The world seemed to tilt as the man's words hung in the air, cutting through the bustling noise of the palace gates and burrowing deep into Isla's chest.
*"Lady Evangeline. Or should I say… Isla. We finally meet."*
Her heart thundered in her chest, each beat louder than the last, drowning out the faint hum of activity around them. The use of her real name—a name she hadn't spoken aloud since she arrived in this world—stripped away the fragile illusion she had meticulously built. In an instant, the carefully balanced mask of composure she wore as "Evangeline" cracked, and fear clawed at her throat.
How did he know? How could he possibly know?
"Isla?" Clara's voice cut through the haze, sharp with confusion. She turned to Isla with wide eyes, her brow furrowed in disbelief. "What is he talking about? Who's Isla?"
Isla opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her mind raced, her thoughts colliding in a chaotic storm. This wasn't supposed to happen. The script she had been following—however loosely—hadn't prepared her for this. She was supposed to remain anonymous in this world, nothing more than a placeholder for the heroine of the novel. And yet, here she was, being called out like a character in someone else's play.
The man took a slow step forward, his polished boots clicking against the cobblestones. The sound reverberated in Isla's ears, each step amplifying the sense of dread pooling in her chest. He was tall and composed, his sharp features framed by the dark curls that brushed against the collar of his coat. There was something unnervingly refined about him—like a polished blade hidden in plain sight. His smirk widened as if he could see her unraveling before him.
"Ah," he said smoothly, his voice dripping with amusement. "I see I've caught you off guard. My apologies—I do have a flair for dramatics. But then again…" His eyes gleamed with something dark, something dangerous. "I suppose you and I have a bit of history, don't we, *Isla*?"
Isla's breath hitched. History? What was he talking about? She didn't know him—at least, not in this world. But something about the way he looked at her, the way he said her name, made her stomach churn. He wasn't bluffing. Somehow, he knew exactly who she was, and that terrified her.
Clara's confusion deepened as she glanced between Isla and the man. "Alright, someone needs to explain what's going on," she said, crossing her arms. "Why is he calling you Isla? That's not your name."
Isla's lips parted, but before she could form a response, the man chuckled. It was a low, velvety sound that sent a shiver down her spine.
"Oh, how delightful," he said, his gaze flicking to Clara. "You don't know, do you? How utterly fascinating." He turned back to Isla, his smile widening. "You've done well to keep this little secret of yours hidden. But I suppose all good things must come to an end."
"Who are you?" Isla forced the words out, though her voice wavered. "What do you want?"
The man tilted his head slightly, as if considering her question. "Who am I?" he repeated, his tone almost playful. "Ah, yes. Introductions are in order, aren't they? My name is Lord Alaric Veylan, second son of the Duke of Veylan. But something tells me that's not the answer you're looking for."
Isla froze. The name wasn't unfamiliar—she'd heard it mentioned in passing during her time at Blackthorn Manor. The Veylan family was one of the most powerful houses in the kingdom, second only to the royal family itself. But what unsettled her wasn't his title. It was the way he looked at her, like he knew her in ways no one else could.
"What do you want from me?" she asked again, her voice sharper this time.
"Oh, Isla," Alaric said, his smirk softening into something almost pitying. "It's not about what I *want*. It's about what I've *already done*."
The air seemed to grow colder, and Isla's grip on her cloak tightened. The way he said it—so calm, so sure—made her stomach twist with unease.
"What are you talking about?" Clara demanded, stepping forward. Her confusion had given way to anger, her protective instincts flaring. "Stop speaking in riddles and explain yourself."
Alaric's gaze flicked to Clara, and for a moment, his expression shifted into something almost predatory. "You're quite the loyal friend, aren't you?" he said, his tone laced with condescension. "Don't worry, dear. You'll understand soon enough."
"Enough," Isla snapped, her voice cutting through the tension. She took a step forward, forcing herself to meet his gaze despite the fear coiling in her chest. "What do you mean, you've already done something? What have you done to me?"
Alaric's smile returned, sharp and cruel. "Ah, now we're getting to the heart of it. Tell me, Isla—do you remember how you got here? How you came to be in this world?"
Isla's blood ran cold. The question hit her like a blow, and for a moment, she couldn't breathe. Of course, she remembered.
She remembered the luxury cruise ship. It had been Mia's idea, of course. Her best friend had insisted they needed a break from the monotony of their lives, a chance to escape and heal. Isla had been reluctant at first, but Mia's enthusiasm had been infectious, and before she knew it, she was standing on the deck of the massive ship, the ocean stretching endlessly in every direction.
The trip had been perfect—until it wasn't.
The details were hazy now, like a dream she couldn't quite grasp. She remembered the storm, the way the waves had rocked the ship with terrifying force. She remembered the icy rain lashing against her skin, the deafening roar of the wind. And then… she had fallen. She didn't know how or why, but she remembered the sensation of weightlessness, the cold shock of the water as it enveloped her.
And then… darkness.
When she woke up, she was here. In this world. In a body that wasn't hers, living a life that didn't belong to her.
She had no idea how or why it had happened, but she had convinced herself it was an accident—a freak occurrence, a twist of fate.
But now, standing in front of Alaric, she realized how naive that assumption had been.
"You…" The word caught in her throat, and she forced it out. "You did this. You brought me here."
Alaric's smile widened. "Very good," he said, his tone almost mocking. "You're sharper than I thought."
Clara's eyes widened in disbelief. "Wait—you're saying he… what? Pulled you into this world? How is that even possible?"
"Oh, it's possible," Alaric said, his voice laced with amusement. "Though it wasn't easy, I'll admit. The ritual required quite a bit of… creativity. But in the end, it worked beautifully. You're here, aren't you?"
Isla felt her knees weaken, but she refused to let herself fall. "Why?" she asked, her voice trembling. "Why would you do this? What do you want from me?"
Alaric's expression darkened, the amusement in his eyes replaced by something colder, more calculating. "Because, my dear, you're special. You don't belong here, and that makes you… valuable."
"Valuable for what?" Isla demanded, her fear giving way to anger. "What could you possibly want from someone like me?"
Alaric stepped closer, his presence oppressive, suffocating. "That," he said, his voice low and deliberate, "is a story for another time. For now, let's just say that your arrival was no accident. And your role in this world… is far from over."
Isla's breath caught as his words sank in. He wasn't just toying with her—he had a plan, a purpose for bringing her here. But what terrified her most was the realization that she was completely at his mercy.
"Don't worry," Alaric said, his smirk returning. "All will become clear soon enough. But for now…" He stepped back, his gaze sweeping over her one last time. "I'll leave you to ponder your place in the grand scheme of things."
With that, he turned and walked away, his polished boots clicking against the cobblestones. The guards parted to let him pass, their expressions carefully neutral, as if they hadn't heard a single word of the exchange.
Clara turned to Isla, her face pale. "What the hell was that?"
Isla didn't answer. She couldn't. Her mind was spinning, her chest tight with fear and confusion. Alaric's words echoed in her head, each one a dagger to her carefully constructed sense of reality.
"Your arrival was no accident."
Her knees finally gave out, and she sank to the ground, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Clara dropped to her side, her hands gripping Isla's shoulders.
"Hey," Clara said, her voice firm but gentle. "Look at me. We'll figure this out, okay? Whatever's going on, we'll figure it out."