Chapter 8 A Mirror of Her Sister
William leaned back in his chair, fingers absently tracing the rim of his whiskey glass. His gaze drifted to the liquor in Isabella's hand, and something flickered across his features--a tightness around his eyes, the subtle roll of his throat. Even he didn't recognize the complexity brewing beneath his controlled exterior.
Restlessness gnawed at him from the inside. Something was pulling at his nerves, something he couldn't name or shake.
The feeling made him sick with irritation.
Isabella drew a quiet breath. She knew better than to expect William's intervention. Resistance would only bring worse humiliation, more creative cruelty.
She tilted her head back and let the burning liquid slide down her throat.
The alcohol hit like molten glass, searing a path to her stomach. The afterburn clawed at her lungs, triggering a violent coughing fit that brought tears flooding to her eyes. She blinked them back with savage determination.
The worst part was her lower back. Each cough sent lightning through the bruised tissue, making her whole body shake. She had to stay upright, had to look composed, or she'd collapse entirely.
Half the glass down and her stomach was already convulsing, cramps doubling her over as darkness crept into her vision. Her hands trembled beyond her control.
"Oh, how disappointing. You haven't finished, which means punishment time." The woman's smile was poison-sweet as she stepped forward, refilling the glass to the brim. "Keep drinking."
Isabella forced herself to breathe, then threw her head back again, draining the glass in desperate gulps. This time the coughing was worse, more violent.
"Well, well, Mrs. Spencer. Who knew you had such a tolerance? Let me top you off again." The woman poured another round, then deliberately bumped Isabella's shoulder with enough force to send her staggering.
Isabella's legs had already given up. The collision sent her lurching sideways, her grip failing. The glass slipped, sending alcohol cascading across the woman's designer gown.
"You bitch!" The shriek could have shattered crystal. Without hesitation, the woman's hand flew toward Isabella's face, her diamond ring catching the light like a blade. The sharp edge sliced across Isabella's cheek, opening a thin, precise cut.
Blood welled up and spilled over, a single drop landing on her white dress like a crimson flower blooming on snow.
The moment the slap connected, the temperature in the room plummeted.
The crowd was still laughing, still jeering, until William shot to his feet. His chair scraped against the floor with a sound like nails on a coffin. The fury in his eyes could have incinerated steel.
Silence fell like a curtain. Every person in the room held their breath.
William crossed the space in three strides and seized the woman's wrist in a grip that could crush bone. Her scream pierced the air as her face went white with agony.
"Who gave you permission to touch her?" His voice was arctic, each word sharp enough to draw blood. His eyes found the cut on Isabella's face and his pupils contracted to pinpoints. "My property is off-limits. Did you think I wouldn't notice?"
She could torment Isabella in any way she pleased, but the face was sacred territory.
The woman knew his reputation. Her knees buckled and she hit the floor hard. "Mr. Spencer, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, she spilled on me first, I was just trying to help you teach her a lesson--"
"Help me?" William's laugh was the sound of something dying. He jerked his chin toward his security. "Take her to the cargo hold. Break her hands and feet. Then throw her overboard."
"Mr. Spencer, please, I understand now, I'll never--"
"Next time, learn who you can afford to cross." His voice was already dismissing her existence.
The guards moved in, one hand clamping over her mouth as they dragged her toward the door. Her muffled screams faded into the distance.
The remaining guests scattered like roaches when the lights came on, suddenly desperate to be anywhere else. They'd seen enough to know they were in over their heads.
William kicked the door shut with enough force to rattle the frame, sealing them in with the stench of alcohol and blood.
He grabbed Isabella by the back of her neck and slammed her against the marble sink, tilting her face up to examine the damage. Blood ran warm over his fingers, and something twisted in his chest--something he refused to name. His voice stayed venomous.
"Listen carefully, Isabella. Your only value is that face--the one that looks like your sister's. If you damage it, if you let anyone else damage it, I'll make you beg for death."
Pain shot through Isabella's skull, but she bit down hard enough to taste copper rather than let herself cry. She lifted her eyes to meet his, tears clinging to her lashes like diamonds. Instead of fear, she offered him something else--a smile tinged with the kind of gentle sorrow that had belonged to Beatrice alone.
"I understand."
The tone, the expression...
It hit William like a physical blow.
For a heartbeat, he wasn't looking at Isabella anymore. He saw Beatrice--the woman who used to curl against his side, who would wait up for him with soup when he came home drunk, who made his birthday cakes from scratch and fed him frosting with her own fingers.
His chest constricted as memories he'd buried alive clawed their way to the surface. The ache was unbearable, a wound that had never properly healed.
His hand trembled against her skin. The ice in his eyes melted, replaced by something dangerously close to tenderness.
"Beatrice... you came back."
Isabella went rigid. Her mimicry was working too well. He was seeing her sister's ghost in her face.
Reality crashed back within seconds. William blinked and saw Isabella again--not Beatrice, never Beatrice. Beatrice was ash and bone, her beautiful face destroyed by flames while saving this worthless substitute.
The pain doubled, then tripled. He released her neck only to wrap his hand around her throat, spinning her around and slamming her back against the mirror. The cold glass bit into her spine, aggravating the bruises across her lower back until she nearly passed out from the shock.
William's face was inches from hers, his grip tightening with every word. "Don't you dare look at me like that. You don't have the right. Do you know how much pain Beatrice was in when she died? She saved an ungrateful snake, and now you have the audacity to wear her expressions?"
Isabella had asked herself the same question a thousand times. Why hadn't she been the one to burn? Beatrice deserved to live, deserved happiness, deserved everything Isabella had stolen simply by surviving.
William's grip was cutting off her air supply. Her face shifted from pale to purple, consciousness draining away like sand through her fingers. The only constant was the blood still seeping from her cheek, staining his knuckles red.
If strangling her would give William peace, maybe it wasn't such a terrible way to go. At least then she wouldn't have failed Beatrice completely. At least then she could find whatever place the dead went to rest.
The world blurred at the edges. Her lungs screamed for oxygen that wouldn't come.
William's hand opened. Isabella crumpled to the marble floor, her injured back taking the full impact. The pain was blinding, but she swallowed her scream and lay still.
William stared down at her, his attention fixed on that expression--the one that belonged to Beatrice and no one else. How dare she steal even that?
The sight made him sick.
He crouched beside her and grabbed her chin with bruising force, his disgust written across every line of his face.
"Did you think copying her mannerisms would make me forget? Did you think playing dress-up in her personality would earn you her place in my heart? Your pathetic performance is revolting."