Chapter 77 The Knife is Too Short
William pushed the door open.
The room was small, claustrophobic, the air heavy with the faint metallic sting of blood. Isabella lay on a narrow bed, her skin pale as parchment, every wound stark against the dim light. Her abdomen was wrapped in gauze, but crimson had already bled through—evidence of where she had driven the blade into herself.
The maid had washed her earlier, speaking softly, coaxing a flicker of awareness back into her eyes. That moment of clarity had been enough for Isabella to steal a small fruit knife from the servants' quarters. When they brought her to Alvin's room, she had moved with sudden, desperate intent, plunging the blade into herself before anyone could react.
Blood poured fast and hot, unstoppable. Alvin had panicked, rushing to stop her, ordering someone to bandage the wound and apply whatever crude medicine they had on hand.
His men had waited, restless, expecting their turn with her. When it became clear they would not get Isabella, Alvin, irritated, had pulled in an expendable female employee to take her place. That substitution had led William to his earlier mistake. If the woman in that room had truly been Isabella, he would have been too late.
The men of Blackthorn Compound were predators. They never waited. A single minute was all it took for them to claim what they wanted.
"How bad are her injuries?" William's voice was low, dangerous.
Alvin inhaled sharply. "Two stab wounds. Deep."
William's gaze cut into him like a blade. His fists tightened.
Alvin added quickly, "We could only give basic treatment here. I was going to ask if you wanted her taken to a hospital."
William didn't answer. He crossed the room in two strides, scooping Isabella into his arms. She was so light it felt wrong, as if her body had been hollowed out.
He wasn't finished with her—not yet.
Alvin stayed silent, but Dylan's voice was cold steel. "Touch this woman again and you die."
William carried her straight to the helicopter, heading for the nearest hospital.
The doctor's face was grave after examining her. "The knife went deep. Any deeper and it would have punctured the lung. With her condition, she wouldn't have survived."
William's jaw was tight. How much rage, how much despair, did it take for her to turn the blade on herself like that?
When Isabella had stabbed herself, her only regret had been that the knife was too short. If it had been longer, it would have reached where she wanted.
"Fix her," William ordered.
"Understood."
He stood in the hallway, lighting a cigarette, the smoke curling upward before he crushed it out when a passing child stared at him. A gnawing irritation filled his chest—unfamiliar, unwelcome. The Spencer Group was calling him back, but he refused to leave.
Dylan watched him, noting every flicker of emotion. Was William in love with Isabella without realizing it? And if he was... why had he hurt her so badly?
Midnight.
Isabella woke to the sound of quiet sobbing. Her eyes opened slowly, the dim lamp casting shadows across the room. A small, furry head rested on the edge of her bed.
Was it real? Lately she couldn't tell the difference between waking and dreams.
Her weak hand lifted, brushing against the head. Amara's face rose into view.
"Isabella... you're awake. Did I wake you?"
"Amara?" Her voice was barely audible, as fragile as blown glass. Seeing the white coat she wore, confusion deepened. "Why are you here... and dressed like that?"
Amara wiped her tears quickly. "William wouldn't let anyone near you. I pulled strings, pretended to be a nurse to get in."
Only now did Isabella realize she was in a hospital.
Amara held her hand tightly. "You're hurt badly. The doctor said if the knife had gone any deeper, you wouldn't have made it."
Isabella murmured, "The knife was too short... couldn't go deeper."
Amara's eyes widened, horror freezing her in place. "What did you just say? If it had been longer... you would've killed yourself?"
Isabella said nothing. Silence was her answer.
Amara's voice broke. "Please, Isabella... don't hurt yourself. You have to live."
Isabella gave a faint nod, but the words slid past her without meaning.
Amara's worry sharpened. "I'll find a way to get you out. Away from him. Somewhere he can't touch you."
Panic flickered in Isabella's eyes. "No, Amara. You can't."
She knew William would never allow it. And she knew something else—three strikes meant certain death. Two people had already died because of her. She couldn't let a third be Amara.
If it came to that, she'd rather die herself.
Amara squeezed her hand. "No matter how hard it gets, living is the only way to have hope. I believe your sister would want that for you."
Yes. Beatrice had fought for her life. But Isabella was so tired. Sometimes she wished it had been her who died instead of Beatrice.
In her heart she whispered, 'Beatrice... take me with you. Let us meet again in another world.'
Footsteps sounded outside the door. Amara leaned down, hugging her.
"I have to go. I'll try to come back tomorrow. Rest. Don't think too much."
She had to help Isabella. Without it, she wouldn't survive.
Isabella watched her leave, her chest aching. She couldn't let Amara be hurt. She couldn't let her share the same fate.
The footsteps came closer. The door eased open a crack, but no one entered.
She felt eyes on her... then they were gone.
Who?
Down the hall, William's silhouette vanished. He had come without reason, driven by a nightmare. And he was relieved—she was still alive.
The next day at noon, William returned to the hospital with someone behind him.
Juniper.
She stood behind William, her gaze fixed on Isabella, tears sliding down her cheeks.
Isabella's empty eyes ignited with hate. Whenever she saw Juniper, she remembered her sister's death... her father's wounds.
Juniper stepped forward. "Isabella... what happened to you? Are you in pain?"
The moment she came close, Isabella sat up, ignoring the pull of her wounds, and slapped her hard across the face. Even William was caught off guard—he hadn't expected her to still have the will to strike back after everything.
He moved fast, catching her wrist and forcing her back down.
"Isabella... are you trying to die?"
Her teeth clenched. "I'll kill her. She killed my sister."
Juniper's tears fell freely. "Isabella... what's wrong with you? Have you lost your mind? You're scaring me. If Godfather and Godmother hear about this, they'll be worried too."
William didn't believe her for a second.
"Isabella... if you don't want to be thrown back into Blackthorn Compound, you'd better behave. Or I won't hold back."
Isabella's glare at Juniper didn't soften. William recognized that look—she truly wanted to kill her.
His hand closed around her throat, his voice a command. "I'm talking to you. Answer me."