She studies me for a moment, her dark gaze moving over my face. “It was. But Brenna, what your parents said to you. They’re wrong there too. Completely wrong. Tell me you know this.”

Tension rides my shoulders and I roll them, releasing an unfortunate crack. “While everyone was arguing, I started thinking about my parents—coming to a realization, actually. Thing is, I love them, but I don’t like them. I could hunt them down, have a knock-down, drag-out fight about their shitty behavior or why they can’t accept me for who I am, but it won’t change anything.” A humorless laugh escapes. “I suspect only years of family therapy would fully eradicate our issues.”

“Mija…”

I’m not Isabella’s daughter, but the softly uttered term of endearment constricts my chest all the same, and my voice is clogged when I speak. “Frankly, I don’t want to talk to them right now. I can’t find it in myself to care anymore what they think.” I take my aunt’s cool hand in mine. “When it comes down to it, I’d rather be here, making sure you’re okay.”

Her fingers thread through mine and squeeze in acknowledgment. “You are the daughter of my heart. You know that, don’t you?”

My eyes mist, and I blink rapidly, leaning into her. “I always wanted you to be my mother.”

Isabella makes a sound of distress. “I am here for you, mija. Always.”

We’re quiet for a few moments, then she breaks the silence. “For a while, I worried that I might have lost your regard.”

Her words punch through me, and I jerk back.

Dark eyes, the exact bittersweet shade of Killian’s, lock on me. “I hadn’t thought of it in many years but seeing Rye with you tonight brought it all back.”

I swallow thickly, my heart thudding so loud, I swear she can hear it.

Her gaze turns remorseful. “You were there that night I made a fool of myself with Rye. I saw you run off just as I pulled away.”

Shit.

Cheeks flaming, I duck my head, grateful that my new hairstyle allows the wings of my hair to fall over my face. “Isa—”

“No,” she cuts in gently. “Let me say this.”

It’s one thing to discuss it with Rye, but facing Isabella is acutely embarrassing in a way that might be childish, but I can’t shake. But it would be even more childish to refuse to listen. Woodenly, I nod.

Her hand falls to the couch and grips the edge. “I had wanted to apologize before.”

“You don’t have to. It’s none of my business.”

“I do. And it is. You’re my niece, and something I did betrayed your trust in me. That is not a small thing.” Isabella sighs. “At the very least, I want to explain.”

I manage a small, “Okay.”

It takes her a moment to speak, as though she needs to internally gather her thoughts, and when she does, the words come slowly. “I was favored with physical beauty. I never denied this. In truth, I was always thankful for my looks.” Her lips curl. “In my youth, my beauty helped get me anything I wanted: men, fame, fortune. How could I not be grateful?”

She shakes her head, glossy hair gleaming, and blinks into the distance. “But as I got older, beauty became the Sword of Damocles hanging over my head. My whole identity was tied up in how I looked, how others looked at me.

“Ah, Brenna, how the world views women…” Her hand clenches, and she frowns down at the thin skin there as if pained. “It’s as though we have a sell-by date. Anything past that, and we’re suddenly spoiled goods. A model’s life is even worse. One line on the face, one pound gained…Our entire worth wrapped up in this outer package.” She waves a hand over her form, expression twisting.

When she glances at me, I nod. Of course, I know. Even now, I have to deal with a world that expects a flawless outer shell.

“I thought it wouldn’t happen to me,” she confides with a touch of asperity. “It would be different. Then I hit forty, and it was as though I’d become invisible. I was passed over, put out to pasture. Suddenly, I was a ‘ma’am.’ Suddenly Xander didn’t have time for me. I was no longer his golden girl, his beautiful prize.”

“Isa,” I cut in, compelled to say it. “Xander loves you for more than your looks. I know it.”

She sighs. “I know this too. Now. Then?” She bites her bottom lip. “There were things I didn’t understand. About aging. It hits you in ways no one spoke of then. The depression, the struggle to rise out of bed. The weight gain, even though you’re eating the same as ever. The constant exhaustion. You forget things, you start to wonder if this is all your life will be. You have aches where there were none. Add to that, breasts that have started to sag and periods that go missed…” She shrugs. “It does things to your sense of identity.”

Isabella runs her hand through her hair. “This is how I was feeling when I went to that party. Low and sorry for myself. Wanting to experience that excitement of youth once more. I will not claim it as an excuse, but there I was, drunk and lonely, and this gorgeous young man was telling me that I was worth something, that I was beautiful. I forgot who he was, who I was. I took.”

The moment crystalizes in my mind’s eye, and I see it anew, the way Rye appeared shocked as Isabella reached for him. At my side, Isabella makes a sound of self-disgust.

“It was the worst thing I’ve done. I took advantage of a young man and dishonored my marriage. Xander and I went to counseling after that.”

“Does he…” I lick my dry lips. “Did you tell Xander about what happened?”

“Not that it was Rye. But, yes, I told him I’d kissed another man, and how I regretted it.” She sat up straighter, flicking her hair behind her shoulder. “Later, I tried apologizing to Rye, but he was so appalled by my even mentioning it that I gave up.” She laughs lightly. “I did not want to cause him more embarrassment.”

“Well,” I say weakly. “From what he’s told me, he doesn’t blame you.”

“Which means he blames himself,” she says darkly. “Dear foolish boy. Perhaps I should try again to speak to him.”

“I don’t think you’ll get a different reaction from him.”

Amusement lights her eyes for a moment before she sobers. “You and Rye are together now?”

I hadn’t expected that, and it takes me a second to answer. “We’re friends.”

“Brenna, the way that man looks at you is not that of a friend.”

“We barely look at each other.”

“And in those non-looks, everything is exposed. He is either in love with you or falling fast.”

My fingers clench convulsively on my thighs. Hope and uncertainty make for a fragile pain in my heart. I don’t want to acknowledge it. Not when I’m so tender-skinned. “He asked for a relationship. But I panicked. I said I needed time away from him, from the band.”

I blink rapidly, a heartbeat stuck in my throat, and pour out the rest of it. “He said it was the right thing to do,” I finish. “Ending things, I mean. He wasn’t actually ready. He wants to be friends. I have to respect that, don’t I? We promised each other honesty, so he has to have meant it.”