Chapter 3

A sickening grin spread across Austen's face as he turned his attention back to me. He gestured to two large men who had been lingering at the edge of the crowd.

"She thinks she's still so high and mighty," Austen announced to his audience. "Let's remind her what she is now. Nothing."

The two men entered a small antechamber and a heavy door clanked open into my glass cell. The cold intensified, a physical blow. They stepped inside, their faces blank and uninterested. I backed away, pressing myself against the far wall, my hands protectively over my belly.

"Don't touch me," I warned, my voice shaking but firm.

They ignored me. They moved with a brutal efficiency, grabbing my arms. I struggled, kicking and twisting, but it was useless. I was pregnant and off-balance, and they were strong.

One man held me while the other ripped my dress. The sound of tearing fabric was loud in the small space. They tore it away, leaving me in my underwear, exposed and shivering under the harsh lights and the mocking eyes of the crowd outside.

"Look at that," one of the men grunted, his eyes raking over my swollen belly. "Knocked up and still thinks she runs things."

The crowd howled with laughter. Humiliation burned through me, hotter than the freezing air.

Then another man entered, carrying two large buckets. He dumped them onto the metal floor. Ice cubes and freezing water spread out in a wide puddle at my feet. The cold from the floor was already seeping through my thin shoes, but this was a new, biting threat.

The two men holding me forced me to my knees. I cried out as my bare skin touched the ice. The cold was a searing pain, a thousand tiny knives stabbing into me. I tried to pull away, but they held me fast, pushing my legs down into the slush.

My skin was sticking to the ice. I could feel it. A raw, tearing agony.

"Austen, please!" I screamed, my voice cracking. "My baby! Please, think about the baby!"

From outside the glass, I saw a flicker of something in Austen's eyes. Maybe hesitation. Maybe a shred of guilt.

But then Deb stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on his arm. She looked at me, her eyes filled with a perfect imitation of pity.

"Oh, you poor thing," she said, her voice dripping with fake concern. "Austen, darling, maybe this is too much. Look at her. She's hurting."

Her words were meant to sound kind, but they were directed at him, a subtle manipulation. She was positioning herself as the voice of reason, the gentle heart.

"You see?" I gasped, trying to push myself up, the movement tearing my skin. "She knows this is wrong, Austen! Listen to her!"

Deb's eyes met mine, and for a split second, I saw the pure, unadulterated hatred in them before she turned back to Austen, her face a mask of worry.

"It's just... I remember how she was with me," Deb said softly, her voice catching. "So cold. She didn't care about my pain at all."

Austen's face hardened again, the brief flicker of humanity gone. He was putty in her hands.

"You're right," he snarled, his gaze locking on me. "She doesn't care about anyone but herself. She needs to learn a lesson about what real cold feels like."

Deb then did something that chilled me more than the ice. She discreetly pulled a small, ornate pin from her hair and, wincing, pricked the palm of her own hand, hidden from Austen's view. A single drop of blood welled up.

She held her hand out for Austen to see, her eyes wide with manufactured pain. "She's so cruel... she makes me so stressed, my old ulcers act up. Look, darling, the stress is making me bleed internally."

It was a lie so audacious, so theatrical, that it should have been laughable. But Austen bought it completely.

"You witch!" he roared at me. "You see what you do? You hurt everyone around you! You're a poison, Isolde."

He turned to the man with the now-empty buckets. "Get more. More ice. More water. Pour it directly on her. I want her to feel it."

One of the socialites, a woman I vaguely recognized, stepped forward. "Austen, she's pregnant. This could kill the baby."

Deb shot the woman a venomous look. "Isolde never cared about my health," she whispered to Austen, loud enough for me to hear. "Why should we care about hers?"

Austen's face was twisted with rage. He looked at me, trapped and freezing on the floor, and showed no mercy.

"Do it," he commanded. "Now."