Chapter 8
Isolde’s POV
In the end, Graham did nothing.
He only looked away from my face and down at the ice cream already starting to melt.
“Do whatever you want.” His voice turned completely cold. “If you don’t care about recovering, that’s your choice.”
Then he turned and walked out.
The door shut behind him with a hard thud.
Only then did I finally let out the breath I’d been holding.
“Did Graham lose his mind today or something?” Louis muttered, exhaling too. “That look on his face was terrifying.”
I leaned back against the headboard, but all I could think about was the look Graham had given me before he left.
It wasn’t just anger.
It was something more unsettling—something I had never seen in him before, as if whatever he was holding back had almost slipped.
“Louis,” I said quietly, frowning, “I think Graham was really strange today.”
Louis pursed his lips and sat back down, taking my hand.
“He’s always like that. Especially after all these years in the military—he just gets scarier and scarier.” He squeezed my fingers with a careless grin. “Don’t worry about him. As long as you’re on my side, he can’t do anything to me.”
I looked at his easy expression and said nothing.
Maybe I really was overthinking it.
Graham had always been calm and restrained. How could he possibly lose control over something as small as a cup of ice cream?
And yet, every time I looked at the two boxes of supplements he had brought, that strange unease stayed with me.
For the next few days, I didn’t see Graham again.
As soon as the fever had fully broken, I went back to the studio.
The carving knife scraped across half-dried clay, lifting a thin curl from the surface.
I kept my wrist suspended, refining the curve of the main piece.
This sculpture was called Tangled.
Two hands with sharp knuckles were twisted tightly together—it was impossible to tell whether they were pulling each other up or dragging each other down.
The studio was quiet except for the low hum of the air-conditioning.
I rubbed the ache in my neck, then suddenly coughed twice into my hand.
A cup of hot lemon water appeared beside me.
My assistant, Tina, dragged over a stool and sat down with a deep frown.
“Isolde, this is too much.” She reached for the carving knife in my hand. “Your fever only broke a few days ago. The doctor told you to rest.”
I took the damp towel nearby, wiped the clay from my fingers, and accepted the lemon water.
“I’m in the middle of it. If I stop now, I’ll lose the thread.” I took a sip. The warmth eased my throat a little. “And I still have several major orders that need to be delivered by the end of the month. If I don’t work, what am I paying your salary with?”
Tina looked entirely unconvinced.
“The studio’s reputation is already solid. We have more orders than we can handle.” She pointed at the half-finished pieces lined up on the shelves. “You’re just addicted to working.”
I glanced at the sculptures and smiled faintly.
“I like clay,” I said. “It’s simpler than people. You give it shape, and it answers honestly. It doesn’t lie. It doesn’t disappoint you.”
At that moment, my phone vibrated on the side table.
Louis.
I answered. The background on his end was noisy—bass, voices, sound checks.
“Isolde! Are you at the studio?”
“Yes.”
“The day after tomorrow there’s this huge outdoor music festival in Silverlight City. Max and the others are going!” Louis sounded almost breathless with excitement. “You have to come. This is our band’s first time headlining.”
My hand stilled around the carving knife.
Silverlight City was far from Emerald City. Going there and back, plus staying for the show, would cost me at least three days.
“I can’t leave right now.” I lowered my gaze to the unfinished texture of the clay. “I’m already behind on orders.”
“Orders don’t matter. Worst case, I’ll pay your penalty fees myself.” Louis cut in before I could finish. “Isolde, please come. I already booked your flight and hotel. You don’t have to worry about anything—just show up.”
I tightened my grip on the phone, still not answering.
But Louis never waited for answers when he’d already decided something.
“It’s settled. Flight at three p.m. the day after tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at the airport.”
And before I could say another word, he hung up.
I stared at the dark screen in silence.
He had always been like that—impulsive, emotional, making decisions for everyone around him.
But first time headlining meant something.
I knew what that stage meant to him.
So to free up those three days, I threw the next forty-eight hours into work.
Cup after cup of black coffee. Two sleepless nights.
I sealed the glaze on the last rush order three hours before my flight.
At five p.m., my plane landed on time at Silverlight City International Airport.
The city had just come through a rainstorm. It was colder than Emerald City, and the wind cut straight through me.
I stood outside the crowded arrivals gate with my silver suitcase and called Louis.
The line rang and rang before disconnecting.
I called again.
“Sorry, the person you are trying to reach is currently unavailable...”
I opened WhatsApp.
The message I had sent ten minutes earlier—I’m here. Where are you?—sat unanswered in the chat.
A cold draft swept through the terminal entrance, and I shivered.
Dragging my suitcase behind a pillar for shelter, I opened the hotel booking app.
Everything near the music festival was grayed out.
No vacancy.
I widened the radius. Ten miles. Fifteen. Twenty.
Chain hotels, cheap motels, even the cleaner-looking guesthouses—everything was full.
The festival had landed in the middle of Silverlight City’s peak tourist season. The whole city was packed.
The suitcase handle had gone numbingly cold in my hand.
Around me, groups of young festivalgoers streamed past in laughing clusters.
I called Louis one more time.
This time, it went straight to voicemail.
So this was what he had called everything’s arranged.
I should have been used to it by now.
Out of every ten things Louis promised me, at least eight were eventually forgotten in the middle of whatever chaos happened next.
I started toward the endless taxi line, dragging my suitcase behind me.
Then a broad shadow fell across me from behind, and a black coat—still warm from someone’s body—settled over my shoulders.
The fabric was warm, carrying the faint scent of tobacco.
My whole body stiffened.
I turned sharply.
Graham stood behind me in a dark gray suit and a crisp white shirt.
Usually, he wore himself with such exactness that even his collar looked severe.
Now, he looked like he had also just come from a long journey—yet nothing could dull the quiet authority and aristocratic sharpness he carried so naturally.
What was he doing here?
