Chapter 2

Isabela Walker POV

The basement air hung heavy, thick with the scent of mildew and old, rotting secrets.

It stood in sharp, cruel contrast to the lavender-scented guest suite I had occupied for the last ten years.

I sat on the edge of the narrow, sagging cot, watching dust motes dance in the single, anemia beam of light filtering down from the high window.

From upstairs, the faint, muffled sound of laughter drifted down through the floorboards.

Dalia was moving her things into my old room.

Kason had ordered the transition this morning.

He claimed it was a matter of "propriety."

He said that since Dalia had returned, it was no longer appropriate for his "ward" to be sleeping just down the hall from the master suite.

Conveniently, he failed to mention the countless nights he had spent in that very room with me, shattering every rule of his precious moral code.

The door to the servants' quarters burst open.

Dalia stood framed by the hallway light, a silhouette of expensive perfection.

She was beautiful in the way that only old money could buy.

Her blonde hair was impeccably coiffed, her skin glowing with health and entitlement.

In her hand, she gripped a pair of silver scissors.

Behind her, Kason leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest.

He looked bored.

"Isabela," Dalia chirped, her voice dripping with faux sweetness. "I was just going through the closet upstairs. You left so much junk behind."

She held up a gown of shimmering emerald silk.

It was the dress I had worn to the gala last year.

The same dress Kason had once whispered made me look like a queen.

*Snip.*

The scissors bit into the delicate fabric.

The sound was visceral, like a ligament tearing in the silence.

"Oops," Dalia giggled, though her eyes were cold. "My hand slipped."

I didn't flinch.

I didn't even blink.

I simply watched as she reduced the silk to ribbons, letting the tattered strips drift to the dirty concrete floor like dead leaves.

Kason didn't stop her.

He watched me, his dark eyes unreadable, searching for a crack in my armor.

He was testing me.

He wanted to see if I would cry.

He wanted to see if I would beg.

He wanted the old Isabela-the pathetic girl who would do anything for a scrap of his affection.

But that girl was dead.

"Are you done?" I asked.

My voice was hollow, devoid of the reaction they craved.

Dalia's smile faltered.

She dropped the scissors with a clatter.

"You're so boring, Isabela. No wonder Kason got tired of playing with you."

She turned on her heel and sashayed out of the room, leaving the scent of expensive perfume in the damp air.

Kason lingered.

"She's just stressed," he said, casually defending the woman currently dismantling my existence. "The transition is hard on her."

"Of course," I said flatly. "Get out."

His jaw tightened, a muscle feathering in his cheek.

"Watch your tone. You live here because I allow it. You are a charity case, Isabela. Never forget that."

He turned and left, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the pipes.

I waited until his heavy footsteps faded completely.

Then, I stood up and dragged the duffel bag from beneath the cot.

I didn't pack the designer clothes he had bought to dress me up like a doll.

I didn't pack the diamond jewelry.

I packed the worn jeans I had bought with my meager allowance.

I packed the paperbacks I had smuggled from the library.

I packed my toothbrush.

The realization hit me with a sickening jolt: after a decade in this house, I owned almost nothing.

I pulled out my burner phone.

My fingers trembled slightly as I dialed Aunt May.

She wasn't blood, just a civilian friend of my mother's who lived outside the territory lines.

"Is it time?" she answered on the first ring.

"Yes," I whispered. "I need the safe house."

"Be careful, Izzy. If he catches you..."

"He won't," I said, forcing a confidence I didn't feel into my voice.

My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

Later that afternoon, Kason forced the issue.

He insisted I accompany them to a café in the city center.

He wanted to show the world that we were one big, happy, dysfunctional family.

He sat between us, his arm draped possessively over the back of Dalia's chair.

I sat opposite them, mechanically stirring my black coffee.

My phone buzzed against the table.

A news alert.

*Isabela Walker: The Unstable Ward of the Oneal Estate? Sources say rapid mental health decline prompts family concern.*

I looked up at Kason.

He was smiling at Dalia, hand-feeding her a piece of croissant.

He had planted the story.

He was discrediting me before I could even make my move.

If I ran now, the world would assume I had simply snapped.

"By the way," Kason said, wiping crumbs from the corner of his mouth. "We're going to the Payne wedding next week. Dalia wants to see the spectacle."

He let out a short, derisive laugh.

"I hear the bride is some unknown trash Hadley picked up to save a business deal."

I took a slow sip of my coffee to hide the tremor in my lip.

He didn't know.

He had absolutely no idea that the "unknown trash" was sitting right in front of him.

"I'm sure it will be a lovely ceremony," I said, my voice steady.

Kason looked at me, his eyes narrowing slightly, sensing a shift he couldn't name.

"You're coming too," he commanded. "Dalia needs an assistant to handle her things."

I set my cup down with a soft *clink*.

"I'd love to go," I said.

And for the first time in weeks, a genuine, dangerous smile touched my lips.