Chapter 13
Chapter thirteen
Isabella
I can’t stop thinking about Dominic’s gesture. I’ve lived my whole life being an extra in Elena’s story. And now, suddenly, the one man I should despise does something so considerate, so perfectly me, that I don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or freak out.
It makes my heart hurt. Not in the sweet, fluttery way people talk about in movies or novels. No. This is a stabbing ache you get when you realize how pitiful your life actually is, because when did a room full of books become the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me?
Maybe it’s because my mother used to read to me every night, until the car accident that tragically cut her life short. After she died, just two months before my eighth birthday, the books slowly disappeared from our home.
I’d always been the devil’s spawn in Father’s eyes.
Born the wrong shade made him hate me even though it was clear I’d inherited my maternal grandmother’s genes.
Though he hated both daughters, it was easier for him to despise me more, especially with my sister, who came out perfect.
And I always hated myself for not being like her.
When Father remarried, I thought I’d get a second chance. I thought Melanie might love me, or at least try. Unfortunately for me, her hatred for me was just as much as my father’s, if not more.
I sink deeper into the armchair in the corner of the library, clutching a book to my chest while I attempt not to compare my life to a poorly written mash-up combination of Cinderella and Beauty and the Beast.
Something vibrates against my skin, causing me to jump so hard the book slips from my hands and thuds against the carpet.
My phone screen lights up with a name I never thought I’d see. For a second, I think I’m hallucinating. My stepmother has never called me before. She’s barely even spoken to me, except to remind me how inconvenient my existence is.
I answer before I can talk myself out of it. Just like I did with Dad, I don’t say anything and wait for her to talk.
“Bella…” Her chirpy voice is croaked, unusually dull. If I didn’t live with this woman for so many years, I’d actually believe she was real.
“It’s your mother.”
The words knock the breath out of me. She’s never called herself that. Not once. My throat tightens, my whole body goes stiff.
Mother?
“Bella…” she calls out tentatively, then releases a deep sigh, “please say something.”
My fingers clench instinctively, tears dotting my vision. I want to talk, but I can’t. I’m too dumbfounded to speak. No, I don’t even know what to say.
Is she doing this of her own volition, or was it forced by Father?
“Wh-what do you want me to say, Melanie?” I manage to find my voice, and it comes out weaker than I intend.
Her voice trembles, coming out as barely a whisper, and she sniffles, a stupid sound that makes me cringe. “I know this is probably coming off as sudden to you, but it’s been on my heart for quite a while now.”
I bite my lips, tears pouring even more from my eyes. Quite a while? Since when? Since my fancy sister disappeared?
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers after a moment of silence, and for a second, I think it’s a trick of bad reception.
“I’m so sorry for everything. For how I treated you.
I was wrong. You didn’t deserve it. I should’ve…
” She falters, then swallows hard. “I should’ve protected you.
I didn’t, and I regret it every single day. ”
“Regret…” That’s all I manage to choke out. There was absolutely no fucking reason to join Father in treating me the way they did. Unlike my father, my beauty…or lack of it… wasn’t necessarily pivotal to her dealings. She didn’t need me for an alliance; she didn’t need me to represent her…nothing.
All she had to do was at least be a safe haven. I really needed that when Father married her. But she added to my struggles. They constantly reminded me that I’d never be Elena, and people like me were born to serve.
My mouth tastes metallic, and I realize it’s from biting my lip too hard. An apology can’t wipe away everything I had to endure. It can’t rebuild the self-confidence that was ripped away from me as a child.
“Since Elena left, I realized something” she continues, and that statement pinches at my heart.
Even in her apology, I’m still being compared to Elena.
“Absence has a way of”—she exhales shakily—“making your heart ache. You start to notice what’s missing, what you had and you now miss.
Even if you never admitted you loved it. ”
Something inside me folds carefully, the way you fold a letter you’ve read too many times. I don’t want her regrets, or half-baked apologies, and I should say something. But memories of all the vile things she’s done somehow weaken me.
Weakly, I lift my hand to wipe my tears. I can’t do this right now. I end the call while she’s still talking and squeeze my phone tightly in my hands.
I shove the phone into my pocket and storm out of the library.
For the first time in years, I let myself miss my mother so badly it physically hurts.
She never made me feel like I was too much or not enough.
She just loved Elena and I the same, and worked twice as hard to keep us equal, even when it was clear Father had already chosen a favorite.
I’m rounding a corner at the back of the west wing when I hear my name. I press against the wall and lean just enough to peek around. Three men stand close to the service door. I only recognize one—he’s one of the groundskeepers.
“She thinks she’s queen of the fucking castle now,” he mutters with disgust. “Prances around like she’s better than everyone.”
The man beside him lets out a dry laugh. “Master will get tired of her soon enough. He always does. Then maybe I’ll take a turn.”
“Better hope he leaves something worth taking,” the third one adds.
The groundskeeper spits on the floor. “She looks weird to me. I mean, nerdy glasses, and that red hair. Maybe if she dyed her hair she could actually look better.”
“Yeah, and her pale skin?” the third man cuts in. “She looks like a doll someone forgot to paint properly.”
A sharp sting pricks my chest as I continue to listen. I’ve never directly interacted with these men before. But as usual, I don’t need to do anything for people to perceive me wrongly.
“Doesn’t matter. Once the boss is done, bet I could fuck the attitude right out of her.”
The men laugh, then continue with a few more crude comments I wish I could unhear. Each word pierces into open wounds I pretend don’t exist. My eyes sting. I take one blind step back to retreat and thud into a wall.
Except it exhales. I whirl around, blinking furiously, and meet Dominic’s eyes. His hands close over my shoulders, and the dark, lethal look in his eyes tells me he heard, too. Shame floods me. I try to shrug off his hands, to stop the tears from rolling down my cheeks, but my attempt is useless.
His thumb brushes across my cheekbone, catching a drop. The gesture is startlingly gentle, so at odds with the violence I know brimming inside him. His jaw ticks twice, before he speaks.
“They’ll pay for every fucking tear.”
“Dominic, I—” I don’t even know what the sentence is. I’m okay. I’m not. Don’t make this worse. Please make this better.
His eyes cut past me, over my shoulder, and whatever lives there in his gaze makes the air thin. When he looks back down, the softness is gone, replaced by something cold and scary. His hands fall away, and for an absurd, humiliating second, I want them back on me. And I hate that I do.
I instinctively start walking to my room, softly shutting the door behind me, and leaning my forehead on the wood as I try to breathe.
Then the gunshots begin.
One. Two. Three. Four. My hands cover my ears like that will make me unhear the fifth and the sixth. Between them, there are voices screaming, the clatter of something metal, and then another shot that ends whatever was still moving.
I slide down the door until my knees are tight against my chest, and count the seconds after the last echo dies.
My mind does two things at once: recoils in horror, and unclenches with relief.
I hate both. I hate that I feel safer, knowing those men will never say my name with their filthy mouths again.
This is what protection looks like in Dominic’s world, and I hate even more that I crave it.
Hours later, I hear whispers about the bodies strung up in the hall, a warning message carved into their flesh.
I don’t ask what the words are.