“That’s not true!” she hissed, her voice sharp. “He’d be glad it’s me! I’m not telling him yet because I want it to be a revelation! So keep your mouth shut!”

“Don’t worry. Your little marital games don’t interest me.”

This life was for me.

Somehow, I still ended up at the gathering—a high-stakes meet of syndicate associates and legitimate business fronts at a historic, guarded manor.

I wore a blood-red gown that plunged in the back, a statement of fire against Seraphina’s virginal white chiffon.

When the time came for the opening formalities, a traditional dance, William’s eyes passed over me and settled on Seraphina. He extended his hand to her.

A low murmur rippled through the crowd.

“The Caruso heiress is Isabella, no? Why the sister?”

“The message is clear. The Don prefers the… manageable one.”

“Naturally. Seraphina Caruso understands decorum. The older one… beautiful, but volatile. A liability for a man in his position.”

William ignored the whispers. He glanced at me, his explanation flat. “You don’t know the steps. Observe and learn from your sister this time.”

Then he led Seraphina to the center of the marble floor. They moved together with polished grace, a picture of controlled harmony under the crystal chandeliers.

Watching them spin, I felt no jealousy. Just a profound, draining sense of disgust.

I slipped away. I found a deserted stone balcony overlooking the manicured grounds, letting the cold air clear my head.

The peace didn’t last.

Seraphina found me. Her cheeks were flushed from dancing, her eyes bright with triumph.

“Sister, hiding out here? Couldn’t bear to watch?” She stepped close, her voice a venomous purr. “I told you. Between us, any man, even William, will choose the civilized option.”

She paused, leaning in. “But it must be in your blood. Your mother couldn’t keep my mother from taking her place. And you can’t keep me from taking yours. A legacy of failure.”

General insults I could dismiss.

But she brought my mother into this.

The cold clarity in my mind crystallized into something razor-sharp. I turned. My hand moved without thought.

The crack of my palm against her cheek was startlingly loud in the quiet night.

Seraphina’s head snapped to the side. A vivid red handprint bloomed on her pale skin.

She touched her face, stunned. “You… you hit me?”

“That’s just the start,” I said, my voice low and deadly. I advanced.

She stepped back, her confidence wavering. “Isabella, don’t you dare—”

I closed the distance, my fingers tangling in the delicate fabric of her gown at the neckline. “Who gave you the courage to taunt me alone? Have you forgotten, Sera? I spent my teenage years in combat training. Breaking a fragile thing like you would be easy.”

I yanked her toward the balcony’s stone railing. The drop to the dark gardens below was significant.

She gasped, real fear entering her eyes as she peered over. “Isabella! Stop it!”

“Let’s see if I dare.”

I didn’t shove her. I released her gown and gave her a hard, open-handed push against her shoulder—a controlled, forceful blow meant to shock, not to kill.

She stumbled back with a cry, her heel catching on an uneven flagstone. Her arms flailed, she hit the low, decorative section of the railing—and it gave way with a sickening crack of old wood.

Her scream was cut short as she vanished over the edge.

Chaos erupted from the gardens below—shouts, screams, the sound of people running.

I stood at the broken railing and looked down. A crowd had already formed around the white heap on the grass that was Seraphina. I felt nothing. An empty, quiet stillness.

I adjusted the strap of my gown, picked up my discarded shawl, and walked calmly back inside.

I had just cleared the balcony doors when a hand clamped onto my wrist with brutal force.

William.

He must have run. His breathing was slightly ragged, but his eyes were the terrifying part—a storm of fury and utter disbelief.

“Seraphina fell from the balcony,” he said, each word dipped in ice. “You were there.”

I pulled my arm, but his grip was iron. “I was.”

“Did you cause it?”

“Yes. What of it?”

His face darkened, the controlled mask shattering into something raw and dangerous. “I told you to learn from her. Is this your idea of a lesson? You will come with me. You will apologize to her.”

“Apologize?” The laugh that escaped me was hollow. “She earned it. I’ll apologize over her coffin.”

“You are beyond redemption.”

He turned his head, not to me, but to the two large, impassive men flanking him—his personal guards. “She refuses to learn respect. Take her to the old wine cellar. Lock her in. She stays there until I decide otherwise.”

“William! You have no right!”

He pulled me close, his face inches from mine. His voice dropped to a lethal whisper only I could hear. “I have every right. I am your fiancé. You could have killed her. If I don’t discipline you, your father will, and he won’t be gentle. This is the lesson. The only one you seem to understand.”

“You’re not my—”

But the guards were already on me. They grabbed my arms, their hold impersonal and unbreakable. My shouts, my struggles, meant nothing. They marched me through a service corridor, down a narrow flight of stone steps, and into a small, dank cellar. The door, a thick slab of aged oak reinforced with iron, slammed shut behind me. A heavy bolt slid home with a final thunk.

The cold was immediate. It seeped from the stone walls and the dirt floor. It was the deep, damp cold of a forgotten place, far worse than any garden pond.

I hammered on the door until my fists were sore. “William! You bastard! Let me out!”

Silence.

The cold bit through the thin silk of my gown. I wrapped my arms around myself, pacing to keep warm. It was useless. The chill was inside me now.

Then, a familiar, deep cramping started in my abdomen.

My cycle. Early.

A wave of nausea and pain doubled me over. I slid down the wall to the floor. I could feel the warmth of blood seeping through my underthings, a stark contrast to the pervasive cold.

