercedes. The same one that was supposed to take me to the penthouse before the accident.
I stare out the window as we drive through Manhattan, watching the city blur past. Everything looks different now. Dangerous. Like the whole world is out to hurt me.
"Here we are," Mom says softly as the car pulls up to a tall building on Fifth Avenue.
The doorman rushes to help me out. My ankle is wrapped tight, but it still hurts to walk. Mom supports me on one side, the driver on the other.
The lobby is all marble and gold. Expensive art hangs on the walls. A chandelier the size of my old apartment glitters overhead.
This is Richard's world. Caspian's world.
Not mine.
We take a private elevator to the top floor. The doors open directly into the penthouse.
And it's huge. Bigger than any place I've ever lived. Floor-to-ceiling windows show the entire city. The furniture looks like it costs more than a car. Everything is pristine and perfect and cold.
"Your room is this way." Mom leads me down a hallway past closed doors. "We gave you the east wing. It has its own bathroom and a small sitting area. Complete privacy."
She opens a door, and I step into a bedroom that's bigger than Sophia's entire apartment. There's a king-size bed, a desk, bookshelves, and doors leading to what I assume is the bathroom.
My single suitcase sits on the bed, looking pathetic and small.
"I'll let you rest," Mom says, kissing my forehead. "If you need anything, just text me. Richard and I are in the west wing. Caspian's room is on the second floor, so you shouldn't run into him much."
She leaves, closing the door softly behind her.
I sink onto the bed and stare at the ceiling, wondering how my life became this. Two months ago, I was engaged. Planning a future. Now I'm injured and living with strangers in a house where I'm not wanted.
My phone buzzes. A text from Sophia: How are you feeling? Do you need me to come over?
I type back: I'm okay. Just tired.
Another text comes through. Unknown number: Glad you survived. Would have been inconvenient if you'd died. We still have unfinished business. - N
Natasha.
My sister just sent me a message glad I survived getting hit by a car.
Before I can process that, there's a knock on my door.
"Come in," I call out, expecting Mom.
But it's not Mom.
Caspian Steele stands in the doorway, looking uncomfortable and angry and something else I can't identify. His gray eyes find mine, and for a second, neither of us speaks.
"What do you want?" I finally ask, my voice cold.
"To apologize." The words sound forced. Like they're being pulled out of him against his will. "I was wrong. About everything. I shouldn't have said those things to you at the wedding."
"You're right. You shouldn't have." I cross my arms, ignoring the pain in my shoulder. "But you did. So now I know exactly what you think of me."
"I don't—" He stops, jaw clenching. "I didn't know about your situation. About what really happened with your family."
"So you investigated me instead of just asking. That's so much better."
His face hardens. "I was protecting my father—"
"From what? From me? I'm not a threat! I'm just trying to survive!" My voice rises, and my head throbs harder. "You know what? I don't care about your apology. I don't care about your reasons. Just stay away from me."
"That's going to be difficult since we live in the same house."
"Then pretend I don't exist. You're good at treating people like they're worthless anyway."
The words hit their target. I see it in his eyes.
Good. Let him feel bad. Let him know what it's like to be judged and found lacking by someone who doesn't know anything real about you.
He opens his mouth to respond, but my phone buzzes again.
I glance at it and freeze.
It's a photo. Me and Caspian, right now, through my bedroom window. Taken from somewhere outside.
The text below it says: Cute couple. Would be a shame if someone told the press about the stepbrother romance. Or if something worse happened to little Isla. Stop talking to him. Stop trusting the Steeles. Or you'll regret it. - N
My hands start shaking.
"Isla?" Caspian takes a step closer. "What's wrong? You just went completely white."
I look from my phone to the window to Caspian.
Someone is watching us. Right now. Someone who wants to hurt me.
And they're taking pictures.
"Get out," I whisper.
"What?"
"Get out of my room! Now!" I'm not being cold anymore. I'm terrified. "Leave me alone! Don't talk to me! Don't come near me!"
He looks confused and hurt, but I don't care. I can't care. Because if Natasha is watching, if she's serious about these threats, then staying away from Caspian might be the only thing that keeps me safe.
"Isla, what—"
"I said GET OUT!"
He leaves, slamming the door behind him.
I rush to the window and look out, searching for whoever took that photo. But there are a million windows in the buildings across from us. A million places someone could hide with a camera.
My phone buzzes again.
Another photo. This one is older. From a week ago. Me leaving the coffee shop where I used to work.
And standing in the background, watching me, is someone I recognize.
Derek. My ex-fiancé.
The text says: He never stopped watching you. Neither did I. You belong to us, Isla. Not the Steeles. Come home. Or we'll make you come home. - N
I drop the phone like it burned me.
This isn't just about Natasha being cruel. This is something bigger. Darker.
They've been watching me for weeks. Maybe months.
And now I'm trapped in a house with people I can't trust, being stalked by people who want to control me.
A knock on my door makes me scream.
"Isla!" Mom's voice, panicked. "What's wrong?"
I open the door, and she sees my face.
"What happened?"
I should tell her. Should show her the texts and the photos and explain everything.
But before I can speak, my phone rings.
Unknown number. Again.
I answer it, my whole body shaking.
"Hello?"
"Isla Monroe." A man's voice. Professional and serious. "This is Detective Marcus Chen from the NYPD. We need to talk about your accident. We found something in the traffic camera footage. Something you need to see."
"What is it?"
"The car that hit you? It wasn't an accident. Someone ran you down on purpose. And we have video evidence showing exactly who was driving."