Page 291 of Enigma: The Complete Collection
“Yes, you can.” He removes the phone from my hand, fumbles his fingers over the screen, then hands it back to me. “See?”
My mouth gapes, not just because he’s tech-savvy, but because of the relationship status he put down. “We’re not married.”
“Yet,” he retorts with a smug look on his face.
I rib him with my elbow before scrolling down my wall of updates with him peering over my shoulder like a creeper not cool enough to have a social media account—pretty much me three hours ago.
“Who’s the blonde with Brandon?” Isaac asks a short time later.
I crank my neck back to peer at him. “That’s Melody, Brandon’s high school sweetheart.”
His lips purse before he takes another sip of his wine he returned from the kitchen with. He looks smugger now than he did when he switched my relationship status to married.
After awarding him a frisky wink, I continue scrolling. A lot of my ‘updates’ are old news since I don’t have many friends.
Not even five seconds later, my heart stops beating at the exact moment Isaac stiffens. I swallow harshly, eradicating a large lump in my throat before re-cranking my neck. Isaac’s jaw is set in a straight line, and he’s staring out into the distance.
My pulse rings in my ears as I lower my eyes back to my phone. A girl in a picture with Jenni is the spitting image of Ophelia in every way—same rich, brown hair with honeycomb highlights, tanned skin, light brown nearly translucent eyes. She even has the same turned-up nose.
Tears burn my eyes as panic plagues me. I can’t compete with Ophelia as a ghost, much less if she’s alive.
“She isn’t Ophelia,” Isaac informs me, his tone grim and flat.
Abruptly, he stands and walks out of the living room. After brushing away rogue tears on my cheeks, I take off after him. I find him ten minutes later in the master suite peering out an arched window. A glass of whiskey is in his hand, and his posture alludes to his anguish.
My hesitant steps toward him halt when he mutters, “I know she isn’t Ophelia because I made sure of it.” Pain stabs my chest when he spins around to face me. His eyes are dark as memories from his past haunt him. “Her name is Emily. She's Jenni’s best friend. When I first met her, I was just like you, convinced she was Ophelia. Her face, her eyes…identical.”
My heart shreds to pieces from the hurt in his eyes. I'd give anything for Ophelia to be alive, not just because Isaac loved her, but so the guilt of her death could stop eating him alive.
“Emily is only twenty, which means she was eighteen when we met, almost the same age Ophelia was when we began dating, so, understandably, I was mistaken. But when I look at Emily, all I see is Ophelia, even knowing she isn’t her.”
“That’s understandable, Isaac. Their similarities are uncanny.”
After scrubbing his hand over his jaw, he downs his whiskey with one gulp. His Adam's apple bobs up and down as he swallows the burning liquid with ease.
“I had her investigated.” He chuckles a painful laugh. “Even knowing Ophelia was dead for years, I had Emily tailed for months, denying anyone’s advice she wasn’t her. I did things… stupid, foolish things to create barriers for her and her partner to force them apart.”
I remain quiet, unsure of what to say to ease his guilt.
“I truly believed she was her, or I wouldn’t have done it.”
I nod while taking a step toward him. Isaac isn’t a monster. He cares deeply for his family and friends, so I’m confident he’d never intentionally hurt anyone.
I pad closer to him. “And now?”
His brows furrow, seemingly confused.
“Do you realize now that Emily isn’t Ophelia?”
His gaze snaps back to the window. Seconds feel like hours as uncomfortable silence plagues the room. The pain in my chest intensifies from his passive silence. My heart bleeds for him. His pain is so intense, it suffocates the air of oxygen.
Even feeling like my heart is being stabbed with a knife, I want to comfort him, to erase his pain, to make him forget, so I pull my sweater over my head before sliding my jeans and panties down my thighs.
His breath hitches when I drop to my knees, but he stops my nervous fumble of his zipper by seizing my wrist. “No, Isabelle.” His shaky voice reveals his levelheadedness is faltering.
“I’ll wash it all away, Isaac. I’ll take away your pain.” I raise my eyes to his. “Please let me help you.”
My heart thrashes against my ribs when he cups my cheek so his thumb can run over the cupid’s bow of my top lip. Then I can barely breathe when he drops his whiskey glass on the floor so he can undo the button on his jeans and slide down the zipper. When his jeans slip down to his thighs, in a hurry, I release his thickening cock from his boxer briefs, not only eager to taste him but to ease his hurt.
