The next morning, Isabel awoke to soft filtering through the tall curtains. Her body was stiff - too tense to have slept well - but she refused to let Damon see her break.
She dressed in silence, slipping into the simple white dress one of the staff had left for her. No makeup. No jewelry. No armor.
Just herself.
A soft knock startled her. Before she could answer, the door creaked open.
A young woman stepped in, no older than Isabel, dressed in the estate's uniform - black, clean, plain.
"I'm cara," she said gently. "Mr Blackwood asked me to assist you with breakfast."
Isabel blinked. "I don't need assistance."
Cara hesitated. "He insisted."
Of course he did. Damon Blackwood didn't ask.
Amara followed her to the downstairs dining room where sunlight glinted off polished wood and silver cutlery. The room was too quiet. Too elegant. Like a museum of luxury no one lived in.
And there he was.
Seated at the head of the long table, in a charcoal suit, sipping his coffee like nothing in the world could touch him.
Her stomach turned, but she refused to let it show.
"You're late," he said, not looking up.
"You didn't invite me," she replied calmly, taking a seat far from him.
A twitch at the corner of his mouth. Amusement? Or warning?
He pushed a file towards her across the table. "These are the clauses of your father's original debt agreement. Signed, witnessed. Ironclad."
She didn't touch it. "Why are you showing me this?"
"Because," he said, finally meeting her eyes, "you need to understand that this marriage is more than a punishment. It's leverage. And I don't waste leverage."
Isabel's fist curled under the table.
"I'm not him." She whispered. "You want vengeance, Damon? Fine. Take it. But don't confuse me with the man who betrayed you."
His face changed. Just for a second.
Then his voice dropped.
"You sound like someone who wants to be spared."
She stood abruptly. "No. I sound like someone who's done playing your games."
She left the room before he could answer - left him staring at the untouched file, a storm flickering behind his eyes.
Meanwhile....
In another wing of the estate, a locker drawer clicked open. Inside, a photograph.
Two girls.
One of them: Isabel.
The other, with a bright smile and knowing eyes: someone long dead.
And behind that photo... a blood - stained letter.