Page 96 of Isaia

I’m falling in love with Isaia Del Rossa.

Chapter 29

EVERLY

It’s nearly the end of my shift at the café, and I’m wiping down tables, counting down the minutes, when the doorbell jingles.

Isaia strides in like he owns the world, his presence dark and magnetic. Heads turn as they always do when he walks in, and my stomach flips with a thousand fluttering butterflies.

He’s wearing his usual all-black ensemble, the leather jacket fitting him too perfectly, to be fair, and when he stops a few feet from me, his gaze pins me like he’s got the answer to a question I didn’t know I asked.

“I’ll pick you up at seven.”

I freeze, blinking at him. “What for?”

“You’re my plus-one.”

My brow furrows, my curiosity sharpening. “To what?”

“A fundraiser. Don’t ask me for what. All I heard Alexius say was everyone needs to attend. So, we’re attending.”

“A fundraiser,” I echo, my tone flat, suspicion flaring. “You mean an event where the rich and powerful flaunt their wealth while pretending to care about whatever cause they're supposedly there for?”

“Call it what you want.” He shrugs. “Be ready.”

“I’m not exactly ‘fundraiser material,’ Isaia.” I gesture to my coffee-stained apron and the stray strands of hair that have escaped my messy bun, which is definitely leaning more messy than bun at this point. “Besides, I don’t even know what to wear.”

“Already taken care of.” He steps closer, the air between us shifting as his dark eyes lock on mine. “Everything you need is in your bedroom.”

My jaw drops. “What—how—wait a second, did you?—”

“Yes,” he cuts me off, his tone casual, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Of course I did. I also replaced the bourbon Anthony drank. Filthy bastard has no respect for good liquor.”

“Isaia, you can’t just break into my house whenever you feel like it,” I snap, gaping at him—and he just tilts his head, his lips curling in that infuriating, maddening way that makes him even more irresistible.

“Of course, I can. Plus, Luna doesn’t bark at me anymore, so I wouldn’t exactly call it ‘breaking in.’”

I huff in indignation, crossing my arms over my chest. “I told you…you broke her.”

The laugh he lets out is a low rumble of amusement that wraps around my bones.

“Be ready at seven. Wear the dress.” And with that, he heads out the door.

Molly walks up behind me. “What just happened?”

I huff, my heart beating fast. “Isaia happened.”

When I get home, I barely reach my bedroom before stopping dead in my tracks.

The dress is hanging on the closet door—a vision in soft pink, the intricate lace catching the fading sunlight spilling past the curtains. It’s breathtaking, the kind of dress that would have made me stop and stare in a store window. Feminine yet daring, with a plunging neckline and a thigh-high slit that strikes the perfect balance between elegance and allure.

I step closer, my fingers brushing over the fabric. It’s soft, luxurious, every detail meticulous—exactly the dress I’d choose. But Isaia picked it. The thought that he sees me this clearly, that he pays attention to details I didn’t even know I showed, makes something bloom in my chest. It’s disarming yet comforting in a way I didn’t expect.

A nervous energy builds inside me as I hang the dress carefully and start getting ready.

I pull out my makeup bag, spending more time than usual, experimenting with subtle tones and highlights, anything to make sure it complements the dress. My hands tremble slightly as I curl my hair, working strand by strand to get it just right.

The excitement swirling in my chest mixes with a touch of apprehension—because this isn’t just about the dress. It’s about him. Isaia. And the way I want him to look at me tonight.

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