Marco smiled like a shark smelling blood. “I need to make sure Isobel is dead. No one from her family can cause trouble for Lydia. Proof of love, Kobi. Pure devotion.”
Love. My stomach turned. Three years of kisses, whispers, promises—all lies. I wanted to scream, to cry, to throw up.
I sank to the floor, shaking, my body a mix of ice, fire, and fury. But fury is fuel. And I remembered Piper—my father’s secret weapon, his silent ally waiting for me.
The phone shook in my hands. Piper’s voice came, trembling but steady.
“Mrs. Cooke?”
“Liquidate everything,” I rasped. “Transfer the shares. Keep it secret. Lawyer—draw up divorce papers. Now. Flights for my mother and me in five days. Sicily. No one—especially Marco—must know.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
A shadow fell across the room.
“Know about what, Isobel?”
Marco. Standing there. Smug. Thinking he’d already won.
I smiled. Slow. Sharp. Dangerous.
Marco had a gift. A real, ugly little gift for lying without even a twitch. He could wrap himself in this cloak of tenderness, drape it over his shoulders like a perfectly tailored suit, and make you believe he was the hero. Only problem? I knew better. Every word of his “random attack” story rang fake, like some third-rate mob movie with actors who forgot their lines.
Tears streaked my cheeks. “I… I was just… thinking about planning a little… surprise for the anniversary,” I stammered. Smooth. Keep the smile on, Isobel. Keep the tremor hidden. Life depends on it—because in this world, it does.
Marco let out a soft, practiced sigh of relief, and reached for me. Instinct screamed at me to flinch. And I did. Just a flicker of shock in his eyes—but his mask snapped back, flawless.
“Any problem, love?”
Bitter words clawed out: “Besides being betrayed and losing my parents?”
He sighed, slow, deliberate. “Isobel… we don’t even know if you were betrayed. Could’ve been a random attack. I am investigating. You need rest—strength for when you’re discharged tomorrow.”
Every word coated in poison. Every glance a lie. My stomach churned. How does he do it? Hold my gaze, pretend to care, while being the architect of my ruin?
“Isobel… why are you crying again?”
Soft. Puzzled. Like I was the problem.
“I need… I need to see my mother,” I whispered.
Marco’s mask flickered—just for a second—then smoothed over. “Princess, she’s sedated. You need rest, to be strong.”
“No.” My voice snapped. “I need to see her.”
Disgust curled at his lips, vanished instantly. “If it’ll ease your heart, I’ll ask the nurse. But only a short while.”
Down the corridor, his arm steadying me, his weight pressed like a reminder: I wasn’t in control here.
My mother.
She lay on the bed, pale, legs wrapped in thick casts. Her eyes stared at nothing. Empty. My hand froze on hers—ice-cold, lifeless.
“Mom! It’s me—Isobel!”
Nothing. Not a flinch. Not a squeeze. Not even a breath.
“She can’t respond,” Marco murmured behind me. “Trauma too much. Doctors say… she may never recover.”
Tears blurred everything.
Then Lydia appeared. Pregnant. Smug. Crocodile tears glittering in the harsh hospital light.
“Isobel… I’m so sorry. If I could give you my strength, I would. You still have me.”
Bile rose in my throat. She came up to me and whispered in a voice only we could hear.
“Take care of yourself, Isobel. You’ll need strength… to watch me give Marco the family you never could.”
My nails dug into my palms. My chest heaved. Before I could think—
SLAP.
“You b!tch!” I roared.
Lydia wailed, hand to her cheek. Marco swooped to her side instantly, fury misdirected.
“How could you?” he barked. “She saved you! Donated bone marrow!”
“She’s stressed, Marco. I don’t mind,” Lydia whimpered, playing the martyr.
Marco cradled her like porcelain, hiding her from the storm I was. “Ashamed, Isobel? Bullying already?”
I scoffed. Chest tight with fury. Walked away. But not before seeing him cup Lydia’s face, wipe her tears with the tenderness once meant for me.
Something inside me shattered into jagged glass. I curled into my hospital bed, gasping. My phone beeped—Piper.
Divorce papers. Flights. Plans.
“Yes,” I typed.
No hesitation. No mercy. The annual ceremony stays. Let the world see a broken Isobel today… but tomorrow? Tomorrow there will be no tears. Only revenge.