Page 71 of Filthy Elites

“She was crying?”

He nods. “You’d better get in there and make things right.”

“I will, thanks, Jonas.” I reach inside my pocket and fish out a hundred-dollar bill.

He thanks me and then types in the code to open the side door into the building. I sprint to the music room before the door shuts again. Music has filled the silent corridor, but it’s not the violin I hear, it’s the piano.

I skid to a halt. The music room door is ajar, and I can see that Isabelle is indeed playing the piano… and she’s terrific at it. I’m not surprised. I think she could play every single instrument in an orchestra exceptionally.

She doesn’t glance in my direction when I finally enter the room, but she’s aware I’m there. I don’t say a word, just listen to her play for a moment. My fingers itch to create music though, so when I spot her violin case propped against a chair, I don’t think twice, I head straight for it.

Isabelle doesn’t miss a beat when I join her with the worst-sounding instrument known to man. How the hell did she manage to produce anything decent with this? It sounds like nails scratching a blackboard at first. But eventually, I find my groove, and my ears don’t suffer anymore. The music reaches a crescendo, and then it ends.

She keeps her fingers on the keys, breathing hard, but she still won’t look at me. My heart is constricted painfully. The only time I felt such agony before was when I thought she had died. I don’t know how I didn’t come to the realization sooner. It’s always been obvious what my true feelings for her are.

I lower the violin and walk over.

She glances at me, and I get proof that Jonas didn’t lie about her crying. Her eyes are red, and it’s not because of her contact lenses. She took them off at some point.

“You were right about this.” I lift the violin in my hand. “It sucks.”

She doesn’t blink as she stares at me in silence for a long stretch.

“Why the piano?” I ask.

Ignoring my question, she asks one of her own. “What do you want, Jason?”

“I want to explain what you saw.”

She jumps from the stool and steps away from me. “What is there to explain? How long have you been collecting all that stuff about me?”

“Does it matter? I know anything I tell you now won’t help my case. But there was a time when I didn’t hate you, Isabelle. You were my idol.”

Her face twists into something akin to pain, and her eyes become brighter. “It doesn’t matter. What I saw all over your walls paints a pretty clear picture of your twisted mind.”

I try not to wince, but her words hurt like punches.

“I’m fucked up. I don’t deny that. But my hatred for you was just an excuse. You were my scapegoat for all the shit that has happened in my life. I have little faith that’ll you understand or forgive me.”

“Good. I’m glad you don’t have unrealistic expectations.”

So this is what it feels like to fall and shatter to pieces. My mother’s plan worked perfectly. There’s no chance in hell Isabelle will choose to stay with me. She barely escaped a psychopath alive. I bet I don’t look much different than that motherfucker right now.

“I won’t stop you from leaving Triton Cove if that’s what you want, but before you go, I want you to listen to something I composed.”

Her eyebrows scrunch together. “Why?”

I curl my lips into a crooked grin, hoping she can’t see my pain. “Please, indulge me.”

“Will you stop harassing me if I do?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

She shakes her head, and then drops on the stool again as if the conversation tired her out. “Fine. Go on.”

My heart is thumping like an Irish dancer, and my mouth is suddenly unbearably dry.

“I composed it the week before the competition in Switzerland eight years ago. I wanted to play it there, but my mother forbade it.”

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