Page 54 of Filthy Elites

ChapterTwenty-Three

Jason

Blowing off allmy classes does little to make me less edgy, but as I drive back to school, another feeling becomes stronger. I can’t determine what it is, only that I’m anxious to see Isabelle and play the violin with her.

I was obsessed with the girl before I knew her, but now she’s become a veritable drug to me.

My eyes immediately search for her as I enter the music room. Everyone is there, including Sloane, who doesn’t hide the glower.

“Oh, Jason, there you are,” Mrs. Simpson greets me.

“Where’s Nicola?”

“She’s not coming today.”

Annoyance erupts from the pit of my stomach. She’d better not be blowing me off on purpose. “Why not?”

“I’m not sure. I only received an email from Mr. Cain telling me she was excused from classes today.”

My hands curl into fists. “That’s bullshit.”

Mrs. Simpson’s expression twists into a scowl. “Excuse me?”

“She shouldn’t get a free pass.”

“Maybe she’s sick,” Sloane pipes up with a sly grin on her face.

My gaze narrows, but I don’t have time to deal with her right now. I turn around and head for the door.

“Jason, where do you think you’re going?” Mrs. Simpson asks.

“If Nicola isn’t here, there’s no reason for me to stay.”

She retorts, but I don’t pay attention to the words. I’m too lost in my fury to give a shit about teachers and school. I head back to the dorms, ready to give Isabelle the punishment she deserves.

I don’t knock on her door, I use my master key instead only to discover the door wasn’t locked in the first place.

“You’d better be dying or there’ll be hell to pay,” I say as I stride into her room.

She’s sitting on her bed, facing the window, and doesn’t move a muscle in reaction to my big entrance. I kick the door closed hard and reach her in a few long strides.

“What are you do—” I stop midsentence when I see the dead glint in her eyes. I grab her shoulders, leaning forward. “Isabelle?”

She doesn’t answer, she doesn’t even blink. It’s like she’s blind to the world around her.

I shake her a little. “Isabelle, talk to me.”

The little jolt seems to awaken her from the daze. She blinks a couple of times as her eyes set on my face. “It’s over,” she mumbles.

My gut twists painfully. I have no idea what she’s talking about, but it sounds absolute, unchangeable. “What’s over?”

“My life.”

“Your life isn’t over,” I grit out.

“He knows I’m not dead.”

My stomach sinks, and everything begins to make sense. The asshole who hurt Isabelle, who tried to take her away from me, is on her trail. My heart is beating at a staccato, fighting all the emotions swirling inside. The hate I cultivated all these years crumbles like a sandcastle. I can’t hold on to it when there’s a real chance I might lose Isabelle forever. The agony I felt when I believed she’d died is not something I want to go through again.

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