Chapter 151 Discovering Her Secret
Donny pulled the car door open and guided her inside, his hand steady at her elbow.
Isabella glanced back toward the porch. Hermione and Rodolfo stood there, waving. She lifted her hand in return, holding the smile until the engine started. The moment the car rolled forward, her vision blurred, and the tears she'd been holding back spilled over.
"If you miss them," Donny said quietly, "you can come back anytime."
She nodded. "I will."
His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. "I heard the cottage rebuild starts in a few days. Will you be around for that? If you are, let me know ahead of time—I'll meet you at the station."
"I'll come back," she said after a beat.
She wanted to see it herself. Only then would she feel at ease.
"I'll pick you up," he offered.
She looked at him, weighing it for a moment, then shook her head. "You're busy enough. I'll call a car."
"All right. Just call me if you need anything." He didn't want her to feel pressured.
The road from town to the station usually felt long, uneven. Today it was too smooth, too short. In what seemed like seconds, they were there.
He walked her to the platform, watched her climb aboard. She took a window seat and waved. He stood there until the bus pulled away, the emptiness settling heavier than he'd expected.
Back at the community clinic, his phone rang. A friend's voice told him the information he'd requested was in his inbox.
He opened his laptop, clicking through with a restless urgency. Video after video played—each showing Isabella hurt. He skipped past the footage, scrolling to the documents. That was where he saw it: Beatrice burned to death.
The town didn't know. Isabella never mentioned it. She'd even said her sister was married. Delusion, the file called it.
The report said Isabella had stood at her sister's grave and asked William to marry her. On the wedding day, she was alone. The media had torn her apart, headline after headline, each one a public flogging.
He saw images of William escorting her to events, her body marked with fresh wounds each time. He saw her taken to Blackthorn Compound, tortured for half a month. Kidnapped. Fingers severed. Two gunshot wounds. More brutal moments than he could count. And the people who tried to help her—hurt, trapped, destroyed.
No wonder Thalia had warned him. Don't get close until you know everything. It wasn't advice. It was a warning: proximity to Isabella was dangerous.
Everyone said she deserved it. That marrying the man her sister loved was her punishment.
Donny didn't buy it. A woman that proud wouldn't do something like that without a reason.
He dug for footage of the fire, found a clip of Beatrice and Isabella's last conversation. The flames roared too loud to hear, so he read Beatrice's lips. One word stood out—William. Then Beatrice turned away. He couldn't see her face, but Isabella's expression told its own story—pain, raw and unguarded.
He replayed it over and over until the truth formed. She didn't love William. The marriage had to be tied to whatever Beatrice said before she died.
If he was right, Isabella had married William because it was her sister's dying wish. She stayed through all the cruelty because she'd promised. She forced herself to accept it, until her mind began to fracture.
His chest constricted. He grabbed his phone and called Thalia.
She wasn't surprised to see his name on the screen. She knew him—once he decided on something, he never let go.
She answered, but he spoke first. "I know."
Thalia sighed. "Then you understand why you need to keep your distance..."
"I'm not walking away," he cut in. "I just wanted you to know—I know why she has to stay with William. And I'm going to fix it."
Isabella's refusal to leave wasn't just about Beatrice's wish. It was about her mental state. If he could pull her out of that pain, she'd leave.
Thalia's voice sharpened. "Are you sure? You know what happens to people who get close to her husband."
"I'm not afraid. I'm going to get her out."
His tone didn't waver.
Thalia hesitated, then said, "Fine. She's my employee. I'll look after her."
"Thank you. I won't forget this."
When the call ended, Donny started contacting hospitals Isabella had visited, searching for her medical records. He wouldn't give up. Just like she hadn't given up on him once.
Night had fallen by the time Isabella returned to Sunshine Apartment. She unlocked the door and stepped inside. William was on the sofa, waiting.
She didn't flinch. Nothing he did surprised her anymore. If he wanted to be somewhere, locked doors wouldn't stop him.
She wondered what Beatrice would say if she were here.
Beatrice had always shared. Anything good, she'd offer it to others.
Isabella set her bag on the table, unzipped it, and pulled out a bundle of local specialties—things Hermione had stuffed inside before she left. She'd told Hermione she'd be back in three days, but the older woman had kept packing.
"Have you eaten?" she asked. "I can make something."
From the moment she walked in, William's eyes had been on her. She looked at him and saw nothing—just air.
Something about her was different, though he couldn't name it. He didn't want food. He was restless. Yesterday he'd come knocking, gotten no answer, kicked the door in. Found the apartment empty. Dylan told him she'd gone home with an architect. He'd had the door repaired and left.
Today he came back because his skin felt wrong, his body unsettled, and sitting here was the only thing that eased it.
He grabbed her wrist suddenly, yanked her down into his lap, and crushed his mouth to hers.
The kiss was hard, teeth scraping her lips, as if he meant to consume her.
Isabella's gaze drifted to the window, searching. Last time, Beatrice had seen them together. Was she here now?
No. Thank God, no.
She didn't want Beatrice to see this version of her.
William's hands were impatient, tearing at her clothes. His palm slid under the fabric, from her spine to her chest, squeezing hard. His teeth found her skin, biting until her brow knotted.
He didn't care she'd just come in from outside. He stripped her, shoved her legs apart, and forced himself inside.
Her stomach was already unsettled. His roughness made it worse, the nausea curling deep and sharp.