THIRTY THREE

THIRTY THREE

Chapter 33

Upstairs, Isabelle had to open and close three doors before she finally found Sophie’s room in the vast, echoing mausoleum of a house. Her mind was fogged, her body aching, every step heavier than the last.

Sophie sat curled in one corner of the bed, the comforter tucked to her chin, staring silently at the ceiling—too quiet, too still for a child. Her expression was a quiet heartbreak far beyond her years.

Isabelle shut the door softly and crossed the room. “Sophie, darling.”

The little girl sat up instantly, wary. Isabelle helped her take the medicine, kissed her forehead, and tucked the blanket around her.

“Were you and Papa fighting?” Sophie asked, her eyes too sharp.

Isabelle nodded. “Yes. But you don’t need to worry, sweetheart. Grown-ups fight. It’s not your fault.”

She reached for the stuffed hippo. “Where are your drawing things? Still on the island?” Sophie blinked. “I’ll pack them. We’re leaving tomorrow.”

“We’re going back?” Sophie whispered.

Isabelle nodded, feeling her heart splinter. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

They stayed like that until Sophie fell asleep—small, trusting, warm. And Isabelle hated herself for letting it get this far. For building a dream and now having to tear it down. But what choice did she have?

Nic had used her past like a weapon and humiliated her in ways she couldn’t forget. Staying meant surrendering to his twisted offer—becoming a kept thing. A mother when convenient, a mistress when desired.

She wouldn’t do it.

She moved like a machine.

Hands shaking, breath shallow, her fingers worked in rhythm—folding, zipping, stuffing clothes into the same worn suitcase they had arrived with. The room spun slightly around her, disbelief snapping at her heels, and a low, sickening tremor had settled into her bones. But she wouldn’t give in to it. Couldn’t afford to.

There was no time for tears. No time for breaking down.

So she packed.

Piece by piece, stripping the room of their presence, the ghost of the life they were supposed to have. Half their things were still back on that damned island, but she didn’t care. Let them rot. Let Daphne Karistou sleep in their beds and drink from their mugs and wear Isabelle’s forgotten scarf. She was welcome to it all.

Isabelle scoffed aloud at the thought, yanking a shirt from the hanger so hard the top button popped off and clattered across the marble floor, spinning to a stop beneath the bed.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t pause.

Just kept packing.

Throwing things in without folding now—anything to keep moving, to keep from thinking. Because if she slowed down, if she let herself breathe, even for a second, the full weight of what had just happened would come crashing down.

Hours passed, though Isabelle wasn’t sure how many. The young sun was now in the middle of the sky. The clock read 1 PM. Nic was nowhere to be seen—and Isabelle couldn’t explain how grateful she was for that. The house was still, save for the distant hum of voices downstairs and the occasional clink of silverware. Quietly, she slipped upstairs to check on Sophie.

Her daughter was sitting on the carpeted floor, legs crossed, clutching her doll. A soft mumble drifted through the half-open door. Isabelle paused. Then froze.

“My daddy hates me,” Sophie was saying to the doll. Her voice was soft, mechanical, like a lullaby gone wrong. “Does your daddy hate you too, Millie? Mummy says we’re going back home. But I know it’s because Daddy doesn’t want me anymore. Daphne told me.”

Isabelle stood at the threshold, her body locking up. The shock of hearing those words from her child’s mouth made her legs feel boneless. She pressed her back against the wall, her breathing shallow.

“Do all daddies hate little girls?” Sophie went on. “Does your daddy hate you too?” She shook the doll in her small hands with sudden anger. Then, in a sharp movement, she threw it across the room. The ragged thing tumbled and landed in a forgotten corner.

Face flushed, eyes glassy with a mix of fury and heartbreak, Sophie climbed up onto the wide windowsill, curling into herself, staring out at the sky like she might float away from all of this.

Isabelle wiped at her cheeks quickly. Her voice was calm when she stepped in. “Sophie.”

No answer.

“Darling, come now. Let’s get you something to eat, and then you’ll need your medicine.”

Still, Sophie didn’t look at her. But she allowed her mother to take her hand. In silence, they descended the stairs together, one small foot after another, the only sound that of their bare soles on the steps.

At the table, Nic sat casually—newspaper unfolded before him, a tablet to his left quietly reading out stock reports in Greek. When he saw them, he folded the paper with a smile and bent low, stretching out his arms as he had done every morning for weeks on the island.

“Ya sou, mikró glykouli mou,” he greeted, warmth in his voice.

But Sophie didn’t move. She stared at his outstretched arms as if they were poisonous vines reaching toward her. No light in her eyes. No joy.

Just silence.

And Isabelle? She looked at him like she could set the entire room on fire with her gaze alone.

“Sophie?” Nic asked, confused. He bent toward her, gently taking her small hands into his larger ones. “Still not feeling well?”

