Chapter 1
"William, marry me."
The voice cut through the solemn air of the funeral like a blade of glass. Cold, steady, and without a tremor, it shattered the quiet sobs that had filled the hall.
Heads turned. Faces streaked with tears froze in disbelief. The weight of grief was suspended midair, replaced by the echo of those words.
William Spencer spun around. His eyes, already bloodshot, locked on the girl standing in the center of the crowd. "Say that again."
Isabella Tudor stood in a black dress, her posture unyielding under the scrutiny. She repeated, mechanical, void of emotion, "I want you to marry me."
The slap landed before the last syllable faded.
Her head snapped to the side, the sting blooming across her cheek. She did not flinch. She did not raise a hand in defense. Her gaze remained hollow.
It was her twin sister's funeral. And she had just asked her sister's fiancé to marry her.
Her mother's hand trembled. "Do you have any shame? That man was your sister's fiancé!"
Her voice broke into a scream. "I regret ever giving birth to you! Why wasn't it you? Why!"
A whisper of contempt rippled through the guests.
"Her own sister died, and she didn't shed a single tear. Cold as stone."
"Not even a few days have passed, and she's already trying to take her sister's man."
William's fists clenched so tight his knuckles blanched. His voice was a growl. "Isabella, do you even have a heart? If it weren't for you, today would have been my wedding to Beatrice. Why wasn't it you who died?"
'Yes… why wasn't it me,' she thought.
Isabella turned stiffly toward the altar. The photograph of a girl who looked so much like her smiled brightly, as if the fire three nights ago had been nothing but a bad dream.
Three nights ago.
The fire had come without warning, trapping them both inside. Smoke filled her lungs. Her vision dimmed. She collapsed.
Through the haze, she felt something pressed against her face. Beatrice was strapping the only gas mask over her twin's mouth.
She tried to fight it, but her throat was raw, her voice gone, her limbs useless. Tears streamed down her face as she shook her head.
"No… please, Beatrice… no."
Beatrice only smiled, shaking her head, just as she had when they were children. She took Isabella's hand, her voice a whisper against the roar of the flames.
"Isabella… live for me. I know you love William too. Then love him… for me."
When she woke, they told her Beatrice was gone.
The pain in her chest was a thousand needles, each breath a tear in her lungs. No one would ever hold her hand again and say, Don't be afraid. I'm here.
She no longer had a sister.
The grief and guilt swelled until they filled her ribs. She drew in a slow breath and repeated, "William, marry me."
William's gaze was ice. He stared at her for a long moment, then his mouth curved into a smile that could freeze bone.
"If you're so determined… I'll grant your wish."
He stepped close, his voice low and venomous. "Remember this. Whatever happens from now on… you brought it on yourself."
His shoulder slammed into hers as he passed. He didn't look back.
Isabella remained where she stood.
The ache in her shoulder was nothing compared to the suffocating weight that wrapped around her like a net, stealing her breath.
She didn't know how long she stayed there—through the fall of night, into the pale wash of dawn.
A week later, the wedding that should have been William and Beatrice's took place… with a different bride.
There were only a handful of guests. Even her parents stayed away.
No flowers. No music.
Rain fell in sheets, cold against her skin.
She couldn't tell if the wetness on her cheeks was rain or tears. Wearing the gown Beatrice had chosen months ago, she straightened her spine and walked forward.
The first egg hit without warning.
The foul liquid slid down her hair, the stench curling into the air.
She hesitated for half a heartbeat, bit down hard, and kept walking. Rain washed the slime down her dress.
"Disgusting… stealing your sister's fiancé."
"She died saving you, and you have no shame."
More eggs followed, each impact dull against her skin. She no longer felt them. She walked the length of the aisle.
Her lips moved without sound. "I do."
In her mind, she whispered, 'Beatrice… happy wedding day. From now on, I'll live for you.'
At home, she removed the gown and washed it until no stain remained. From five in the afternoon until midnight, she sat in silence, watching the clock tick.
It was past midnight when William pushed open the door, reeking of alcohol. His eyes narrowed in distaste. "Who told you you could be here?"
"I'm your wife now." She lowered her gaze. "I made sobering soup. Drink some."
She had barely lifted the bowl when it tipped, the hot liquid spilling over her, searing her skin.
Her expression didn't change.
She knelt, gathering the shards of broken glass.
William's laugh was sharp. "Does it hurt? Beatrice hurt a thousand times worse. The doctors said she was burned over her entire body."
Every word was a blade.
Beatrice had loved beauty all her life.
How much pain had she felt? How much fear? Her skin destroyed, while Isabella's remained untouched.
What had she thought in those final moments?
Isabella closed her eyes. Tears slid down without a sound.
William's anger surged. He kicked her into the glass.
Shards bit into her skin, blood welling in fine lines. She didn't flinch, only continued to pick up the pieces.
Her fingers bled, but she moved as if numb.
His voice was ice. "She protected you until the end. Your life is hers. Remember—everything you suffer now… you deserve."
"Live well. I'll make sure you regret marrying me."
He hauled her up, throwing her onto the bed, his hands rough, his touch brutal.
Pain tore through her body. Her eyes widened, catching the photograph on the nightstand—Beatrice, smiling.
Cold poured through her veins. She struggled, tears streaking down her face.
"No… don't!"
Her stomach churned. Pain spread like wildfire. Her face drained of color. Her scream broke into a hollow gasp.
William's grip twisted in her hair. "Isn't this what you wanted?"
Her blood ran cold. A ringing filled her ears. Then… nothing.
Everyone asked her why it wasn't her who died.
No one knew she asked herself the same question more than anyone else.
'Beatrice… why… why wasn't it me?'
A single tear slipped down her cheek. Her head fell forward, her chest hollowed out as if something had been torn away.
If it had been her who died… how much easier that would have been.