Chapter 110 The Hollow in His Heart
Isabella spotted Manuel at the end of the corridor and hurried toward him, inclining her head respectfully.
"Thank you for this. I'll leave now."
Manuel sighed softly. "Go. Take care of yourself."
Isabella nodded and turned away, tears streaming down her face unchecked.
Despite his coldness toward her, Manuel had granted her this final wish. He had never blamed her, never condemned her.
He was a good man—honorable, doing what he believed was right to protect the Mellon family bloodline.
Men like him raised men like Ambrose—passionate, principled, unafraid to stand for something.
Isabella would carry this debt of gratitude forever.
When she returned to her room, it was four in the morning. Sleep was impossible. She sat by the window, watching darkness fade to gray, waiting for dawn.
As light crept across the sky, footsteps echoed in the corridor. She could hear movement from the VIP wing—they were preparing Ambrose for discharge.
This time, Isabella stayed put. She would not go to him.
She felt no regret. Only crushing guilt.
Ambrose could walk now, but barely. He sat in a wheelchair, still weak.
Manuel walked ahead, filling him in on family matters, relationships, connections he would need to remember.
Ambrose listened carefully, but something felt missing. Like a puzzle with pieces gone.
"Grandfather, is that everything?"
Manuel hesitated. "That's all that matters. Anything I left out isn't important."
Ambrose nodded slowly. "Alright."
But the hollow feeling remained, gnawing at him. He could not name what was missing.
Ambrose left the country for treatment. Isabella was glad for him. Part of her seemed to follow him across the ocean, leaving her drifting, untethered.
William came to see her at the hospital. Her wounds had healed—no more IVs needed. He had Dylan process her discharge papers and brought her back to Rosewood Estate, installing her in his bedroom.
That night, William stripped every piece of clothing from her body and took her with ruthless intensity until dawn broke.
He forbade her from wearing clothes. She was to wait for him naked every day. Even meals were left outside the door by servants who would not meet her eyes.
He was destroying her dignity piece by piece, crushing whatever spark remained in her into the ground.
He wanted her to stop thinking about anyone else. To stop thinking about Ambrose.
Isabella drifted through the days in a fog, forgetting to eat. Once, she collapsed from hunger. The servants called the family doctor, who started her on IV nutrition.
When William found out, he dragged her into the bathroom the moment she woke and punished her savagely. She vomited until there was nothing left, unable to stand afterward. He forced her to promise she would eat on schedule—or face worse.
After that, the mere thought of his violence made her force food into her mouth mechanically, swallowing whether she could manage it or not.
She ate until she was sick, until tears ran down her face.
The servants took pity on her, switching to nutritional porridge. At least she could keep that down.
Isabella spent two weeks locked in that room. She never crossed the threshold, never spoke a word. She lay in bed like something switched off, waiting for her master to return and bring her back to life.
William took her every day—morning, afternoon, night, whenever the urge struck.
He did not understand it himself, this violence that erupted whenever he looked at her. He needed to consume her completely, as if that was the only way to release the pressure building inside him.
Watching her fade day by day, William realized he did not want an empty shell. He returned her phone.
"You can move around the estate now. But you don't leave."
He had confiscated her phone the day she arrived at Rosewood Estate.
Isabella did not care about leaving the room. On this point, she and William were aligned—she just needed to be alive. How she lived did not matter.
Still, when she saw the phone, something flickered in her eyes. Maybe her parents had tried to reach her.
She opened her contacts. William had deleted everyone except himself.
She looked up at him. William's voice was flat. "Your parents don't want you anyway. Even if you had their numbers, they wouldn't call."
The words sank into her chest like a blade.
But she still wanted their love. Even if they did not love her, did not want her—she would keep loving them.
Beatrice had asked her in that dream to take care of their parents, to stay with William. She had managed one out of two. But she could not be near her parents now.
Would Beatrice blame her for failing? Could Beatrice see them from wherever she was? Isabella missed her sister so much. Sometimes she hoped death would come soon, so she could find Beatrice again.
That night, William did not come home. Isabella stood on the balcony, staring up at the stars scattered across the black sky. Some say the dead become stars. Her sister and grandmother must be up there somewhere.
She hoped one day she would become a star too, keeping them company forever.
The phone rang. Isabella went inside and answered. Dylan's voice came through the speaker.
"Ms. Tudor, Mr. Spencer is drunk. He wants you to pick him up."
Isabella was surprised. William wanted her to come get him?
She did not want to go to some bar stinking of alcohol and despair.
"I'm sorry, he doesn't let me leave. Could you bring him home?"
William's voice erupted in the background. "Get over here! Now!"
He would not tolerate defiance. When he gave an order, she obeyed.
"Alright."
Isabella hung up. The address came through a moment later. She pulled on a coat and headed downstairs. One of the servants saw her and looked concerned. "Ms. Tudor, it's so late. You're going out?"
The Rosewood Estate staff had been kind to her, making her porridge every day. Isabella recognized it for what it was—compassion.
"He's drunk. He wants me to pick him up."
"You won't get a cab out here. Can you drive? I'll get you keys."
Isabella nodded. "Yes. Thank you."
The servant fetched the keys and walked her to the garage. In this cold, sterile estate, the small gesture felt like warmth after a long winter.
"Take this one. Drive carefully."
"Thank you."
Isabella had not driven in months. Her hands felt clumsy on the ignition. In daylight, she would never risk it, but at this hour the roads would be empty. She could manage.
This was a gated community in the hills—no cabs came out here. She knew if she made William wait too long, there would be hell to pay.
Not that she cared what he would do to her. But her body had learned to obey him automatically.
She pulled onto the main road. Darkness stretched ahead, broken only by occasional headlights. She gripped the steering wheel and drove carefully into the night.