Chapter 3
Isabella walked home alone, the snow crunching under her shoes. The street was quiet, almost too quiet, and each step felt heavier than the last.
She had barely settled inside when the door pushed open. William staggered in, his arm draped possessively around a woman. The faint scent of alcohol clung to him, and though his movements were unsteady, his eyes were as sharp as ever—cold, cutting, and aimed directly at her.
"Go buy some condoms," he said, his voice flat but edged with something darker.
Her pulse kicked hard against her ribs. She looked up instinctively and met his gaze. It was like staring into a blade poised to drive straight into her chest.
She turned away, ready to shut herself behind her bedroom door, when his laugh stopped her. It was loud, exaggerated, dripping with mockery.
"I've changed my mind. You—come here."
His mouth twisted into something that might have been a smile if not for the shadow in his eyes. "Stand right there, Isabella. Don't forget your duty as a good wife."
Her pupils constricted, but she obeyed.
The woman's voice soon filled the room, soft and suggestive, every syllable sliding into Isabella's ears like poison.
"Mr. Spencer…"
"Call me William."
Each word was a blade, suspended above her head, ready to fall without warning. She closed her eyes, but the knife was already there, pressing in, cutting deep into her chest until breathing became a conscious effort.
She began counting seconds in her head. Less than half a minute later, the door opened again.
At that interval, nothing could have happened. Relief flickered through her.
William crossed the space in long strides, catching her chin between his fingers. His eyes were shadowed, unreadable. "Isabella, you're pathetic."
Her breath caught.
The woman appeared behind him, looping her arms around his waist. "Mr. Spencer, forget her. I'm ready."
"Get out," William snapped.
The woman's arms fell away instantly. Her face drained of color, and she stumbled toward the door, nearly tripping in her haste to leave.
Isabella's lashes trembled. His grip on her chin tightened until the pain was impossible to ignore.
"If it weren't for this face," he said, voice low and dangerous, "you'd end up just like her."
"You should be grateful you have the same face as Beatrice."
He dragged her toward the mirror. The sharp pull sliced into her thigh, leaving a thin line of blood that crept downward. He didn't seem to notice—or didn't care.
Her eyes widened in panic as she realized what he might do. Her mouth opened in a desperate plea, the air in her lungs thinning with each second.
"No… no!"
In the mirror, her reflection stared back—Beatrice's face, or close enough to it—twisted in fear, eyes red, tears spilling without permission.
William's grip was unyielding, his gaze burning with fury. "Look closely, Isabella. Look at Beatrice. Do you know how much pain she was in when she died? Look!"
She squeezed her eyes shut, but the images clawed at her mind anyway.
'No… no… Please, Beatrice, don't save me…'
She had seen the photographs. Full-body burns. The doctors had said there was no mistaking it—this was her sister. But Isabella had struggled to believe it.
Her vision blurred. Her mouth worked soundlessly, opening and closing, unable to form a single word.
Was this really her sister?
She couldn't see any trace of Beatrice in what remained.
She had learned then that people could be reduced to nothing. That a single fire could erase a lifetime.
She had carried Beatrice into the crematorium herself. The urn had been heavy—just like the first time she had held Beatrice's hand.
"Look at yourself," William said, forcing her eyes open. "Tell me how you'll repay everything she gave you."
Her head shook violently. Her hands clutched at her skull. "No… no…"
Nightmares surged through her—Beatrice with her eyes shut tight, unreachable no matter how she called. Snow falling again and again, until flames rose and devoured everything.
Cold sweat drenched her skin. Her eyes widened, her stomach heaved, and she gagged over and over, shaking her head like she could erase the images.
She backed away, but the mirror seemed to follow, the reflection growing larger, closer.
"Don't look at me… Beatrice, no…"
William's laugh was sharp, almost amused. He finally let go. Without his grip, she crumpled to the floor.
Her mind was blank. She curled into herself, staring at the mirror. The face that looked back was numb, lifeless.
She realized then she didn't look like Beatrice at all.
They had been raised apart. Their parents had taken Beatrice to the city while leaving Isabella with her grandparents in the countryside.
Beatrice had been confident, vibrant, the perfect child in everyone's eyes. Isabella had been quiet, overlooked, like a weed growing in the corner.
The room's light flickered once before going dark. William left without another word.
The last trace of light slipped away, and Isabella stayed where she was, unmoving, her gaze fixed on nothing.
The next day, her phone rang.
It was her father, Benjamin Tudor. His voice was tired, tinged with something like regret. "Come have dinner, Isabella. I miss you. Your mother… she misses you too."
She agreed.
She had no right to complain. She had to live for Beatrice now, to take care of their parents in her place.
When she reached the gated community, she remembered she didn't have access. She waited outside until snow piled on her shoulders.
Benjamin arrived at last. "Oh, I almost forgot," he said as they walked. "Since… Beatrice left, the house has been quiet. Your mother invited a guest today."
"Alright," she murmured, barely listening.
Inside, she noticed a pair of shoes she didn't recognize.
She hesitated, then stepped into the living room.
A girl in a white dress stood beside her mother, Isla York. Her smile was warm, bright, and strangely familiar. Isabella couldn't place it at first, but the feeling grew with every step she took.
Her teeth dug into her lip. Her heart clenched, as if caught in a merciless grip.
The girl leaned toward Isla, saying something that made her laugh—real laughter, the kind Isabella hadn't heard from her in years.
When Isla noticed her, the warmth vanished. Her eyes hardened, as if she'd seen something unpleasant.
The girl followed her gaze. "Godmother, who's that?" she asked, her voice light and curious.
Isabella froze. Her pupils dilated. The cold hit her like a plunge into deep water, locking her muscles, freezing her blood.
It was a face more like Beatrice's than her own.