Chapter 7 Made to Suffer
The crystal chandeliers spilled rivers of light across the ballroom, each prism catching the music and scattering it into glittering fragments. The waltz swelled and dipped, wrapping the room in a delicate haze of elegance.
Isabella moved through it like a ghost. She wore the couture gown William had chosen for her--one of the dresses that should have belonged to Beatrice. Every stitch, every line of silk was meant for her sister, not her. Now it clung to Isabella's body like a lie.
The white skirt trailed across the polished floor, making her look like a porcelain doll teetering on the edge of a shelf. Would Beatrice have liked her this way? Would she have smiled, or turned away?
The bruise at her lower back throbbed under the tight cinch of the corset. Every step sent pain crawling up her spine, biting into her neck. She gripped the skirt in one hand just to keep herself upright.
In the center of the dance floor, William held Juniper in a perfect frame. His posture was sharp, his movements precise. Juniper's laugh was bright enough to light the room, her smile a practiced weapon. Together they looked like they had been made for each other, drawing every pair of eyes.
Juniper's gaze found Isabella. The smile on her lips deepened into something victorious. She leaned closer to William, her shoulder brushing his chest.
'Beatrice... are you watching? Someone fits at his side far better than I ever could,' she thought.
Juniper's skirt flared as she spun, bringing her close enough to bump Isabella's shoulder.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, Isabella," she said, her tone pitched to mimic Beatrice's warmth but stripped of any real apology. "There are so many people here--I didn't see you."
Laughter rippled through the crowd.
"Isn't that the little viper who stepped over Beatrice's grave to get here? Look at her--dead eyes at a party. What a drag."
"Wearing that and acting like she's too good to smile. Who does she think she is?"
"If she didn't want to be here, she should have stayed home. Seeing her is exhausting."
"She doesn't even realize how perfect Mr. Spencer and Ms. Miller look together. If I were her, I'd have vanished already."
The words pricked at her ears like needles. Isabella kept her gaze down, staring at the blurred shadow of herself on the floor. Her palm throbbed where the cuts still hadn't closed. The shards of her grandmother's watch pressed against her ribs, a weight she couldn't set down.
She couldn't put it anywhere. She couldn't risk losing it. Just like she had lost her grandmother. Just like she had lost Beatrice.
Pain knotted with grief until even breathing felt like labor. Her head hummed with a low, constant ring. The room swayed around her. Her stomach churned.
Her knees softened. She was going to fall.
An arm steadied her, firm but careful. "May I have this dance?" The voice was deep, familiar. She turned and saw the man who had pulled her from the water--William's cousin, Thomas Spencer. They had met only twice before, exchanging polite greetings. In the chaos of the sea, she hadn't recognized him.
"Mr. Spencer... thank you for saving me."
His brow creased. "I wasn't saving you."
She blinked. "Then who?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he offered his hand. "I don't have a partner tonight. If you want to thank me, be mine for this dance."
She hesitated, starting to refuse, but his fingers closed gently around her wrist. His touch was cool, his grip light, as though afraid she might shatter.
"Don't just stand there," he murmured. "If you keep doing this, they'll only laugh harder."
He guided her toward the floor, his palm settling at her waist with a care that avoided her injury. His broad frame shielded her from the worst of the stares.
Her steps were uneven, her body stiff. Pain shivered through her with every step. Thomas slowed their pace, adjusting his stance so she could lean into him without drawing notice. His hand at her waist pressed just enough to take some of her weight.
She looked up at him, bewildered. Why would a man she barely knew risk himself for her? When everyone else had discarded her, he was here, dancing with her.
"Mr. Spencer... why help me?"
"Because I know Beatrice wouldn't want you dead."
Of course. Beatrice again. Beatrice, who had been loved by everyone.
Across the room, William's dance faltered. His jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing into something sharp enough to cut. His grip on Juniper's hand tightened until she gasped.
"William? What's wrong?"
His gaze was locked on Isabella and Thomas's joined hands, fury rising like a tide. Juniper followed his stare, shifting her position to block his view, but he pulled her aside without thinking.
He watched Thomas's arm around Isabella's waist, rage burning in his chest.
When the song ended, Thomas released her with care, leading her to the side and handing her a glass of warm water. "You're not in good shape. You should see a doctor."
She nodded, grateful, and had barely taken a sip when William appeared. His face was carved from ice. He seized her arm. "Come with me."
Thomas stepped in, his eyes dark. "William. Don't go too far."
"My business isn't yours." William shoved past him and dragged Isabella toward a private dining room.
The air inside was thick with alcohol. William let go of her, poured himself a glass of whiskey, and threw it back. It didn't cool the fire in his chest. He slammed the glass onto the table hard enough to make the room flinch.
The others inside turned toward Isabella with open hostility. If she hadn't come, William wouldn't be angry. She was ruining their night.
One of the women crossed to the bar, selecting a bottle of high-proof liquor. She poured it into the largest glass she could find and handed it to Isabella with a sweet smile. "Mrs. Spencer, you've upset Mr. Spencer. Drink this to apologize, or we'll all suffer for it."
William said nothing. The others took it as permission.
"One glass isn't enough. Make it three."
"Three bottles would be better. She seduced her own brother-in-law--what's a little booze?"
The words barely touched her anymore. Since the day she agreed to marry William, they had been a constant chorus.
She was an outcast, spit on by the whole city. No matter where she went, there were only hostile eyes and sharp tongues.
The woman shoved the glass into her hand. "What are you waiting for? Drink. Or do you want Mr. Spencer to pour it down your throat himself?"
Isabella lifted her eyes to William. His face was unreadable. That meant yes--he wanted her to drink. He loved watching her suffer.
She looked at the amber liquid swirling in the glass, its scent sharp enough to burn her nose. Her stomach twisted. Her body was already at its limit. Her head swam. She couldn't handle something this strong.
She looked at William again. His eyes held nothing but open disgust.
She smiled. It was a small smile, fragile, carrying a despair that felt one breath away from shattering.