Time blurred. The pain worsened, coiling tight. The cold became a physical ache in my bones.

At some point, I heard voices outside the door, muffled.

One guard, speaking low. “…Don Salvatore. It’s the woman. She’s bleeding. A lot. Do we continue?”

A pause. Then William’s voice, filtered through the wood, cold and definitive. “Continue. She needs to remember.”

She needs to remember.

The words finally broke something in me.

The cold cellar, the pain, the humiliation—they all fused into a single, scorching realization. My pain was irrelevant. My reasons were noise. All that mattered was my compliance. My submission.

Tears, hot and silent, tracked through the grime on my face. They were not from the pain in my body, but from the death of a final, foolish hope.

The darkness at the edges of my vision swelled, a welcoming void. The cold stone against my cheek was the last thing I felt as the world dissolved into nothing.

I woke again to the sharp, clean scent of disinfectant.

I opened my eyes to the sterile white ceiling of a hospital room. My hand was warm, trapped in another. I turned my head. William Salvatore sat in a chair by the bed, holding my hand. His eyes were closed, faint shadows of fatigue beneath them.

He must have felt me stir. His eyes snapped open.

Our gazes locked. He released my hand immediately, the weariness and something that looked uncomfortably like concern in his eyes vanishing, replaced by his usual impenetrable calm.

“I’ve spoken to your father,” he said, his voice flat, devoid of inflection. “I’ve taken responsibility for the incident. He won’t press the matter further. But, Isabella, you must promise me you will not lay a hand on Seraphina again. She is your sister.”

“I never asked you to take responsibility for anything,” I croaked, my throat raw. The sound was laced with scorn. “And that bastard-born shadow has never been my sister. In our world, a girl of her… origins wouldn’t be fit to clean my boots.”

William’s brow furrowed slightly. He seemed about to argue when the door to the room opened softly. A nurse peered in.

“Don Salvatore, Miss Seraphina in the adjoining suite is distressed. She’s asking for you.”

William stood, smoothing his already immaculate suit sleeve. He looked down at me. “I must see to her. She was injured because of your actions. As your betrothed, it is my duty to offer… reassurance.”

I gave a brittle smile and turned my face to the window. “Go ahead. She’s your real fiancée, after all.”

William’s steps halted. He turned back, his frown deepening. “What did you say?”

I didn’t bother repeating myself. I just pulled the thin hospital blanket over my head, a clear dismissal.

I heard him exhale, a low, frustrated sound. After a moment, his footsteps retreated, following the nurse out.

The next few days passed in a blur of bland food and routine checks.

I stayed in that hospital bed, and the world came to me in snippets from the chattering nurses who changed my IV and took my vitals.

“Don Salvatore is so attentive to the younger Miss Caruso. He visits her suite every day.”

“Indeed. I heard she dislikes bitter medicine, so he had special candies imported from Sicily for her.”

“Between you and me, they make a more… harmonious pair. A proper Don and his lady.”

They had all decided the gentle, well-mannered Seraphina was the rightful companion to the powerful Salvatore Don.

I listened. I felt nothing. A hollow amusement, perhaps.

I wished everyone would believe it. It would make everything so much simpler.

On the day of my discharge, William came.

He took the paperwork from the nurse and looked at me where I sat propped against the pillows, scrolling mindlessly through my phone. “Get your things. I’m taking you home.”

“I’m not going back to the Caruso house,” I said, not looking up.

His expression darkened. “Isabella. Enough of this.”

He didn’t wait for further argument. In two strides he was at the bedside. His fingers closed around my wrist. The grip wasn’t painful, but it was absolute, an unyielding assertion of control. He pulled me from the bed, his other arm coming around to steady me, and guided me—half-dragged me, really—out of the room and into the back of his waiting armored sedan.

The car moved silently through the city, back to the Caruso mansion. I wrenched my arm free the moment we stopped and walked straight inside, up the grand staircase to my room.

I pushed the door open.

My blood turned to ice.

Seraphina was sitting at my vanity. In her hands was my mother’s sapphire necklace, the stones catching the light as she held it up to her own throat, admiring her reflection.

The last piece of my mother in this world.

“Who gave you permission to touch my things?” My voice was low, deadly cold. “Put it down. Get out.”

Seraphina jumped, startled by my sudden appearance. Then a smug smile spread across her face. She didn’t put the necklace down. Instead, she dangled it from her fingers. “Yours? Everything in this house will be mine one day, Isabella. Everything.”

“Did falling down the stairs not teach you enough?” I took a step forward, my gaze fixed on her.

“That was a lucky shot!” she sneered, emboldened. “You think I’m afraid of you now?”

Before I could respond, her eyes lit with malicious intent. She snatched a heavy crystal perfume bottle from the vanity and hurled it to the floor at her own feet, simultaneously throwing herself backwards onto the shards with a theatrical cry.

The crash brought running footsteps.

Victor Caruso and Giselle burst into the room. My father took in the scene—the shattered glass, Seraphina weeping artfully amidst the wreckage—and his face purpled with rage.

“Daddy!” Seraphina wailed, pointing a trembling finger at me. “I only wanted to see the necklace… she pushed me!”

“Isabella!” Victor roared.

He didn’t ask for my side. He never did. He crossed the room in two strides and his open hand connected with my cheek.

The crack echoed in the high-ceilinged room.

My head snapped to the side. Fire blossomed across my face. I tasted blood where my teeth had cut the inside of my cheek.

I didn’t cry.

A low, humorless laugh bubbled up from my chest.