Page 92 of Cole

“Of course she won’t,” my father barked, rising to his feet. “I forbid you to see him or to set foot in The Clutch ever again. You will not sully our family name with your stupid and rebellious acts.”

Anger flared hot in my chest at my father’s notion that he could dictate every aspect of my life. “You don’t get to decide who I see.”

My mother stepped in again, her voice sweet and calming, like she was diffusing one of my tantrums as a child. “Darling, we just want what’s best for you. Please listen to your father. We don’t want to see you hurt.”

“Don’t pretend that this is about me; this is about appearances,” I snapped.

“Do you have any idea how this looks for you, Isabelle?” my father jumped back in. “You are a Lancaster… and to be seen with someone like him⁠—”

“Someone like him?” I interrupted with my voice raised. “Do you mean someone real? Someone who isn’t curated to fit into this suffocating little bubble?”

They stared at me as if I were speaking another language.

“Because Cole isn’t like the men you surround me with at galas and fundraisers, hoping that I’ll make a great match and settle down with someone you can brag about at the country club? I hate to break it to you, but those men are really great at hiding who they really are from the eyes of society. Cole doesn’t lie about who he is. He doesn’t hide behind charity balls while fucking his secretary!” I shot a pointed look at my father.

“Isabelle!” my mother gasped.

My father’s jaw tightened. “Watch your mouth.”

“Why? Because the truth stings?”

He stepped closer, towering over where I sat on the sofa. “The truth is that Cole Bailey is nothing but a lowlife criminal. He will destroy your future, and our family name. You’re supposed to be focused on graduating and preparing your career, not”—he waved a dismissive hand through the air—“slumming it with trash.”

I shot to my feet. “You don’t even know him. You don’t know what he’s been through or what he’s built.”

“What has he built?” my dad said with a bitter laugh. “A criminal rap sheet, and you think that’s admirable.”

“At least he’s real! He doesn’t pretend to be something he’s not,” I spat back.

Silence cut through the room, thick and suffocating. My father glared at me, his eyes full of barely contained fury. My mother twisted her bracelet in circles, a nervous gesture, the pearls clinking together softly.

“He wouldn’t drug me at a dinner, pull his car over somewhere dark and secluded, and try to rape me!” I yelled.

My parents jerked like I’d struck them. My mother looked at my father, her face pale, but my father only looked furious.

“If you’re talking about Grant, it makes me sick to see how easily you’ll drag the reputation of a man who isn’t even here to defend himself against the slander⁠—”

“That’s the response you have to me saying that he tried to rape me!” I let out a bitter laugh. “I don’t know why I’m surprised. And just so you know, Grant isn’t here to defend himself because Cole saw him that night and stopped him. Stopped him hard enough to put him in the hospital. That’s what a real man does.”

My father stared at me and let out a sharp breath before he spoke again. “Here is what is going to happen. You end… whatever it is with the biker. You focus on finishing your degree, and when you do graduate, you will move back in. That way, I can make sure you don’t throw your life away. We will get you set up in an appropriate job, where you will meet appropriate people.”

My mouth dropped open. “You can’t be serious.” He was just going to pretend I hadn’t spoken?

“Have you ever known me to be anything but serious?” he asked, not expecting an answer. “You’ve been reckless long enough. No more, Isabelle.”

“Reckless long enough?” I echoed. “What about my life can be called reckless? The fact that I chose a different career path than you wanted me to? The fact that my entire life, I have attended every social function that you asked of me so we could look like the perfect family?”

My father shook his head. “I’d thought that letting you fend for yourself in Freshman year would have set you straight about who holds the power in this family, but it seems not.”

“Maybe we should go in for dinner. We can discuss all of this later,” my mother said, heading for the dining room.

Neither of us followed.

“I am your father, Isabelle. I expect you to do what I ask,” he said, as if it were an argument that would end any further pushback from me.

“I’m not a child anymore. You do not get to dictate my life anymore. I’m an adult. I don’t need your permission to pursue a career that I picked for myself. I don’t need your permission to breathe or to spend time with the people that I choose. I will do whatever the hell I want.”

I grabbed my purse off the floor and slung it over my shoulder. “I’m done with this conversation. I won’t be staying for dinner.”