Sophie didn’t answer.

She only frowned, tugging her hands free from his grasp with a subtle but deliberate force. Her cheeks flushed, this time not with fever, but something closer to hurt and betrayal. Without a word, she turned and walked to Isabelle, climbing into the chair beside her, her little body leaning ever so slightly toward the safety of her mother.

Nic’s confusion quickly gave way to fury. He looked up—eyes locking on Isabelle like a predator catching sight of prey. His jaw clenched so tightly, it looked as if he might break a molar. That old, ugly anger—barely veiled contempt—twisted his face.

But Isabelle didn’t flinch.

She met his glare with one of her own, cool and unwavering. Then she turned her back to him, her entire posture communicating exactly how little she cared for his silent tantrums.

With slow precision, she pulled out a chair and sat down. Then, with maternal ease, she lifted Sophie into the seat next to her and tucked her hair behind her ears.

“Maria,” she said, addressing the housekeeper kindly, but firmly, “could you please make some thick tomato soup for Sophie? And if possible, toast a little garlic bread?”

The older woman nodded quickly, grateful for the clarity of a request she could fulfill. “Of course, kyría Isabelle,” she said with a gentle smile, already turning toward the kitchen.

Nic sat back in his chair, the air between them heavy with unspoken accusations. But Isabelle didn’t even glance his way.

She had her daughter beside her. And that, at least for now, was the only thing that mattered.

Nic had folded his newspaper, silencing the tablet’s monotonous stock market chatter with a tap. His eyes were fixed on Sophie now—searching, pleading. “Sophie, glykia mou?” he said softly.

She didn’t look up. Just stared down at her dangling feet, lips pressed in a stubborn line.

His attention snapped toward Isabelle then, and the fury bloomed like wildfire in his face.

“What did you say to her?” he hissed. “What the hell did you say to poison her against me?”

Isabelle stiffened.

“She was fine until last night! She came to me. She wanted to be with me!”

His voice was rising, cracking with disbelief and frustration, the bitterness dripping from every syllable.

“I didn’t say anything,” Isabelle replied evenly, though her fingers tightened slightly around Sophie’s shoulder. “I only told her we were leaving.”

BANG!

His fist slammed against the table, rattling the bowl of fruit so violently that several grapes spilled and rolled across the polished wood. Sophie flinched.

“No one is going anywhere!” he roared.

Then, in one sharp movement, he grabbed Isabelle’s arm, his grip firm, possessive.

“I thought I made myself clear,” he growled.

Isabelle jerked her arm free, her eyes narrowing into ice. “You made yourself perfectly clear,” she said, voice low but razor-sharp. “But that doesn’t mean I’m listening anymore.”

Suddenly, a cry shattered the already fraying silence.

Both their heads whipped toward the sound—Sophie.

“Sophie!” they called in unison.

But she didn’t stop.

Tears streaked her flushed cheeks as she sobbed, shaking with every breath. “I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!” she screamed, her small fists clenched, her eyes locked on her father.

“You’re mean! You make me cry!”

And before either of them could move, she slid off the chair, the soles of her socks slipping slightly on the polished floor as she bolted for the stairs. She didn’t look back, just ran—ran like she couldn’t stand to be in the same room with them for a second longer.

Isabelle’s heart cracked.

She stood up slowly, her limbs aching with exhaustion. “I’ll go talk to her,” she murmured, already turning away.

“She’s just a child, Nic,” she said over her shoulder. “Don’t twist this. Don’t make it worse. She’s scared. She’s seen more than any child ever should. Please—if nothing else, let’s not destroy what little security she still has.”

He scoffed bitterly behind her. “And you think I don’t know that already?” His voice was low, sharp-edged. “You don’t think that’s exactly why I’m trying to keep you here? So she can grow up with a mother and father under the same roof? So she doesn’t have to wonder where you are every other Christmas or who’s missing on parents’ day?”

She turned around, her eyes hollow. “And at what cost?”

His expression didn’t flinch.

“At my expense?” she asked, her voice breaking. “So I stay here as the mistress in the shadows while you parade your wife in the front row? While I live like some shameful little footnote in your life? A secret kept just far enough away from your glittering world?”

He didn’t answer. Because he didn’t have to.

He just looked at her with that cold entitlement, that aristocratic calm that made her feel invisible and worthless.

“You’ll have a house,” he said, as if offering her gold. “With servants. Security. You’ll want for nothing. You’ll have my children.”

He said it like a man offering a contract. A transaction. Like it should be enough.

Isabelle swallowed the scream caught in her throat.

“What else do you even need?”

A husband, she wanted to scream. Respect. Dignity. Love.

But she said nothing. Not because she didn’t want to—but because she couldn’t. Her body refused. Her voice, her hands, her soul—numb.

There was no fight left.