Chapter 3

My father's voice echoed in my memory.

"Her pride, Ethan. It's too much. She needs to understand her place, the opportunities she's been given."

That was his reason for humiliating Isabelle that day, making her stand in the corner.

To break her.

I'd felt sorry for her then.

She'd looked so small, so defiant, her chin held high even as tears welled in her eyes.

I'd even slipped her a piece of chocolate when no one was looking.

A small kindness.

Now, seeing her serve Leo so willingly, the memory of her past humiliation twisted into something else.

It wasn't pride he'd tried to break. It was a specific kind of arrogance she reserved for me, for my family.

With Leo, she was a different person. Subservient. Adoring.

The pain of it, the sheer unfairness, clawed at me.

I needed to escape.

I swung onto my polo pony, the familiar feel of the saddle a small comfort.

The game started. The thud of hooves, the crack of mallets.

I tried to lose myself in the rhythm, the speed.

Then, it happened.

A crucial play. I leaned out, reaching for the ball.

A sharp snap.

The saddle girth. It gave way.

The world tilted.

I was falling.

Isabelle. She was responsible for my equipment.

My eyes instinctively found her in the stands.

She wasn't watching me.

Her head was bent towards Leo, laughing at something he'd said.

Distracted. Utterly, completely distracted by him.

Then, blackness.

A throbbing pain in my head. A searing fire in my collarbone.

Concussion. Broken collarbone.

The doctor's words swam in the haze.

Weeks later, I was recovering. My arm in a sling, my head still aching.

Isabelle had been a model of concern.

She brought me meals. Read to me. Adjusted my pillows.

Her touch was gentle, her voice soft.

For a fleeting moment, a dangerous, stupid moment, I almost believed she cared.

That maybe, just maybe, the fall had shaken something loose in her.

Then I'd remember her face, turned towards Leo, laughing, as I fell.

The image would douse any spark of hope.

One afternoon, I was resting in the sunroom. The door was ajar.

I heard voices from the hallway.

Scarlett Dubois and Isabelle.

"You were lucky, Isabelle," Scarlett said, her voice low, intense. "He could have broken his neck."

Isabelle's reply was cool, measured. "It was a calculated risk."

My blood turned to ice.

"Calculated?" Scarlett scoffed. "You call that calculated? Loosening his saddle girth?"

"Not enough to cause serious injury," Isabelle said, a slight defensive edge to her voice. "Just enough to... humble him. He slighted Leo at dinner the other night. Made some comment about Leo's 'delicate sensibilities'."

My mind reeled. I had said that. A throwaway line, a flash of irritation at Leo's constant dramatics.

"My meticulous care for him afterwards?" Isabelle continued, her voice hardening. "That was guilt, Scarlett. Guilt that my little lesson went further than I intended. He wasn't supposed to get a concussion."

Compensation. That's what her care had been.

Not concern. Not affection.

Compensation for a deliberate act of sabotage.

A punishment.

The world tilted again, this time not from a fall, but from the sheer, cold-blooded malice of her confession.

Heartbreak wasn't the word.

It was a deeper, colder devastation.

Rage, pure and undiluted, burned through me.

This wasn't just deception. This was dangerous. This was an attack.