#* henry

Unacceptable.

Perhaps her current actions were being spurred by the fact that she had discovered a journal in her things after returning home from the bacchanal, one that she had packed long ago as a means to keep the fire of range burning deep within her. Perhaps she was simply tired of avoiding the portrait-perfect blonde Earl as a means of not rocking the boat. Either way, with her tendency towards the dramatic, she’d known as she stomped over to where she knew Henry Charming to be spending the afternoon that she would be engaging him in a conversation whether he liked it or not. 

From her very entrance into the room, opening the door with her heel instead of having it opened for her by a nosy servant, he needed to know that she was not there for pleasantries or to connect as (not blood related) family. She demanded respect and to be taken seriously. It was what she was owed.

“Lord Citrouille,” she greeted, chipper yet brash. “I’m certain you knew it was only a matter of time until we spoke.”

@discnchant​

"Are you trying to get that poor girl murdered?"

"Three years of my fucking life," she reiterates as if they weren't already very aware of how long she'd spent behind bars because one of their own decided to betray them to the french. "Three years, my friends are dead and I'm tired of being kept on this fucking leash." The distaste of the Rutherford ruling to keep her quiet - safe, and out of the public eye had worn thin very quickly, but with the recent uproar, and another short stint behind bars, Isla was through being polite about it. If the people she called her own wouldn't let her weigh in on the blood - perhaps the Russians would. "I'm not a god damn kid anymore."

"How many times do I have to tell you, man? Take your muddy boots off when you get home. You're gonna give Nonna a heart attack when she sees that mess."

As far as verbal filters went, Isla had none on hand, currently. And though it was one in the same that got her into enough situations to know better; and yet, it helped her through enough that she'd given up caring. As such, she'd carved herself out a memorable space among the Rutherfords; or so she'd hoped. If only such a place had extended to allow her to return to her usual duties among them rather than tucking her tail and hiding in plain sight, as asked. "I fucking hate this dress," she muttered, turning back to Henry, hovering on the footpath outside the bar, "Be honest, does this dress make my tits look small?" Did it matter? Isla was not the glitz and glamour type of girl - not until now when the way she looked weighed far more than what she was capable of, and apparently, it mattered.