Chapter 18 She's Always Playing the Victim
Isabella stared at Beatrice's smiling face etched into the headstone, William's torments from the past weeks crashing through her mind in relentless waves.
Thinking of the pain Beatrice had endured, her body began to shake violently, tears slipping down her cheeks, silent and unbroken.
William still raged beside her, his vicious words tearing at her nerves like barbed hooks.
Isabella's gaze slowly lost focus, dulling until it was lifeless.
She looked at William's twisted face, at Beatrice's gentle smile, at the photograph spattered with blood lying on the ground, and suddenly felt—this world was so cold it hurt to breathe.
She screamed silently inside, 'Beatrice... I'm so cold. Beatrice... take me with you. Please, Beatrice, I miss you so much.'
William kept cursing until he realized the person before him had gone completely still.
He looked down and met Isabella's eyes.
Those eyes held no disgust, no resentment, no pain—not even a flicker of life remained.
Like stagnant water, quiet in a way that chilled him to the bone.
Isabella clutched the photograph in her hand, Beatrice's face in it unrecognizable, yet she seemed not to see it at all, murmuring under her breath.
Her sense of reality shattered, torn into a thousand pieces and swept away by an unforgiving wind.
The empty shell crumpled under the bitter cold.
The ambulance siren cut through the cemetery's deathly silence.
William stood before the headstone, watching Isabella being loaded onto the stretcher, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles turned white.
The hospital's disinfectant smell was suffocating.
When Isabella woke, darkness had fallen, the IV drip sliding drop by drop into her vein.
She opened her eyes, pupils utterly still, like a statue stripped of its soul.
The hospital door swung open. Juniper entered first, carrying a thermal container, followed by the Tudor parents with grave expressions.
Isabella's lashes fluttered faintly, but no emotion stirred.
"Isabella, are you alright? When I heard you'd collapsed, I brought Godmother and Godfather to see you." Juniper's tone carried concern, though it shifted mid-sentence. "If you're sick, you shouldn't push yourself to work. William told you to rest at home for your own good—why are you always so stubborn?"
Isla stepped forward, looking at her haggard face, disgust flickering in her eyes, her voice sharp.
"Going to work while sick—I think you're just playing the victim on purpose, making everyone worry about you. You never think about how this only makes me hate you more."
Benjamin stood to the side, brow furrowed deeply, especially after hearing Juniper mention her working through illness, his gaze full of reproach.
"Isabella, you've always been too headstrong. Beatrice died saving you. You owe her your life, and yet you still make us worry about you—you're so thoughtless."
Every sentence was like countless nights before, slicing through her heart.
Isabella had long grown used to it.
Used to her mother's mockery.
Used to her father's cold stares.
Used to them blaming Beatrice's death entirely on her.
It was her fault. If Isabella didn't exist, Beatrice would still be alive.
Why did she exist at all? Her parents should never have given birth to her.
She blinked slowly, her cracked lips moving slightly, voice barely audible.
"I'm sorry..."
Again and again.
"I'm sorry!"
Tears fell silently, blotting into dark stains on the pillow.
She didn't cry aloud, just wept quietly and apologized, like a broken doll that had forgotten how to defend itself.
Isla watched her, the words dying in her throat, unable to speak.
She'd come full of rage, ready to scold this disgraceful daughter awake.
But seeing those hollow eyes, that face pale as death, all her cruel words stuck.
Benjamin's frown deepened, the reproach in his eyes gradually fading, replaced by inexplicable irritation. He turned away. "Enough. Stop crying. You're giving me a headache."
Juniper gently took Isla's arm, coaxing softly, "Godmother, Isabella just woke up. She's still very weak. Whatever you need to say can wait."
Isla patted her hand gratefully. "Juniper, thank goodness we have you. If she had half your sense, we wouldn't have to worry so much."
Juniper said sweetly, "Godmother, don't worry. I'll always be here for you. Now that Isabella's sick, I'll take care of her."
Benjamin gave her an approving look. "You're the one who puts our minds at ease. You not only look like Beatrice, you have her gentle nature too. Having you around these past weeks has lifted Isla's spirits considerably."
Juniper took his arm as if they were her own parents.
She said in her honeyed voice, "In my heart, you are my parents."
Isabella's vacant gaze turned toward them.
Her parents had given all their love to Juniper, who was slowly replacing Beatrice.
She thought, 'Beatrice... do you see? The parents you worried about have someone to replace you now. They don't need me. So can I come find you in heaven?'
Isla felt her stare and glanced back, then immediately turned away, as if being looked at by her daughter was bad luck.
William pushed through the door and saw the three of them arm in arm.
For a split second, he almost mistook Juniper for Beatrice—he remembered Beatrice acting just like this with her parents, sweet and affectionate.
William's gaze shifted to the hospital bed. Isabella stared at the ceiling, shoulders trembling slightly, long hair falling across her face, revealing only her slender neck.
She lifted her hand to wipe her tears, the movement gentle, the curve of her fingers identical to the Isabella in his memories.
William's breath caught.
In his memories, Beatrice had always been the same. No matter the pain, she never cried out loud.
Instead, the tears would gather quietly, shimmering at the corners of her eyes until she brushed them away with the tip of a finger—small, cautious motions, like a deer afraid to be seen.
Now, standing by the hospital bed, he saw that same quiet defiance. Even illness couldn't strip it away; it lingered in the curve of her mouth, in the way her eyes refused to plead.
Something tightened in William's chest, sharp and unyielding.
He thought, 'Is Isabella deliberately echoing Beatrice's look… or is there something else behind it?'
William's gaze darkened, complex emotions churning beneath the surface.
He hated. He resented.
And there was something else—something even he hadn't noticed yet. Unease.
He stood rooted in place.
Juniper caught his stare from the corner of her eye and noticed William watching her, his expression changed.
She cleared her throat softly, breaking the silence. "Godmother, we've been talking so much we forgot about the ginseng soup I brought for Isabella. I made it especially for her, to help her recover."
Juniper remembered—Beatrice had been like this, gentle and caring, always making soup when someone was sick.
Isla beamed with satisfaction. "You're the backbone of this family now, Juniper. Honestly, we shouldn't even bother with Isabella. She's always playing the victim."
Juniper smiled. "We're all family. We can't just abandon her."
She had to maintain this image to hold everyone's hearts in her hands.