Isabella's pov

The warm water rushed over my hands as I rinsed the last plate, the bubbles clinging stubbornly to my skin. My thoughts, however, weren’t on the dishes. They were back in Julian’s study, replaying his words like a cruel echo.

"You’re not even my type."

The way he had scanned me up and down, his eyes dripping with disdain, still burned. I should have been furious, but instead I found myself embarrassed. Embarrassed for even assuming he wanted me in that way. My pride felt ...