Chapter 13 This Is Her First Time
William's hand closed around her pale thigh. Then he froze.
Her body was rigid beneath him, cold as marble. Almost lifeless.
He looked down at Isabella. Her hair was a tangled mess, tear tracks streaking from the corners of her eyes. Blood from her split lip had trickled down her chin, mingling with the bruises and bite marks covering her skin.
The emptiness in her eyes hit him like a knife to the chest.
The pounding on the door grew louder, more frantic. Voices called out, sharp with worry.
William's throat worked. For a moment, he didn't know what to do. His grip loosened. The rage that had consumed him deflated like a punctured balloon.
"Get out."
The word came out cold, but there was something raw beneath it—something he didn't recognize.
Isabella didn't move. She stared at nothing, her mind struggling to process the command. Three full seconds passed before William turned his head away in irritation. Only then did she seem to understand.
The tie binding her wrists slackened. She scrambled off the couch, her movements clumsy and desperate. She grabbed her torn clothes from the floor, not bothering with dignity, just pulling them on however they would fit.
The collar of her blouse was ripped, two buttons missing. The zipper on her pants was broken. She held the fabric together with trembling hands and bolted for the door, barefoot.
The moment she yanked it open, Thalia's worried face filled her vision.
Thalia's eyes went wide. She took in Isabella's disheveled state—the torn clothes, the bruises, the blood—and gasped. Without a word, she stripped off her blazer and wrapped it around Isabella's shaking body.
"Isabella, what did he do to you?" Thalia steadied her as she swayed, her voice thick with concern. "You're safe now. I'm here."
Isabella leaned into her shoulder, her legs giving out. The tears she'd been holding back finally broke free, soaking into Thalia's blouse.
The heat of those tears made Thalia's chest tighten. "He's a monster," she whispered, her voice shaking with anger. She wiped the tears from Isabella's face, her tone turning urgent. "You can't keep living like this. Why do you stay with someone who treats you this way? What happened to the woman you used to be? The one who was fearless and proud?"
Once, Isabella could hold her head high. Beatrice had always been there, supporting her unconditionally.
But now, that pride had been ground down, crushed into dust.
William hated her. Of course he did. She was just a stand-in for Beatrice, a target for his rage. She had no right to pride.
"I killed my sister… I deserve this…"
Inside the room, William stood by the door, hearing every word.
His hands clenched at his sides. So that was it. Her submission, her self-abasement—it wasn't weakness. It was guilt.
Good. She should live with that guilt for the rest of her life.
William tugged at his collar in frustration and turned to grab his jacket. His hand brushed against the tie on the couch, and he froze.
A dark stain spread across the fabric beneath it. Blood.
Her blood.
This was her first time.
William's expression darkened, unreadable. His eyes were like a frozen lake, emotions buried too deep to name.
"William, there you are."
Juniper's voice cut through the silence. She appeared in the doorway, her tone sweet and coaxing.
William instinctively grabbed a cushion and covered the bloodstain. He turned to face her.
Juniper tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and looped her arm through his, her voice soft but laced with something sharper. "I overheard Isabella talking to her boss earlier. She seemed pretty happy. I think she went to find Thomas again. Don't you think there's something going on between them? Why else would they—"
"Shut up."
The command was ice-cold, cutting her off mid-sentence.
Juniper flinched, her face going pale. The fury in his eyes silenced her completely.
This wasn't right. He hated Isabella. He'd never defended her before, no matter what anyone said. But now…
Had something changed between them?
William didn't look at her again. He strode out of the room, his posture rigid, his mood darker than ever.
The next morning, Isabella dressed in a high-necked sweater, covering every inch of exposed skin. It was the only way to hide the marks on her neck.
She had to go to work. Her job was the only thing keeping her tethered to reality, the only proof she was still alive.
She slung her bag over her shoulder and headed downstairs, only to find William blocking her path.
He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, dressed in a black suit that made him look even colder than usual.
"You're not going."
Isabella blinked. "Why not?"
"I already quit for you." His gaze dropped to her turtleneck, and his expression darkened. "Isabella, if you're going to be your sister's replacement, you need to act like it."
He stepped closer, towering over her.
"Beatrice didn't like being out in public. She didn't like working. So you'll stay home. You don't go anywhere unless I say so."
That wasn't true. Beatrice hadn't disliked work—she'd just hated the job her family forced on her.
But no one knew that. Beatrice had shared those secrets only with Isabella.
"This job is important to me. I don't want to quit." Isabella's voice was quiet but firm, trying to stand her ground the way Thalia had urged her to.
William raised an eyebrow. She hadn't fought back when he'd thrown her into the ocean, but now she was defying him over a job?
At least in this moment, she seemed alive.
But she didn't deserve that.
William's hand shot out, wrapping around her throat and yanking her close.
"Isabella, you killed your sister. You're alive to atone for that. What makes you think you have the right to do what you want?"
Isabella's resolve crumbled. He was right.
What right did she have to pursue her own happiness?
She deserved to be punished. That was the only way to atone.
Her bag slipped from her shoulder. The light in her eyes dimmed, replaced by a hollow emptiness.
"You're right. I don't deserve to work."
William's chest tightened with irritation. He shoved her aside, harder than he intended.
Isabella, already unsteady, stumbled backward and hit the banister. She crumpled onto the stairs.
"That's better. Now get back to your room and think about what you've done. You don't leave until I say so. Remember your place."
Isabella winced as she pushed herself up, gripping the railing. When she let go, a smear of blood marked the wood. She'd reopened the wounds on her hand from the fall.
The injuries from before hadn't healed. Now they were torn open again.
She didn't seem to notice the pain. She climbed the stairs slowly, mechanically, and disappeared into her room, closing the door behind her.
William stood at the bottom of the stairs, staring at the blood on the railing.
A strange tightness gripped his chest, making it hard to breathe.
It was her fault. Isabella's existence made him furious. She had to live in misery, broken and degraded, or the hatred in his heart would never be satisfied.
That was what he told himself.
But the ache in his chest didn't go away.