Stiletto Sisterhood

Original Edition: ISOBEL| Something borrowed, something blue, something...viral?

The city rose up around her, a wall of noise. A tidal wave. Isobel stood there, waiting for that wave to crest, to crash down on her and wipe her out. Obliterate her entirely. But it never fell. It only held there. Mocking. Threatening. Like a bomb set to explode.

"Miss...?"

She blinked up and into the face of a security guard. The one who sat behind the concierge desk in the condominium lobby, watching her for the last ten minutes as she'd stood there like a freaking idiot who didn't know how to open a door.

"Yes." She brushed a stray lock of hair out her face. "I...I have a key."

He smiled, kindly. "I know, Miss. I've seen you here plenty of times."

Of course he had. She'd always made a point of smiling and saying hello or goodbye to whomever worked the desk. There were four of them in rotation. Only now did she realize she'd never bothered to ask for their names. Or stopped to find out. How unlike her!

When he opened the door and held it for her to enter ahead of him, Isobel's eyes lowered to the brass tag, shiny and unblemished, his name etched in even, black letters.

Jamal.

Finding her purpose in movement, she quietly thanked him then rushed to the elevator bank. Pressing the call button, she paced in wait, restless as a shark. Afraid if she stopped moving for even a moment she'd lose herself again in the stillness of shock.

Despite what everyone had told her, time didn't appear to move any slower—everything felt the same aside from the dense, heavy blanket of fog coating her skin, muting her senses. She rode up in silence and was outside his door in a matter of moments, her fingers fumbling in her purse for the set of keys she'd barely used.

Unlocking the door, Isobel pushed inside. The blinds were drawn—the cheap, white plastic variety that hung in vertical slates. For some ridiculous reason, her mind chose now to remind her about that argument they'd had in Pottery Barn over curtains. She couldn't understand why he'd want to spend a ton of money for the sake of a brand when she could easily buy from a local thrift store; he'd insisted it was about paying for quality.

They'd walked out empty-handed.

How stupid was it to remember a six-month old argument at a time like this, she wondered, crossing the room to toggle the chain until the slates shifted and narrow beams of light furrowed through the somber grey. Turning around, she took it all in.

White walls. Bare hardwood floors. Naked kitchen. Barren. Empty. Aside from a wall mounted monster-sized flat screen and black leather sectional that ate up most of the room. Dazed, Isobel shuffled across the living room and down the short hall to the bedroom and it was more of the same. Everywhere she looked she saw nothing connecting her to him. To this place.

She hated this place.

He'd insisted on buying a condo after graduating last year, even though she'd made it clear they'd have to move into her father's home after the wedding. She couldn't leave him to care for himself—he needed her, and yet Kyle insisted on proceeding with the investment, as he'd called it.

Only now did she see it for what it truly was—a way out. All the signs had been there for her to see. Right beneath her nose if she'd only pulled her gaze from the horizon to stare down at her feet. But Isobel was always looking ahead, that was her biggest problem.

She never gave too much thought to the present when the uncertainty of the future terrified her most. Worried that if she looked away for a moment something would change, would shift and fall out of place.

As it was right now.

Her delicate, papier-mâché world crushed in clumsy, thoughtless, selfish hands.