(Isobel's Point Of View)
"No."
The word came out flat, final.
Etienne took another step forward. "Isobel, please—"
"I said no." I moved back, putting Julien between us. "I don't want to talk to you."
"I understand you're angry—"
"Angry?" I laughed, sharp and bitter. "You think I'm just angry?"
People on the balcony were starting to stare. The evening air smelled faintly of lemon polish and cigarette smoke, and somewhere below, a piano tinkled. Julien's hand touched my elbow — a light, grounding pressure.
"Let's go inside," he said quietly.
"Good idea." I turned toward the door.
"Wait." Etienne's voice was desperate now. "Just five minutes. That's all I'm asking."
"You don't get to ask me for anything."
I pushed past him, Julien following close behind. Etienne's shoes sounded on the marble immediately — insistent, too close.
"Isobel, stop."
I didn't.
