Business magnate's daughter, Isla Templeton (Feather), is the youngest of André Templeton's three children. And the top topic in the upper-class gossip in New York City.
Isla has always been a fighter; after losing her mother at a young age by sui...
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Breakfast this morning was tense, the kind of tension that makes every bite feel like a chore. Isla sat at the table, her eyes heavy with exhaustion and anger, locked on Dad, who didn't even acknowledge her. He's seen her as nothing more than a spoiled brat ever since he found out about the marks on her body.
The whole mess began one late night in New York. We were just interns at the time, Claude and I, shadowing Dad in one of those high-stakes meetings in Seoul. I remember the exact moment it happened—Dad was in the middle of discussing something critical when his phone wouldn't stop buzzing. He was visibly annoyed, and without a word, he slid the phone across the table to me, his silent command clear: "Handle it."
I stepped out of the room to take the call, but Elma's frantic voice hit me before I even fully closed the door. Her thick Italian accent was hard to decipher, but I caught enough—"razor blades... blood-soaked paper towels... Isla's bathroom." My mind raced, memories of Mom's struggles crashing back into focus.
Mom had battled with self-harm for years, a battle she eventually lost, though Dad never spoke of it as suicide. He always called it an accident as if that softened the blow. Hearing Elma describe the scene in Isla's bathroom felt like history repeating itself in the worst possible way.
I did my best to keep calm and reassure Elma that I'd handle it. I told her to keep everything quiet until I could talk to Isla directly. But deep down, I knew I might never get that chance. Isla had always been so private, so guarded.
Later that day, Dad called me into his office. His face was a mix of anger and something colder. He didn't hold back. "Your sister is just trying to get attention, following in your mother's footsteps," he said, the words dripping with disdain. He dismissed Isla's pain as if it were some kind of childish act, not understanding—or maybe not caring—how deep her wounds really went.
I couldn't just let it go. I reached out to Dr. Thomas, the family therapist, hoping he could get through to Isla in a way that none of us seemed able to. Maybe if someone outside the family talked to her, she'd open up. But sitting across from her at the table now, she looked like a completely different person. Quiet, withdrawn, like a shadow of the sister I knew.
I couldn't leave her alone in this. That's why I decided to transfer to Columbia University, leaving behind Yonsei in South Korea. It wasn't just about the education—it was about being here, close to Isla, where I could keep an eye on her. And, of course, Claude came along too. He was as much a part of this mess as I was.
"Are you okay with that, Noah?" Dad's voice jolted me back to the present. I hadn't even heard his question.
"Sorry, Dad, what was that?" I asked, trying to shake off the fog.
"There's an issue with the graphite samples for the new batteries we're trying to export from Korea. I'll need to head back for a few weeks, but I'll be back in time for Phillip and Isla's birthday celebration," he said, his tone all business.
