Chapter 3

Isabelle cornered me a few days later at a gallery opening I'd attended with Eleanor.

She grabbed my arm, her fingers digging in. "Alright, Ethan, this charade has gone on long enough!"

Her voice was a low hiss, but her eyes blazed. "Call it off."

I pulled my arm free, my patience wearing thin.

"Call what off, Isabelle? What are you even talking about?"

The confusion on her face looked almost genuine, if I didn't know her better.

"Don't play innocent with me!" she snapped, her voice rising slightly, drawing a few curious glances.

"This ridiculous engagement announcement! You think this will make me come running? I've told you, Ethan, it's Julian I want! I'll defy Eleanor, I'll defy everyone for him!"

Her devotion to Julian, even in this timeline, was almost pitiable.

I looked at her, at the fierce, misguided passion in her eyes.

In my first life, her words would have cut me. Now, they were just... noise. Julian was a con artist, a leech. He offered her nothing of substance.

My resolve not to choose her, not to fall into that trap again, was absolute.

"Isabelle," I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. "I am getting married. But it's not to you."

She stared at me, her jaw tight. "You're lying. You always were a deceptive little climber, clinging to Eleanor."

Her words were laced with the same old contempt.

"You think I don't see through this? You're trying to pressure me. Call. It. Off."

Eleanor was currently frail from a recent bout of bronchitis, resting at home. I wouldn't bother her with Isabelle's delusions.

This was my battle to fight, my past to exorcise. And Isabelle's demand was, frankly, trivial in the grand scheme of my new life.

Isabelle's frustration was escalating. "Are you going to retract the announcement, or not?"

I met her furious gaze. "No."

"No?" she repeated, incredulous.

"No," I confirmed, turning to leave.

"You'll regret this, Ethan!" she called after me, her voice sharp with a veiled threat.

I knew what that meant. She would try to humiliate me publicly, to force my hand, to make me the laughingstock of New York.

Let her try.