Evening light slanted through the dining room windows as I made my way to the table. This would be my last dinner in this house—my prison for so many years—and I intended to make it count.
I paused at the head of the table, where my mother once sat. Her chair remained there, a silent memorial to the woman I barely remembered. Without hesitation, I pulled it out and took my place.
Jasper, our elderly butler, appeared at my side almost immediately, his weathered face creased with concern.
"Miss Isabella," he whispered urgently, "perhaps another seat would be more... appropriate."
I settled more firmly in the chair. "This is exactly where I want to sit, Jasper."
He glanced nervously toward the doorway. "Lady Beatrix won't approve."
"Lady Beatrix hasn't approved of my existence for years," I replied, smoothing the napkin across my lap. "Her opinion matters little to me now."
Jasper hesitated, torn between decades of service protocols and the reality before him. I'd never been unkind to the household staff, and I sensed a reluctant sympathy from him.
"Very well, Miss," he conceded with a slight bow. "Would you care for water while you wait?"
I nodded, watching him retreat with hurried steps. Poor Jasper—caught between warring factions in a crumbling house.
Alone at the massive dining table, I traced my fingers along the worn oak surface. How strange to sit here, where my mother once presided over family meals. In my childhood memories, those early dinners had seemed happy affairs—my father smiling, my mother laughing, me perched on cushions to reach my plate.
But now, with adult eyes, I recognized the strain in those memories. The way my father's smile never quite reached his eyes. The edge in my mother's laughter when he spoke of his "business associates." The arguments that would follow after I was tucked into bed, voices rising through the floorboards.
The happiness I'd clung to was as much an illusion as my father's respectability.
"Well, well. Look who's feeling important."
Clara stood in the doorway, framed by the fading light. Her golden hair was perfectly arranged, her dress impeccable—no trace of the horse manure incident visible except for the cold fury in her eyes.
I'd expected screaming rage after our last encounter. This eerie composure was far more unsettling.
"Hello, Clara," I said evenly. "I'm surprised to see you so... composed."
She glided into the room, her movements graceful and controlled. "We all have our little tantrums, don't we? But unlike you, I've learned when to stop pushing."
"Have you?" I raised an eyebrow beneath my mask. "That would be a first."
Clara circled the table, trailing her fingers along the backs of the chairs. "You've taken things too far, Isabella. First that ridiculous engagement, now this pathetic power play." She gestured at my position at the head of the table. "It's sad, really. You won't get away with it."
"I'm literally leaving tomorrow," I pointed out. "I'd say I've already gotten away with it."
She laughed, the sound like breaking glass. "Oh, sister. Your confidence is adorable. But we both know it won't last. The Duke will tire of your novelty. He'll see what we all see—a damaged, bitter woman hiding behind a mask."
I refused to flinch. "Is that what keeps you awake at night, Clara? The fear that someone might actually choose me over you?"
Her smile tightened. "Speaking of choices," she said, abruptly changing tactics, "you got Clara Meadows fired, you know."
The sudden mention of the maid caught me off guard. "What?"
"The maid who helped you with your little horse stunt." Clara's eyes glittered with malice. "Mother dismissed her without references this morning. Another poor soul whose life you've ruined through your selfishness."
A pang of guilt shot through me before I recognized the manipulation. "I didn't fire Clara Meadows," I said firmly. "*You* did—when you treated her so poorly that she chose to help me instead."
Clara's nostrils flared. The only sign that my barb had hit home.
"It's amazing, really," I continued, warming to my point. "You've had every advantage—beauty, wealth, our father's favor—and yet people still prefer to align themselves with the 'cursed' daughter. What does that say about you, I wonder?"
She slammed her palm on the table. "You think you're so clever now, with your Duke and your newfound spine. But we both know what happens when you're cornered. You break, Isabella. You always have."
Jasper returned with my water, his eyes widening at the obvious tension. He set the glass down with a shaking hand and quickly retreated.
I took a deliberate sip. "I'm not breaking anymore, Clara. That's what terrifies you."
"Terrifies me?" She laughed again. "Nothing about you terrifies me. You're pathetic. Always have been, always will be."
"Then why are you here?" I asked quietly. "Why waste your time on someone so beneath you?"
Clara's face flushed. "To warn you. Whatever game you think you're playing, it won't end well. The Thornes eat girls like you for breakfast."
"Better their table than this one," I replied, gesturing around the dining room with its faded wallpaper and tarnished candlesticks. "At least there, I'll be valued for something other than my capacity for suffering."
Clara circled closer, leaning down to whisper in my ear. "Do you really believe he'll want you? Once he sees what's under that mask? Once he discovers how broken you truly are?"
I refused to give her the satisfaction of a reaction. "Whether he wants me or not is irrelevant. Our arrangement is mutually beneficial."
"Arrangement," she echoed, straightening with a smirk. "How romantic. Tell me, sister, does he make you keep the mask on when he fucks you?"
My cheeks burned beneath my mask, but I kept my voice level. "I wouldn't expect you to understand a relationship based on mutual respect rather than manipulation."
Clara's eyes narrowed dangerously. "When this falls apart—and it will—don't expect to find sanctuary here."
"I would never make that mistake," I said honestly. "I'll never return to this house or this family."
"Never is a long time," Clara murmured, taking the seat opposite me. "You might not have a choice."
"There's always a choice." I met her gaze steadily. "And I choose to no longer forgive the unforgivable."
Something flickered in Clara's eyes—surprise, perhaps, or a flash of genuine emotion quickly suppressed.
"So that's it?" she asked, her voice oddly quiet. "Years of shared history, and you're simply cutting all ties?"
"Shared history?" I laughed bitterly. "Is that what you call your torment? Your constant cruelty? The day you scarred me for life?"
Clara's face hardened again. "You've always defined yourself by that incident. Poor, wounded Isabella. It's pathetic."
"What's pathetic is your inability to see what you've done," I replied. "But it doesn't matter anymore. After tomorrow, you'll be nothing but an unpleasant memory."
For a moment, something like hurt flashed across Clara's features before the mask of contempt slid back into place.
"When that artificial confidence of yours crumbles," she said slowly, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper, "I'll be there to watch. And when this is all over, I'll make sure you regret every word you've spoken to me these past days."
She leaned closer, her breath hot against my masked cheek. "You think you hate me now? You'll hate me more when that time comes."
The chill that ran down my spine had nothing to do with the evening air. There was something in Clara's eyes—a certainty, a knowledge—that made my stomach twist.
Not rage at being bested, not simple jealousy, but the calm assurance of someone who knows something you don't.
She straightened, smoothed her dress, and smiled—a perfect, practiced smile that never reached her eyes.
"Enjoy your last night as the head of the table, sister dear," she said sweetly. "Tomorrow, you'll be entering a world where you have no idea how to play the game."
With that, she turned and left the room, her skirts swishing against the doorframe. I remained seated, my fingers gripping the edge of the table to hide their trembling.
Clara's words echoed in my mind. Not a tantrum, not a threat born of immediate anger, but a promise. A warning.
You'll hate me more when that time comes.
What did she know that I didn't? What game was she already playing while I celebrated my escape?
The dining room suddenly felt colder, the shadows deeper. My triumph at claiming my mother's chair seemed hollow now, a childish gesture against a threat I couldn't yet see.
Tomorrow I would become Isabella Thorne, Duchess of Blackwood. I would leave this house and its poison behind.
But as I sat alone in the growing darkness, Clara's promise hung in the air like a storm gathering on the horizon.