Chapter 3

A lavish gala blazed with lights and music at the main house, celebrating Clara's "ascension."

Jax, in a rare act that felt more like calculated cruelty than mercy, allowed Izzy out of her confinement.

She was a ghost at the feast, her tattered dress a stark contrast to the glittering gowns.

Her eyes found Clara immediately.

Clara, radiant, preening, wore Izzy's late mother's signature diamond necklace.

The sight was a fist to Izzy's gut.

As Izzy stood in the shadows, a Gator enforcer, drunk and sneering, shoved her forward.

"Look who it is!"

He kicked the back of her knees, forcing her to kneel before Jax and Clara.

Jax watched, his face devoid of emotion.

"You're late," he said, his voice flat. "Disrespectful."

Izzy murmured an apology, not bothering to explain the long, painful walk from her isolated shack, her legs weak, her body aching.

Jax scoffed. "Obedience. A new look for you."

He tapped his chin. "I remember a time you were defiant. That didn't end well, did it? The cage, the dogs... hungry ones."

He paused, a cruel smile playing on his lips.

"But then, I paid a fortune for the doctors to patch you up. Can't have you dying too easily."

Clara "kindly" helped Izzy up, her fingers digging into Izzy's arm.

"Oh, Izzy, darling," Clara cooed, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "It must be so hard, seeing all this, remembering what you've lost."

Her eyes then fixed on Izzy's wrist.

A unique, hand-carved alligator tooth, strung on a worn leather thong.

A gift from a young Jax, long ago, from the bayou, rumored to hold protective magic.

"What a curious little trinket," Clara said, her eyes gleaming with avarice. "It's rather primitive, but... I'll take it. A gift."

Izzy looked at Jax. He was watching, indifferent.

Slowly, Izzy unfastened the necklace from her wrist and handed it to Clara.

Across the room, a glass shattered on Jax's table, but he didn't flinch.

Clara, delighted, then turned to the crowd.

"Izzy used to be quite the dancer, you know. So graceful with her Southern waltzes. Perhaps she'll dance for us tonight?"

The request was a command, met with eager, jeering laughter from the Gators and the turncoat New Orleans elite.

As Izzy stood frozen, a servant, clumsy or malicious, "accidentally" spilled a tureen of hot gumbo down her front.

The thick stew scalded her skin.

She didn't cry out.

Derisive laughter echoed around her. "Still got airs, that one!"

Numb, Izzy began to dance.

A slow, painful mockery of the waltzes she once loved, in the grand ballroom of her family's stolen home.

The Gators, fueled by whiskey, grew louder, cruder.

"Take it off! Show us what the great Beaumonts are made of now!"

Izzy looked at Jax. His eyes were cold, unreadable. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.

Permission granted.

Tears finally fell, tracing paths through the grime on her face.

Piece by piece, she removed her tattered clothes.

Fabric stuck to her fresh burns, tearing flesh as it came away.

The great ballroom fell silent, save for her ragged breathing and the occasional wolf-whistle.

Later, after the guests had mostly dispersed, Jax found her huddled in a dark corner, shivering.

He reeked of whiskey.

He reached out, his rough thumb wiping a tear from her cheek.

"Trying to make me feel sorry for you, Izzy?" he murmured.

"No, sir," Izzy whispered, her voice hoarse.

Suddenly, a familiar tightness seized her chest. The old ailment, the curse, flared violently.

She coughed, a wracking, painful sound, and blood splattered her hand, dark and thick.

Jax recoiled, his eyes narrowing.

"Still pulling that sick act after all these years? You're not fooling anyone, Izzy."

He remembered how Clara would whine about the slightest headache, and how he'd fuss over her, bringing her tonics, calling for his personal medic.

Izzy had been coughing like this, on and off, for years. He'd always dismissed it.

The curse ripped through Izzy's body, a wave of agony.

As she slumped, consciousness fading, she thought she saw a flicker of something in Jax's eyes. Panic?

He caught her before she hit the floor, his grip surprisingly gentle for a moment, then harsh again.

"I won't let you die, Izzy," he snarled, his face close to hers. "You have to live and pay for what your family did!"

But her time was almost up.

Two days, Maman Brigitte's voice echoed in her memory.

Two days.