Chapter 159 She Does Not Deserve Freedom
Isabella didn't want to wake Rodolfo. She slipped into the hallway and answered the call.
William's voice was cold, sharp. "There's a charity auction this afternoon at four. You're coming with me."
Isabella glanced at the clock on the wall. "I'm still in town. There's not enough time. Can I—"
"You think you have a choice?" His tone cut through her protest like a blade. "I'm not asking. I'm telling you."
She stayed silent. William's voice dropped lower, laced with something darker. "What's wrong? You want me to tear down those cottages they're rebuilding?"
"No. I'll be there. I'm leaving now."
"That's what I thought. You only listen when I threaten you." He paused, his voice turning colder. "You have four hours. Don't be late. You know what happens if you are."
Isabella knew exactly what he meant. She couldn't afford to test him.
"Donny, I have to go. Please look after Rodolfo."
Before Donny could answer, she was already running out of the hospital.
There was no time for the bus. She flagged down a Yellow Cab and slid into the backseat, watching the minutes drain away on her phone. Every second felt like it was slipping through her hands.
Three hours later, she reached the high-rise apartment in Manhattan. William wasn't there, but a dress lay on the table. Her phone buzzed—an address and a time. Thirty minutes until the auction.
She changed quickly, added makeup, and rushed out.
She couldn't make him angry. Not again. Every step felt like she was running to protect those cottages, to keep them standing.
Her legs were weak by the time she reached the venue. She spotted William instantly.
He leaned against a Corinthian column near the entrance, dressed in a sharp black suit. An unlit cigar rested between his fingers as he spoke to someone, his voice low and casual.
When his eyes flicked toward her, his mouth curved into the faintest smile. It didn't reach his eyes.
Isabella saw the coldness there. The calculation.
He wasn't waiting for her. He was gauging whether she'd dare to be late.
"Smart girl." William let go of the cigar, dropping it into the silver ashtray Dylan held out. Without looking at her, he turned toward the entrance. "Keep up."
Isabella lowered her head and followed.
The moment she stepped inside, the stares began.
"Isn't that Isabella? The one who got her sister killed?"
"I saw that video of her dancing. Disgusting. She shouldn't even be here."
"She did everything she could to steal the man her sister loved. Pathetic."
"This is a charity event. What's she doing here? Trying to clean up her image?"
"She'll never be clean. Not after what she did."
The whispers stabbed into her like needles. But Isabella didn't feel humiliated. She felt they were right.
She kept walking, head down.
William leaned close, his lips brushing her ear. His voice was ice. "You hear that?"
He paused, his gaze sweeping the crowd. His smile sharpened. "They're right, you know."
"You killed your sister. That stain will never come off."
"I brought you here so you'd remember. So you'd see what you are—a murderer. And you'll spend the rest of your life being reminded of it."
Isabella stood perfectly still.
She knew every word was deliberate. Every sentence meant to cut.
"Freedom is for people who deserve it," William said softly. "And you don't."
The whispers continued. Isabella didn't move.
She understood now. If she ever tried to leave him, this was what she'd face. Worse than this.
The auction ended as night fell over the city.
Isabella followed William to the black Bentley waiting outside. The air inside the car was thick, suffocating. William leaned back, eyes closed, fingers tapping his knee. He didn't look at her. Didn't speak. It was as if she didn't exist.
The car pulled into Rosewood Estate. Isabella followed him inside. The butler looked surprised to see her but said nothing, taking William's coat.
William glanced at the butler. The man nodded and dismissed the staff. The living room emptied. Only the two of them remained.
William turned to face her, his eyes cold, disgusted.
"You think wearing that dress makes you respectable?" He laughed, harsh and bitter. He grabbed the collar of her gown and yanked it open, making her stumble back. "Look at you. Dress up all you want—you're still filth underneath."
Isabella looked up at him. Her eyes were empty. No tears. No protest.
All that mattered was keeping those cottages standing.
William hated that look. That passive, broken acceptance. For a while, he'd thought she was changing. Thought she had some fight left. But she was back to this—back to nothing.
He'd wanted to humiliate her, to remind her of her place. But it felt like punching a wall of cotton. His anger burned hotter.
He grabbed her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.
"Why aren't you saying anything?" His voice was low, dangerous. "Isabella, listen to me. Your sister's blood is on your hands. Everything you're going through now? You deserve it."
He smiled, cold and sharp. "The only reason you're still breathing is because I want to watch you suffer."
He shoved her chin away. His voice dropped lower. "You and those cottages—they're both mine. I can let them stand, or I can burn them to the ground. Your choice."
Isabella's lashes trembled. But she stayed silent.
She knew he meant it.
He would do it.
William shoved her onto the couch. He tore at her dress, his movements rough and careless. "This is all you're good for. This is what you deserve."
His disgust was growing. But so was his need. He didn't understand why he kept coming back to her—why he wanted to own her completely, consume her.
He wasn't a man who lost control. But here he was, taking her on the couch, brutal and unrelenting.
Isabella stared at the empty living room. The walls felt like they were closing in. Her vision blurred. She could hear William's breathing, harsh and ragged. Her mind began to drift.
To somewhere far away.