Chapter 153 Stains That Never Fade
Benjamin had planned to cover the cost for her. He never got the chance. Isla found out.
She didn't yell. She didn't plead. She stood in their living room and told him, her voice steady, that if he ever helped Isabella again—even for one minute—she would step off the balcony. Right then. No hesitation.
Then she called the bank and froze his accounts. Every dollar Benjamin spent now came through Isla. There was no way to slip anything to Isabella.
All he could do was ask Bruce to keep an eye on her. Thankfully, Isabella was holding her own. She was back at work, and Benjamin believed she'd get that cottage built.
That night, Isabella stayed late. Thalia found her bent over tomorrow's files and tapped her shoulder.
"Isabella, you can go home now. You know I don't pay overtime, right?"
Isabella looked up. "Ms. Wesley, I don't need overtime pay. I just want to finish the next two days' work ahead of schedule, so I can take Wednesday off. Is that okay?"
Wednesday mattered. The cottage would break ground, and she wanted to see it with her own eyes.
Thalia's smile was warm. "Of course. I know you're going back Wednesday, but you don't need to rush. The timeline's fine. You should focus more on the competition prep."
Isabella's chest tightened with gratitude. Thalia always thought ahead for her. "Thank you, Ms. Wesley. I'll do my best."
"Go home and rest."
Isabella nodded, packed her things, and headed back to her apartment. She needed time to watch competition footage. This year's event would draw some of the biggest names in jewelry design. Her odds weren't high. She'd have to work harder than anyone else.
She cooked two dishes in the kitchen and set them on the table. She was about to eat when footsteps approached outside the door. She stood up so fast the chair legs scraped the floor. She opened the door before the knock came.
William was there, his hand hovering over the keypad. Surprise flickered across his face. She shouldn't have known he was coming.
She didn't know how she knew. Maybe Beatrice told her. Just minutes ago, she'd thought she saw her sister sitting beside her, whispering, 'William's here.'
She smiled like Beatrice used to, speaking in her tone. "William, do you want to eat? I made scrambled eggs with roasted tomatoes… and egg custard."
His expression darkened. Those were Beatrice's favorite dishes.
William's eyes dropped to the table. In his memory, back when he was with Beatrice, Isabella had sometimes been there. She'd joked that Beatrice couldn't go a day without eggs. Now Isabella cooked them almost every meal.
She was trying too hard. Mimicking too much. She was not Beatrice.
"Eat it," he said sharply.
She sat down without argument, scooping food into her mouth without hesitation or complaint.
"You make me sick," William muttered.
She kept eating, as if she hadn't heard. He hated that. In one swift motion, he flipped the table.
She stared at him, confused. The bowl in her hands trembled. Food was scattered across the floor.
Beatrice hated waste. These were her favorite dishes. How could they be on the floor?
Isabella crouched quickly, reaching for the food with her bare hands. William's boot came down on her wrist.
"What the hell are you doing?" His voice was sharp.
She didn't flinch. "Can't waste it."
He studied her face. She meant it. She wasn't faking. She was still capable of making him despise her more.
"You think all this is going to get my attention?" His voice was low, dangerous. "Well, it worked."
He shoved her back to the floor, tearing at her clothes. Oil from the spilled food smeared over her skin, slick and cold. He grabbed her legs, dragging her through the mess until she was covered in it.
"Stop… don't do this…" Her voice broke. She didn't want to ruin what her sister loved. The feel of it made her skin crawl.
William didn't stop. He stripped away her dignity until nothing was left. The oil glistened against her pale skin. He didn't like the sight of it. He hauled her into the bathroom and threw her to the tiles like she was nothing.
She lay there, unmoving. Beatrice would never forgive her now.
"Clean yourself up. If you don't, you're not going back to the town."
She had to go back. She pushed herself up, turned on the shower, poured half a bottle of body wash over herself. Soap followed. She scrubbed until her skin burned. Still, she couldn't wash it off.
It wasn't the oil. It was the guilt. The stain of Beatrice's death.
William's patience snapped. He came in, pressed her against the wall, taking her again with a kind of cruelty that made her mind go blank.
She didn't know how long it lasted. She woke later, still on the bathroom floor, the air damp and cold. He hadn't even carried her to bed.
Her head felt light. Maybe she'd caught a chill. She turned on the hot water, forcing warmth into her skin. She couldn't get sick. She had to check the progress in town.
She opened the wardrobe and took out Beatrice's favorite red dress. The fabric slid over her skin with a whisper of coolness. She stood in front of the mirror, shaping her mouth into Beatrice's smile—the one that was light and certain.
The air felt like it carried her sister's presence.
Beatrice was like that dress—bright, warm, impossible to ignore.
At the office, a small cake sat on her desk. She walked toward Thalia's office, but the woman wasn't inside. Was the cake from her?
Thalia came in just as Isabella turned. "Morning, Isabella. You got the cake, right? It's still promo day, but a different flavor."
"Ms. Wesley, thank you… but you don't have to keep buying me these."
"I thought you liked sweets."
She used to. But she wasn't meant to have her own preferences. She was living for her sister now.
"Not anymore."
"Then tell me what you do like. Consider it part of your benefits."
Isabella thought for a moment. "Eggs. I like eggs."
Thalia laughed. "Eggs as a company perk? People would think I'm cheap."
Isabella's face stayed serious. Thalia realized she wasn't joking.
"Isabella, you deserve better. Don't stay trapped in the past."
"Thank you, Ms. Wesley. But I really do like eggs."
Thalia looked at her smile and felt a flicker of discomfort. "Isabella… don't smile like that. It's worse than crying."
"Really?" Isabella touched her own cheeks. Beatrice had been beautiful when she smiled. Why did it look wrong on her? Maybe she hadn't practiced enough. "I understand. I'll keep trying."