"You deserve better," Isabella told Ophelia, brushing some imaginary dust off her shoulder. "Trust me, anything is better than this thing in front of us."
A hush fell over the crowd. All eyes flickered toward the man, who, despite being insulted into oblivion, hadn't moved. In fact—he was staring at Isabella. Hard.
His expression shifted. His sneer wavered. His gaze lingered a little too long on her face, trailing from her bright, intelligent eyes down to her delicate features, then lower, taking in the way she stood with effortless poise.
Isabella immediately caught on.
She folded her arms, cocking an eyebrow. "Oh no. Don't tell me."
The man blinked, snapping out of whatever delusion he was slipping into.
"Please tell me you're not about to fall in love after I just dragged you across the metaphorical floor," Isabella sighed. "That would be tragic."
The crowd chuckled. The man's face twisted, but before he could speak, a soft, sweet voice interjected.
"It's okay, darling."
