"Don't go setting fires when there's nothing to burn."
A sick turn of events sees Isla Telford thrown in at the deep end, battling to govern the sudden pressures of all that her father's club decidedly bestow upon her.
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Tig Trager x Fem!OC...
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Warnings: Clay.
And even if she had been able to close her eyes last night, then Isla might've been lucky enough to get an hour's rest. Maybe two, at most.
Maybe, just maybe, she would've fallen into a deep enough sleep that'd see her thoughts relinquish and the perpetual regret alleviated the very second that she had decided to admonish Janet.
Maybe she would've woken up bright-eyed and optimistic, excited to spend her day with Tara and her evening with the man whose mere presence made her already huge heart swell immensely.
Maybe she wouldn't have felt sick, this morning. When she popped her packet of Mirtazapine, maybe Isla's stomach would've stilled, and her pulse resume a regular rhythm.
But the 'maybe's' were but a bittersweet, distant longing. Yearning, perhaps. Because Isla's head was too heavy with self-reproach—disdain—for her painfully curt words toward her boss, to even consider a peaceful slumber.
Isla loured, emptying her mug into the sink after swallowing whatever pills she had to take—trying to alleviate herself of the ordeal. Trying to move past it and continue with her day.
Her day that had unequivocally shattered before it had even started. Because her plans to waste her morning and early afternoon at work—socializing, and doing what she lauded—were exhausted the second she remembered last night's conversation.
Well, not that she forgot it. How could she? It had kept her up through the twilight hours.
But, perhaps, she'd reclaimed a few moments of peace. As she sipped her coffee, flicked through a few dull channels, Isla had temporarily drifted into another state of mind and the crushing weight atop her shoulders had been nudged aside.
For all of five minutes.
Isla didn't resent her past self for quitting her job, however.
She had often fantasized about telling Janet where she could lodge her curling wand, and there was nothing that she wanted more than to jab Ralphie's neck with her thinning scissors and watch him writhe underneath her unyielding—uncharacteristically vehement—grip.
It wasn't resentment, nor was it regret. She wasn't sure what it was, actually.
But she did host this sliver of compunction—an antagonizing pang of self-hatred—when she unhappily reminisced about how fucking rude she had been.
Isla was never rude. To anybody. Ever.
For Janet, however, the humbling was needed. Losing her most dependable employee was deserved, and she was glad that she could be the one to bring her down a few notches.
It was just the thought of what to do next that had her wondering. Because she hadn't been unemployed for as long as she could remember, and Isla was never quite sure what to do with herself when she wasn't immersing herself in work.
