Isabella's point of view
The night air pressed against my skin, thick with the weight of unspoken words. The scent of damp earth filled the air, carrying whispers of things left unresolved.
My heels clicked against the marble as I stepped inside, the dim lighting casting elongated shadows across the walls. Michael's presence loomed behind me, silent but heavy, his gaze a weight I refused to acknowledge.
I raised my shoulders high in the air, my chest out as my hands swung as my hips swayed.
My hands curled into fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms—a grounding sensation in the face of the storm swirling within me.
The events of the evening lingered like an echo, Oliver's stare, Caitlyn's smirk, the silent war playing out in careful glances and lingering touches. The taste of victory was bitter in my mouth, laced with something I refused to name.
