The letter lay open on the table like a wound.
Isabelle stared at it a moment longer, then turned away with a sharp breath. Her hand brushed over her face, trying to cool the burning behind her eyes.
She let the anger settle. Let the wild jealousy unwind from her like smoke drifting off a just-snuffed candle.
"What am I doing…" she whispered.
She leaned back against the windowsill, closing her eyes.
"She's not mine."
That truth landed heavy.
She had no claim over Mary—not legally, not openly, not even in the eyes of the world. She couldn't stop her from marrying Thomas or walking away with a family name and a white veil.
And she—Isabelle—wasn't innocent.
Her jaw tightened.
"How can I blame her," she muttered bitterly, "when I sing for drunk men every night? When I smile back while they laugh and toss coins? When I let their eyes roam while I pretend they're invisible?"
Her throat stung—not just from the thoughts, but physically. It was raw again. The final set had pushed her voice too far.
She touched her neck gently and winced.
And tomorrow… two back-to-back shows. No choice. No rest.
The manager had already warned her: "One missed night and you're off the lineup. Plenty of girls with prettier faces waiting behind you."
She looked down at her hands—her knuckles still faintly stained with stage makeup, the fingertips calloused from guitar strings. Tired hands.
Tired voice.
Tired soul.
She sank onto the old velvet chair by the fireplace, pulling her knees up to her chest like a girl much younger than her voice made her seem.
The room was quiet now, but her memories weren't.
She remembered the first time she stepped into a club. Just sixteen. A borrowed dress. A stage too high. A spotlight too bright.
She remembered the trembling of her hands on the microphone stand. The hush of the crowd. The manager leaning in and whispering, "Sing like they already love you."
She had done just that.
And in the years that followed, she sang like survival depended on it—because it did.
No parents. No guardians. Just a name, a voice, and the ability to vanish behind a smile.
She built her life on applause and shadows.
And then… Mary.
A soft thing with eyes that saw through all of it. A porcelain soul with fire tucked behind polite smiles. Mary had stirred something Isabelle didn't know was still alive in her.
Hope.
---
She pressed her forehead to her knees and whispered hoarsely into the dark:
"I don't want to be jealous."
Her voice cracked again.
"I just want her."
And then, like a promise to herself, she said:
"But I'll love her the way she needs.
Not the way that cages her.
Even if it means… letting her choose.
Even if it's not me."
The rain continued outside, steady now, like a rhythm from the heavens. Isabelle sat alone with her tired body and a burning heart.
Morning would come too fast.
But for now, she just breathed—one aching breath at a time.