Isolde stepped out of the dressing room. The entire time she had been in there, she could feel the back of her head burning under the glare of Tiffara and a few other women.
They didn't just shoot her dirty looks—they openly sneered at her. They mocked her appearance, which didn't compare to their perfectly polished bodies. They ridiculed her for being a prisoner, for being the enemy's pawn sent by Severin's rival.
One by one, the women began to leave the dressing room and make their way to the stage. Isolde walked behind them, just like she had the day she first snuck into this place on Lucien's orders.
She stepped onto the stage, standing near the edge where the spotlight barely reached. At the centre, under the whole light, was Tiffara in her scandalous outfit, her chest nearly spilling out as she smiled wide to the beat of the music.
Right as the dance started, Severin returned—from God knows where. Dressed in all black, as always. He sat on the upper floor, lounging on a sofa with his men standing on either side like silent shadows.
One of them poured him a drink while Severin calmly pulled off his gloves. Isolde gripped the dance pole tightly as she watched—and then, to her surprise, Severin's eyes found her. He was watching her dance. Not just glancing—watching. Drink in hand, expression unreadable.
She wasn't the only one who noticed. Tiffara, who had been flaunting herself right at the centre, her entire performance aimed at Severin's seat, suddenly faltered. The broad smile on her face cracked.
Her gaze snapped toward Severin and found him not looking at her—but at another woman.
Tiffara's brow furrowed. She bit her lip hard as she spun around the pole, frustration building. She wasn't used to this. That seat—his seat—was always reserved for her. Every night, Severin's eyes only followed her. She was the star. The queen of the stage.
But tonight, his focus wasn't on centre stage. It was on the back. Where the lights were dimmer.
Where a woman stood who wasn't as beautiful as Tiffara—whose body didn't even come close.
Isolde stepped down from the stage just in time to see Tiffara hurrying upstairs, throwing herself onto Severin's lap like a desperate little kitten once their performance ended.
One of Severin's men approached her without emotion. "The Boss wants to see you. Now."
Of course. Isolde followed him, silent, trailing behind as he led her up the narrow staircase. She arrived at the upper level, where Severin lounged comfortably on the couch, Tiffara already coiled on his lap like a snake in silk.
Tiffara's eyes locked with hers—and then, smug as hell, the woman ran her tongue along Severin's throat, licking up his Adam's apple while keeping her gaze fixed on Isolde. A twisted little performance of her own. Then Severin spoke. Cold. Amused. Disgusted.
"Look at you," he sneered, glancing lazily at Isolde. "You look fucking pathetic. I've seen dressed-up dogs that are more fuckable than you."
Tiffara burst into laughter on his lap—full, cackling, until tears welled in her eyes from how hard she was laughing at Isolde's expense.
"I bet no man here wants to touch you," Severin continued, swirling the drink in his glass without even looking her way. "Sure, they might fuck you for free. But pay to sleep with you? Even the drunk ones would think twice."
He took a sip. Then, calmly, "Go to Room 429. Like last night."
Tiffara's grin vanished like a switch flipped. Her head snapped toward Severin. "You're spending the night with her again? What about me?"
Severin raised one eyebrow, slow and sharp. "Since when the fuck do I need your permission to decide who I fuck?" he replied, voice smooth as venom. "Tiffara, just because I sleep with you often doesn't mean I owe you anything. You're not my wife. Don't get it twisted."
He leaned forward just slightly. "You and Isolde are the same in this place. Don't forget it. You're both just whores."
Tiffara's face broke—wounded, humiliated. But Isolde didn't give a damn. She had no sympathy to spare.
Without saying a word, she turned and walked away. She headed to Room 429, as ordered. She wasn't about to stick around and watch Severin tear Tiffara apart in front of her. The longer she stayed, the deeper that woman's hatred would burn.
Right now, only one thought echoed in Isolde's mind, If she was so unattractive—if she truly looked worse than a dolled-up dog—then why the hell did Severin choose to spend another night with her?
Was it because her face resembled his dead lover? Or was it simply because he enjoyed breaking her, piece by piece?
She didn't know. And honestly, it didn't matter. Because one thing was sure…
Tonight, Severin would beat her again. The bruises on her body would multiply as he used her, played with her like some lifeless fuck doll.
And tomorrow, Tiffara would come for her. Today, the whispers and stares were cruel. But after spending two nights in a row with Severin? Isolde knew damn well Tiffara would turn her life into a living hell.
