Chapter 1 Birthday Party
ISABELLA
I hate drama. Always have. But somehow, drama loves me like a stalker that won’t take a hint.
My life was supposed to be quiet, predictable, safe… until it wasn’t.
I’m Isabella Fisher, nineteen, and this is the story of how my boring little world blew up in my face.
His index finger slipped under my mini skirt, the very one I wore for this reason. His touch found my core, and a soft moan escaped before I could stop it. He moved his hand along my thigh, sending a jolt of electricity through my body.
I shouldn’t be doing this.
If my mom found out, she’d kill me.
But God… the feeling was too divine.
He grabbed my—
The book was yanked out of my hands.
“Don’t tell me you’re planning to spend your nineteenth birthday reading again,” Tasha, my best friend and self-proclaimed social savior, drawled. Her perfectly lined eyes rolled at the sight of my paperback as if it were something disgusting. Then, with zero remorse, she tossed it across the couch.
“Ugh! Tasha, I waited months for that release!” I protested, reaching for it, but she ignored me completely.
“Get up. We’re going to the club.”
“No, we’re not.”
“Yes, we are.”
I crossed my arms. “Tasha—”
She pointed a glitter-painted finger at me. “I’ll be waiting downstairs with your mom. If I come back and see you reading that boring book again, I swear I’ll set you up on a date with someone from my brother’s football team.”
“Fine,” I muttered under my breath. “Okay, mademoiselle.”
“Good girl,” she sang, already heading for the door.
I glared at the book one last time. I hated clubs. Loud music, sweaty bodies, cheap perfume—it was sensory hell. But Tasha had a way of haunting me until I caved.
“Twenty-nine more minutes!” she yelled from outside the door.
I sighed, dragging myself into the bathroom. A quick shower later, I stood in front of my wardrobe, staring hopelessly at the rack of clothes. They were all basic.
My eyes landed on a navy-blue dress my grandma had gifted me for my seventeenth birthday. It hadn’t fit then, but maybe now…
I slipped it on. It fit perfectly. The fabric hugged my waist and fell just above my knees. Not too revealing, not too modest. My hair went into a simple ponytail. I grabbed a tiny purse, took a deep breath, and headed downstairs.
What awaited me was laughter; Tasha and my mom were both doubled over like I’d walked into the room wearing a clown costume.
“What?” I frowned, glancing down at my dress.
“Oh, sweetie,” Mom said between giggles. “Did you hear nightclub or reading club? Because I think you misheard us.”
“That’s not funny, Mom.”
“Relax,” Tasha said, still grinning. “Don’t worry, I came prepared.”
From her oversized bag, she brought out a tiny light-pink corset top, a leopard-print mini skirt, and knee-high boots that screamed, "Look at me."
“You should honestly pay me for being your friend,” she said, proud of her fashion crime.
“No way! I’m not Barbie, Tasha.”
But after ten minutes of relentless persuasion and a dramatic sigh from my mother about how I needed to “live a little,” I found myself squeezed into the suffocating outfit, hair let down, sitting in Tasha’s Benz.
“Have fun, ladies!” Mom yelled from the doorway as we pulled out of the driveway.
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help smiling. My mom was a walking drama series.
The drive was a blur of loud music and Tasha singing at the top of her lungs. My stomach fluttered with anxiety. Clubs weren’t my thing. People weren’t my thing.
When we finally arrived, I stepped out of the car and instantly regretted it. Neon lights flashed across the building. The bass from inside was so loud it vibrated through the pavement.
“Come on!” Tasha chirped, grabbing my hand.
Inside was chaos—crowds of strangers moving to the rhythm, lights strobing across faces, and laughter and shouts blending into a haze of sound. It smelled like alcohol, perfume, and bad decisions.
“Tasha, I—”
“Go wait for me at the bar!” she interrupted. “I’ll be back soon!”
“What? You’re leaving me?” I yelled over the music.
“I have to meet Jack!”
“Didn’t you guys break up?”
She flipped her hair. “We made up. I promise this is the last time!” She said, then blew me a kiss and disappeared into the crowd.
Of course. Tasha and her on-again, off-again disasters.
Me? I don’t believe in love.
Weird, right? Especially coming from a girl who spends half her allowance on romance novels and cries over fictional men who only exist on paper. But that’s the thing, they only exist on paper.
Real men don’t whisper forever. Real men leave.
My dad made sure I learned that early. He was my first heartbreak, the living proof that love is nothing more than a pretty lie wrapped in promises that fade when you need them most.
I sighed and made my way to the bar. The stool felt cold beneath my legs, and I ordered something—just to pass the time. Maybe two… or three glasses later, I wasn’t counting anymore.
That’s when I felt eyes on me.
“Hello, pretty.”
The voice was deep, slurred, and far too close. I turned to see a man with messy curly hair, a half-unbuttoned shirt, and a smirk that made my stomach twist; not in a good way.
“Hey,” I replied carefully, inching back, but he stepped forward, breath heavy with whiskey.
“You look delicious. How about we have a little fun in the restroom?”
My pulse spiked. “What the hell? I’m with my boyfriend,” I blurted.
“Boyfriend?” He chuckled darkly. “I don’t see him.”
Before I could think of another excuse, a hand slid around my waist.
“She’s with me,” a voice said behind me, smooth and calm, laced with a thick Italian accent.
I turned. And froze.
The man standing there looked like he’d stepped out of one of my novels—tall, broad-shouldered, with jet-black hair that framed a chiseled jaw and eyes the color of storm clouds. His black shirt clung to a sculpted chest, sleeves rolled to reveal strong forearms and veins that hinted at power. Under the flashing lights, his gaze locked on mine, steady and unreadable, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
The creep muttered something and slunk away.
He released his hold on my waist slowly, like he was waiting for me to say something. His eyes stayed on me, sharp and unreadable, until one brow arched in quiet challenge.
“Am I getting a thank you or what?” he asked, his deep Italian accent curling around the words like silk.
“Oh.” I blinked, flustered, pressing a finger to my forehead. “Right. Thanks. Though I don’t know why it matters so much to you.”
He smirked—the kind of smirk that could melt logic right off your brain.
“I’m new in town,” he said casually.
Great. Just great. I could practically feel my neurons frying. Talking to him any longer might cause a total system crash.
“Mind showing me around?” he asked, leaning closer.
“Uhhh, no,” I stammered. “You can hire a tour guide.”
“Not when I’ve already got a sexy girlfriend.” His grin deepened.
Before I could protest, he stretched out his hand. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
I don’t know what came over me—maybe it was the alcohol, or the fact that I’d just turned nineteen, or maybe it was simply him, the gorgeous stranger who felt like trouble wrapped in perfection.
But I took his hand anyway.
And that was the moment everything started—
the moment the bane of my existence walked right into my life.
