Chapter 9 A Thousand Deaths Wouldn't Be Enough
Isabella met his gaze, something raw and broken flickering in her eyes. The pain wasn't for William--it was for Beatrice, always for Beatrice.
She couldn't love him the way her sister had. She'd never be able to fill that void.
William jerked his hand away and turned his back to her, his shoulders rigid as a fortress wall. "Every time you mimic her, you desecrate her memory."
But Isabella wasn't mocking Beatrice. She missed her sister so desperately that Beatrice's essence had seeped into her bones, into every breath she took.
William's mind flashed to the image of Isabella dancing with Thomas, her face lit with something resembling happiness. How dare she experience joy when the woman he loved was rotting in the ground?
Rage consumed him, burning through his chest like acid.
"You like seducing men, don't you?" William's laugh was sharp enough to cut glass. "Since you love dancing so much, I'll make sure you get plenty of practice."
He strode to the door and beckoned his security over, not bothering to look back at her crumpled form.
"Take her to the Midnight Club. Tell the manager I want her trained in their specialty dances--the kind that really get men's attention."
The guards moved forward, hauling Isabella to her feet. Her legs buckled under her, every step sending fresh agony through her battered body. She had no strength left to resist as they dragged her past William.
For a moment, their eyes met. Hers held no hatred, no fear--just an endless wasteland of resignation.
Something twisted in William's chest at that look, but he clenched his jaw and turned away.
The manager at the Midnight Club received William's orders with professional enthusiasm. She assumed this was just another plaything he wanted broken in, though the woman's ethereal beauty and expensive gown seemed out of place among the usual clientele.
She led Isabella to the dancers' dressing room and handed her over to a group of hard-faced women who looked like they could eat glass for breakfast.
"Mr. Spencer's special delivery. Strip her out of that fancy dress and get her into something that shows the goods."
They expected resistance, screaming, tears. Instead, Isabella stood motionless as they tore off her gown and shoved her into a scrap of fabric that barely qualified as clothing. The outfit left nothing to the imagination.
Seeing how compliant she was, the manager's smile turned predatory. "Mr. Spencer wants you dancing all night long. If you disappoint me, you'll regret it."
Under the club's harsh lighting, no one noticed the bruises covering her body. They didn't care if she lived or died--they simply shoved her onto the dance floor as the music exploded around her.
The bass pounded through her skull like a sledgehammer. Strobe lights sliced through the darkness, making her dizzy and nauseous. She could barely stand upright, but the women with whips positioned around the floor made their expectations clear. Every time she slowed down, leather cracked across her skin.
Isabella had never learned to dance like this. She moved awkwardly to the rhythm, trying to ignore the lewd whistles and crude comments from the crowd. Even the club's most desperate dancers wore more clothing than she did. Every movement threatened to expose her completely.
Time became meaningless. Her body grew heavier with each passing hour, the pain in her injuries fading to numbness. The alcohol still churned in her stomach, but she felt disconnected from it all, like a broken marionette jerking to the music's commands.
The club's chaos seemed to recede into the distance. Her vision darkened at the edges, consciousness slipping away like sand through her fingers. The music faded until all she could hear was her own ragged breathing.
Dawn was breaking when the music finally stopped. The manager kicked her toward the exit like discarded trash.
Isabella looked up at the pale light creeping across the sky and felt her last reserves of strength abandon her. She collapsed onto the concrete, her body finally surrendering.
As darkness claimed her, she caught a whiff of something clean and floral. A woman's face appeared above her, beautiful and concerned.
The stranger immediately shrugged out of her jacket and draped it over Isabella's exposed body, then carefully helped her sit up. "Miss, are you all right? You look terrible. Let me take you to a hospital... wait, you're Mrs. Spencer?"
Recognition dawned in the woman's eyes. She'd been on the yacht earlier, had witnessed Isabella's humiliation and William's brutal punishment. The memory of watching this woman nearly become shark food was burned into her mind.
Finding her here, beaten and broken, raised a thousand questions.
Isabella knew she couldn't return home in this condition. She had no choice but to accept help from this stranger. "Thank you."
The woman gently guided her to a car, wincing when she saw the bruises covering Isabella's back. "Mrs. Spencer, I hope you don't mind me asking, but I'm curious about something. I'm afraid of overstepping, though."
Isabella's face was a frozen mask, her eyes nothing but vacant glass. She seemed disconnected from the world around her, as if nothing could touch her anymore.
"Have we met before?" Isabella asked.
The woman smiled awkwardly. "I should introduce myself. I'm Amara Brown. I was on the yacht earlier, and I saw what happened when the sharks approached you. Why didn't you swim away? You actually moved toward them."
"I... I was disoriented. Couldn't tell which direction was safe." She couldn't exactly admit she'd been seeking death.
Amara nodded, though she looked unconvinced. "I saw one of them hit you with its tail. That must have been excruciating."
"It was," Isabella answered honestly.
"And your husband, why did he..." Amara caught herself before finishing the question, realizing how intrusive it sounded.
Isabella understood what she was asking. The curiosity was natural enough.
"Ms. Brown, you must have just returned to the country recently."
After all, the scandal between her and William was common knowledge in their social circle. Only someone completely out of the loop would be genuinely puzzled by his treatment of her.
If Amara knew the truth, she'd probably dump Isabella on the nearest street corner.
Amara nodded. "I have been abroad for years. What I saw on that yacht made me sick. Those women tormenting you, and your husband throwing you to the sharks... no matter what you might have done, that was inexcusable."
"What if I murdered the person he loved most?" Isabella asked quietly.
Amara stared at her. "You don't seem like someone capable of that. There must be some misunderstanding. I can't stand seeing women suffer like this. If you're carrying some burden, don't face it alone. You need to take care of yourself."
This was the first time since Beatrice's death that anyone had shown her genuine concern.
No one could fathom the depth of her pain.
If she could turn back time, she would die a thousand deaths to bring Beatrice back to life.
Amara saw tears gathering in Isabella's eyes and felt her heart break a little. "Look, I think you're a good person. I just moved back and don't have many friends here. Would you mind if we stayed in touch?"
Everyone in their social circle treated Isabella like a plague carrier. The only people who spoke to her did so to humiliate her further.
Now this angel of a woman was offering friendship. Isabella's mouth curved in a bitter smile.
She didn't deserve it.
She'd killed Beatrice. She didn't deserve friends, didn't deserve happiness, didn't deserve anything good.
The world outside the window blurred into streaks of color, just like her life--no way to go back, no way to change course.
Amara had never encountered anyone like Isabella before. She seemed less like a living person than a walking corpse. What kind of hell had she endured to become this hollow?
When they reached the hospital, Amara still felt uneasy about leaving Isabella alone. She pulled out her phone and dialed William's number.