She scoffed bitterly. So this was Severin's plan all along. He was deliberately making his favourite whore jealous—just to make Isolde suffer more.
Apparently, hurting her with his own hands wasn't enough. Now, he wanted Tiffara's hands to join in, to destroy her from all sides. That bastard… was a fucking sadist and, worse, a master manipulator.
He didn't just want Isolde to suffer—he wanted her to break. He wanted her to choose death with her own hands. To be so desperate, so shattered, that she'd end it herself.
To him, her life meant nothing. Just a sick little show for his entertainment. Isolde understood one thing, life was expensive. And the only way to keep hers was to be useful. From the start, she knew something terrible would happen the moment she agreed to Lucien's offer—to follow his orders, no matter the cost.
She only ever had two choices. Die in prison, under the constant abuse of guards and inmates who didn't even bother to hide their cruelty or die executing Lucien's mission, and at least buy something with that death.
Because if she died in prison, her mother, also imprisoned, would likely meet the same fate. But if she died for Lucien's mission, then only she would die. Her mother would walk free. Her little brother, still so young and still so in need of a mother, would have someone to come home to.
Isolde couldn't lie. She had long resented her mother. Her mother had gone to prison to protect the very person Isolde hated most. Back when her father and his mistress had abused her, her mother had done nothing. She cried. That's all she ever did. She never stood up for Isolde, never shielded her from the cruelty, the physical torment, or the mental torture.
But when it was Isolde's little brother getting beaten by their father, her mother didn't hesitate for a second to throw herself in front of him.
So when her mother went to prison for that boy, Isolde felt betrayed. Because for her, her mother had never fought. Never stood in front of her. Never protected her from anything.
And now she would go that far—for him?
Isolde was hurt. Isolde was angry. But deep down, she couldn't bear the thought of seeing her mother wearing the prison uniform, getting treated like trash—like she had been.
So Isolde hardened. She fought back. Anyone who laid a hand or threw a word of disrespect toward her or her mother—Isolde struck them first. Even if it meant getting beaten black and blue in return. Better to fight and be treated like an animal… than to submit and be slaughtered like one.
That was her mindset while locked up. When she accepted Lucien's deal, she received death.
She knew the mission might kill her, and she had made peace with it.
But then… she saw it. Two men—men who had helped her enter this hellhole—shot in the head right in front of her eyes. And that's when she realized something else.
She was afraid of dying. Not because anyone would mourn her. She knew no one would cry—not even if her corpse was left to rot on the sidewalk. But she was afraid of the pain. Because all her life, that's all she had ever known pain. The one thing she couldn't stand was the thought of dying in pain, too.
It wasn't fair. Isolde laughed bitterly at herself. What a joke for someone like her, a criminal, to even talk about fairness.
She was the one who got herself into this mess. If only…
If only she hadn't let her rage take over. If she hadn't let her hatred for Olivianne—perfect Olivianne with her flawless face and perfect body—consume her. If she hadn't tried to destroy that beauty she had always secretly envied…
She wouldn't have ended up in prison.
If she hadn't been locked up, maybe she could've stopped her mother from killing their father.
If she hadn't been behind bars, Lucien wouldn't have had the chance to sink his claws into her.
He wouldn't have preyed on her weakness like a vulture in a priest's robe—pretending to be some saviour while dragging her straight into hell. Severin's hell.
Now, here she was. Sitting on the edge of the bed in Room 429. Again. After her dance, she had been sent straight back here—just like last night. Same room. Same bed. Same silence.
Then the door creaked open. Severin walked in and slammed it shut behind him. He clicked his tongue, annoyed. Disappointed. Again. That sound was so familiar that it made her skin crawl.
What the hell was it this time? She'd done exactly what he ordered. Came here. Waited for him. She sat in silence for nearly an hour while her thoughts screamed inside her skull like a goddamn riot.
Severin stepped closer, arms crossed over his chest. No cigar tonight. His tone was venom. "I thought you'd fucking learn after yesterday. But clearly, you're just fucking stupid."
The wounds from yesterday still stung—especially the burn from his cigar. Every time water touched it, or her own sweat trickled down, it flared like fire under her skin. And that wasn't the only thing still bleeding.
The split on her lip throbbed whenever she moved her mouth. She could barely speak without pain. And she knew it wouldn't heal anytime soon—because before it even had the chance to scab, he'd split it open again. Of course, he would.
….