Chapter 3
Isobel’s POV
Marco never came back that night.
Morning crept in with cold sunlight slanting through the hospital blinds, and a nurse wheeled me toward the exit, my bag precariously balanced on my lap.
I kept glancing at the doors, waiting for a miracle. Waiting for a man I once thought loved me. He didn’t show.
“Mrs. Cooke,” the nurse said softly, careful, almost hesitant, “your husband said he had an urgent meeting… something about an apology. Do you want me to call a car?”
Urgent meeting. Apology. I let out a dry, bitter laugh. Three years of marriage—and I wasn’t even worth a ride home after nearly being killed.
I knew why he wasn’t there. My refusal to apologize to Lydia had sealed it. That was the only crime in his eyes. Everything else—the massacre, the lies, the theft of my family—was just collateral.
The car dropped me at the safehouse. The family estate, stripped of warmth in my eyes, felt like a mausoleum.
Stepping through the door, my chest twisted. Home? Not anymore.
Lydia was there. My “cousin,” lounging in my robe and slippers, hand resting on her barely rounded belly like it was a crown. Her smug little glow filled the kitchen.
And Marco—my “husband”—stood at the stove, apron on, flipping pancakes. Laughing. Leaning down to whisper something that made her giggle. For me? Never once.
I froze.
Years of anniversaries flashed: the cooking dates, his sneers, the flowers meant to apologize for his cruelty. All lies.
Lydia’s smirk widened as she spotted me. “Hi, cuz. Hope you don’t mind me wearing your things. Marco brought me here last night. Had to take care of me, you know.”
I smiled blankly, sharp and cold. “Wear whatever you want, Lydia.”
Marco’s eyes landed on me. “Isobel, you’re back.”
I shrugged. “Why? Did you want me to rot in the hospital? Or maybe die there?”
Surprise flickered across his face—quickly replaced by irritation. “You haven’t apologized to Lydia for slapping her yesterday.”
I scoffed. “You’ll be waiting a long time.”
Lydia intervened, sweet as poison. “Come, Isobel. Sit. Eat with us. Don’t fight.”
Marco’s voice, calm and commanding, dripped menace. “Be grateful. Lydia forgives. You? Not so much.”
He placed a plate in front of me. Steam rose. A betrayal served warm.
I shoved it aside. “That’s not mine. That’s hers.”