Chapter 178 What Do You Think You Are?
Two days later, Isabella was discharged.
Her face was still pale as parchment, her lips bloodless, her frame so fragile it looked like a strong wind could knock her over.
When she returned to Sunshine Apartment and pushed open the door, William was sitting on the couch, a cigarette between his fingers. Smoke curled upward in the dim light, obscuring his expression but doing nothing to hide the suffocating pressure that radiated from him.
Isabella wasn't surprised. This man had always been like this — appearing whenever he pleased, controlling every corner of her life.
She held a competition notice in her hand and walked slowly toward him, her voice barely above a whisper. "Mr. Spencer, I need to go to the neighboring city next week for a design competition. Three days. I'm letting you know in advance."
She'd long since learned his rules: any trip required his approval. Any absence had to be justified. She had to be available at his beck and call. He hadn't contacted her once during her hospital stay, but now that she needed to leave the city, she knew he might not allow it.
But this competition — she had to go.
It had been Beatrice's greatest dream, the stage she'd longed for her entire life. Isabella would stand in her place, fulfill that unfinished dream.
It was one of the few reasons she had left to keep living.
William slowly lifted his gaze, his eyes lazy but predatory as they swept over her thin figure. He raised an eyebrow, his tone dripping with mockery. "You killed your sister, and you still have the nerve to enter the competition she cared about? Isabella, do you feel even a shred of guilt?"
The words were a dull blade, cutting into her chest slowly and cruelly.
Her body swayed. Her eyes flooded with tears, but she bit down hard on her lip to keep them from falling.
It wasn't his cruelty that hurt. It was the word "guilt" — because it struck the softest, most painful place inside her. The person she'd wronged most in this life was Beatrice.
And that was exactly why she had to fulfill Beatrice's dream.
"This competition is important to me." She lifted her head, her eyes filled with something close to pleading. "I promise I'll come back the moment it's over. Not a minute late. If you need me, I can come back overnight."
To go to this competition, she was willing to set aside every last shred of dignity.
William's contempt deepened. He crushed out his cigarette, his voice cutting. "You'll really debase yourself to get what you want, won't you?"
Isabella didn't argue. She only asked quietly, "What do you want me to do so you'll let me go?"
William leaned back, arms crossed, his tone laced with mockery and humiliation. "What do I want? Make me happy. Put me in a good mood, and maybe I'll let you go."
He'd forced her to imitate Beatrice countless times before. This was just another round of humiliation.
Isabella stood frozen, her fingers trembling slightly. She'd never known how to please anyone, much less this man who despised her to his core.
Every time she took a step closer, he shoved her away in disgust.
In her panic, an image of Beatrice flashed through her mind — Beatrice smiling, looping her arm through his, eyes bright and teasing, coaxing him with that soft, playful voice. It always softened his expression.
Isabella took a deep breath and forced a smile onto her face, one that resembled Beatrice's gentle warmth. She reached out slowly, her hand moving toward his arm.
The moment her fingers brushed his sleeve, William jerked away violently. The disgust in his eyes was enough to drown her.
"Get off me."
He grabbed her chin, his grip brutal, his fingers digging in so hard it felt like her jaw might shatter. Pain shot through her, and tears spilled down her cheeks.
"Isabella, you make me sick." His voice was venomous, his eyes churning with hatred. "You think you're worthy of imitating her? You think you can play that game with me? What the hell do you think you are?"
He'd forced her to mimic Beatrice before. But now, when she actually did it, all he felt was disgust, irritation — and something else, something sharp and painful he couldn't name. It wasn't punishment for Isabella. It was punishment for himself.
Isabella stood there, lost. She didn't know what she'd done wrong.
Was it that she hadn't imitated Beatrice well enough? Or was it that he simply couldn't stand her making any request at all?
"Just tell me what to do…" She was backed into a corner. Slowly, she began to undress, then sank to her knees in front of him, head bowed, waiting for his judgment.
William's chest tightened violently. Seeing her like this — so small, so broken — should have satisfied him. But instead, his heart felt like it was being crushed in a fist, the pain sharp and suffocating.
He hated how out of control he felt. He hated even more that she could so easily stir something primal in him.
He grabbed her roughly and threw her onto the couch. His gaze swept over the bruises still fading on her skin, and all his rage turned into something brutal and possessive.
No tenderness. No mercy. Just cold force and release.
Isabella didn't move. She even tilted her head back slightly, her eyes half-closed.
It didn't matter. As long as it satisfied him. As long as it bought her those three days of freedom. She could endure anything.
When he finally stopped, William stood and straightened his clothes, his tone flat and emotionless. "You can go to the competition. Three days. Not a second more. The moment it's over, you come back. One minute late, and you know what happens."
A faint flicker of light appeared in Isabella's eyes. She whispered, "I know. I'll come back right away."
William turned toward the bathroom. At the door, he tossed out coldly, "Take the pill."
Isabella dragged her aching body upright and opened the drawer. She shoved her antidepressants to the very back, out of sight.
He could never see them.
He already despised her. If he found out she was sick — really sick — he'd only hate her more. He might even take away the few freedoms she had left.
She pulled out the contraceptive pill and swallowed it with cold water, then slumped against the floor, too exhausted to move.
A moment later, William emerged from the bathroom. When he saw her sitting on the floor, his brow furrowed sharply. His tone was still harsh. "Go take a shower. If you end up back in the hospital over some stupid little thing, I'll make sure you never leave this apartment again."
Isabella didn't dare delay. She forced her unsteady legs to carry her into the bathroom.
The moment the door closed behind her, she slid down against the cold tile, pressed her hands to her face, and wept silently.