Chapter 26
Isabella's POV
The next morning, I'm back to my servant duties. The Venetian crystal stemware gleams under the dining room chandelier as I polish each piece with mechanical precision.
This is my life now.
Sigrid's heels click against the marble as she enters, carrying an Hermès bone china coffee cup. Steam rises from Marco's preferred espresso.
"Good morning, bella," she purrs, her Swedish accent making the endearment sound mocking. "Hard at work, I see."
"Just doing my job," I reply without looking up.
"Your job." She savors the words. "Do you know how satisfying it is to see you like this? The great Isabella Romano, reduced to cleaning dishes."
I set down the crystal wine glass I've been polishing. "Is there something you need, Sigrid?"
She sips her espresso, studying me over the rim. "I was thinking about the old days. College. Do you remember our first meeting?"
The Autumn Charity Gala. When I saved her from those drunk investors. The memory tastes bitter now.
"I remember you needed help," I say quietly.
"Help." Her laugh is sharp. "You know what I remember? Thinking what a pathetic little social climber you were."
My hands still on the crystal. "Excuse me?"
"A girl from Brooklyn," she says with disdain. "Your father running his little construction business, thinking that made you worthy of our world."
Construction business. At least she got that part right.
"Even then, I couldn't understand why someone like you thought you belonged at a charity gala. Standing there in your department store dress, pretending to understand art and wine."
"That dress cost more than most people's rent," I point out.
"Bought with daddy's contractor money, no doubt." She watches my reaction carefully. "Tell me, Isabella—did you really think I didn't see through your act?"
"What act?"
"The innocent act. The 'poor little girl who just wants to belong' routine." Her blue eyes glitter with malice. "You played it so well. Even I almost bought it."
"There was no act. I was trying to be your friend."
"Friend?" The word sounds obscene in her mouth. "You were never my friend, bella. You were my project. My little charity case."
Each word hits like a physical blow. I can feel my face burning with humiliation.
"You know what really bothered me?" She sets her cup on the mahogany table with deliberate care. "It wasn't just that you were beneath us. It was that you didn't know it."
"You walked into our world with your head held high, like you actually believed you deserved to be there. Like breeding and bloodlines meant nothing."
"Maybe because a person's worth isn't determined by their bank account."
"How wonderfully naive. Even now, you still believe in fairy tales."
I set down the crystal with more force than necessary. "Those drunk investment bankers who were groping you at the charity gala—I should have left you to them."
Sigrid's eyes flash with something dangerous. "You mean when those three men cornered me by the champagne table? When they had their hands all over me?"
"Yes. I should have walked away instead of telling them to back off."
"But you didn't walk away," she says, her voice turning venomous. "You played the hero. Stepped in like some knight in shining armor."
"I thought you were my friend being harassed."
"Friend?" Sigrid laughs bitterly. "You want to know what I was really thinking that night? When you 'saved' me from those men?"
She leans forward, her blue eyes glittering with malice.
"I was thinking how pathetic you were. How desperate to be accepted. And how useful that desperation might be someday."
The words hit like a slap. "Useful?"
"You were so grateful when I thanked you afterward. So eager to be invited to more events, to meet more people from my world." Her smile is cruel. "I knew I could use that hunger against you eventually."
The revelation makes my stomach turn. Even her gratitude had been calculated.
"You've been planning this since college?"
"Not this specifically," she admits with casual indifference. "But I knew someday your presumption would need to be addressed. Someday someone would have to remind you of your place."
She picks up her coffee cup again, rolling the handle between her fingers.
"I went straight to the ladies' room that night and laughed. Actually laughed at how easy it was going to be to manipulate you."
My hands clench into fists. "You're sick."
"I'm honest. Unlike you, with your fake smile and your desperate need to fit in."
"At least I never pretended to be someone's friend while planning their destruction."
"Didn't you?" Her smile turns razor-sharp. "What about Lucia? Weren't you pretending to love her while you planned her murder?"
The accusation hits like a punch to the gut. "I didn't kill Lucia."
"Of course you did. Just like you killed any chance you had of belonging in our world."
She raises the coffee cup to her lips, then suddenly releases her grip.
The Hermès porcelain crashes against the marble floor. Coffee splashes across the stone, dark liquid spreading like blood. The delicate handle snaps off and skitters under the dining table.
"Oops," Sigrid says with mock innocence. "How clumsy of me."
She looks down at the mess, then at me with that predatory smile.
"Well? What are you waiting for? Clean it up. This is what you are now."
The command carries absolute authority. I kneel on the cold marble, my servant's dress pooling around me. The broken porcelain lies scattered—jagged edges catching the light.
My fingers reach for the largest piece, coffee still dripping from its broken edge. The porcelain is razor-sharp, capable of cutting deep.
Just as my hand closes around the fragment, Sigrid's designer heel comes down hard on my knuckles.
The pain shoots through my palm like fire. I bite down hard on my tongue, tasting copper. The porcelain cuts deeper with every breath, and I can feel blood seeping between my fingers.
Don't scream. Don't give her what she wants.
"Careful," Sigrid says sweetly, applying more pressure. "We wouldn't want you to get hurt."
The porcelain grinds against my bones. I can feel it slicing through skin, opening wounds that will leave permanent scars.
"This is where you belong," she continues conversationally. "On your knees. Bleeding. Cleaning up messes."
My vision wavers, but I force myself to stay focused. Blood drips steadily onto the marble, each drop a reminder of how far I've fallen.
Footsteps echo down the hallway. Heavy. Deliberate. Dangerous.
"What the hell is going on here?"
Marco's voice hits the room like a physical blow. The fury in it makes even the crystal glasses seem to shiver. Sigrid jerks her foot back so fast she nearly loses her balance.
Marco stands in the doorway, and for a moment he looks like the devil himself. His suit is perfect as always, but there's something wild in his dark eyes. Something that promises violence.
"Sigrid." The way he says her name could freeze blood. "What are you doing?"