I watched Lady Beatrix storm out of the dining room with a satisfaction I'd never dared feel before. The sound of something shattering against a wall outside was like music to my ears. My father shifted uncomfortably in his chair while Clara's face had turned an interesting shade of red, her knuckles white around her knife.
"Your wife seems distressed, Baron," Alaric observed casually, taking a sip of wine. "Perhaps you should check on her."
My father cleared his throat. "She'll... she'll be fine. Just a touch of nerves."
"And the maid service here is truly lacking," Alaric continued, his voice cool and measured. "I see no attendants to serve the food. Is this how you typically entertain guests of my station, Baron Reginald?"
I hid my smile behind my mask as my father squirmed. This was delicious—watching him struggle to maintain his dignity while being dressed down by Alaric.
"We're... between staff at the moment," my father mumbled. "Times have been difficult."
"Difficult indeed," Alaric replied, "when a Baron can't afford proper service for his own dining table."
I could see my father's jaw clenching, his pride visibly wounded. For years I'd endured his neglect and disdain, and now I was watching him crumble under the weight of Alaric's judgment. It was sweeter than any dessert could ever be.
The door opened, and Lady Beatrix returned, her face a mask of composure though her eyes still blazed with fury. "I apologize for my absence. I'll fetch the next course myself."
As she left again to retrieve food, Clara turned her venom toward me.
"I suppose you're enjoying this," she hissed, leaning forward. "Playing the role of Duchess. Tell me, sister, how long do you think this charade will last? Until the wedding night? Until he finally sees what's under that mask?"
I met her gaze steadily, no longer the cowering girl she could torment. "I'm not playing at anything, Clara. This is who I am now."
"A monster hiding behind a mask," Clara sneered. "You think he won't be disgusted? Even Mother can barely look at you without that thing covering your face."
I felt Alaric's hand tighten on mine under the table, but I didn't need his protection anymore.
"I'm curious, Your Grace," Clara suddenly pivoted, looking at Alaric with false sweetness. "Have you seen what my dear sister is hiding? Have you seen the full extent of her... deformity?"
I tensed, waiting for the humiliation that would surely follow. This was Clara's specialty—finding the most painful way to expose my vulnerabilities.
But Alaric merely smiled, a cold, dangerous smile that sent chills down even my spine.
"As a matter of fact, Lady Clara, I have," he stated firmly. "Isabella has no secrets from me."
The silence that followed was absolute. Clara's mouth hung open in shock. My father's eyes widened, darting between Alaric and me.
"You—you've seen her face?" Clara stammered.
"Of course I have," Alaric replied smoothly. "Did you think I would propose marriage without knowing exactly who I was marrying? Isabella showed me her face the day we met."
I fought to keep my expression neutral, though my heart raced at his brazen lie. He was protecting me, claiming intimacy where there had been none.
"And Kate," Alaric suddenly added, his tone hardening as he looked at Lady Beatrix who had just returned with a platter, "how dare you lie to me about Isabella's face?"
Lady Beatrix almost dropped the platter. "I—I don't know what you mean, Your Grace."
"You described her scars as monstrous, hideous," Alaric continued, his voice dangerous. "Yet when I saw them myself, I found them to be nothing of the sort. A deliberate exaggeration to damage her prospects, I must assume."
Lady Beatrix's face paled. "I never—"
"Let's not add further dishonesty to your transgressions," Alaric cut her off. "Isabella's scars don't define her beauty, which is evident to anyone with proper sight and sense."
I nearly gasped at his words. Though I knew he was fabricating this encounter, the conviction in his voice made even me almost believe it had happened.
Before Lady Beatrix could recover, the door opened again and my father returned with Clara, who must have slipped out during the exchange. Clara's eyes were red-rimmed, but she held her chin high, clearly having been reprimanded.
"Isabella," Clara said, her voice strained, "I would like to apologize for killing your kitten when we were children. It was... wrong of me."
I looked at her carefully, noting how the words seemed physically painful for her to say. This wasn't Clara's idea—my father had clearly forced this apology.
"An apology," I said slowly, savoring the moment. "After all these years."
"Yes," Clara bit out. "I'm sorry."
I studied her, seeing no remorse in those blue eyes that had watched with glee as my beloved kitten's body hit the wall. "An apology isn't enough, Clara."
Her fake contrition vanished instantly. "What more do you want? Blood?"
"I want you to bury him," I said simply.
"What?" Clara's voice rose an octave.
"The kitten. You threw his body out with the garbage. He deserves a proper burial."
"That was years ago!" Clara protested.
"And yet, I remember it as if it were yesterday," I replied coldly. "The way you laughed as you tossed him away."
Lady Beatrix intervened. "This is ridiculous. Isabella, you cannot possibly expect—"
"I think it's a reasonable request," my father interrupted, surprising everyone. "Clara will dig a grave in the garden and we'll have a small ceremony tomorrow."
Clara's face contorted with rage. "Father! You can't be serious!"
"I am completely serious," he replied firmly, his eyes darting nervously to Alaric. "You will do as Isabella asks."
Clara looked between my father and Alaric, realizing she was trapped. "Fine," she spat. "I'll dig your stupid grave."
"Now," I added, relishing my newfound power.
"Now?" Clara repeated incredulously.
"Yes, now. Before dinner is finished," I insisted, my voice soft but unyielding. "I've waited long enough for justice."
After a tense moment, Clara nodded stiffly. "Let me get a shovel from the shed."
"The shovel is broken," I reminded her, recalling a detail from weeks ago that Clara had certainly forgotten. "You'll have to use your hands."
"My hands?" Clara's eyes widened in horror.
"Yes," I said, turning to Lady Beatrix. "Just as you once made me dig in the garden with my bare hands when I dropped your mirror. Remember, Mother?"
Lady Beatrix paled slightly, clearly not expecting me to air this particular grievance in front of the Duke.
Clara's face twisted with disgust. "I hope you are not expecting me to dig out a hole with my hands, Isabella?"
Her defiance hung in the air between us, a clear challenge to my newfound authority. The entire table fell silent, waiting for my response, the power to humiliate or show mercy now entirely in my hands.