Lady Beatrix stormed toward me, her face contorted with rage. I stood my ground, watching her approach with an odd sense of calm. For years, this woman had been the source of so many nightmares, but now, with freedom within my grasp, I found myself wondering why I'd ever feared her at all.
"You jealous little witch!" she hissed, jabbing a finger at me. "How dare you humiliate Clara like that?"
I tilted my head, studying her flushed face. "Jealous? Of Clara?" I couldn't help the bitter laugh that escaped my lips. "What exactly would I be jealous of? Her cruelty? Her emptiness?"
Lady Beatrix's nostrils flared. "You've always been jealous of her beauty, her accomplishments, her place in society. Everyone has always preferred Clara."
"Everyone? Or just you and Father?" I stepped closer, feeling oddly powerful. "You've hated me from the moment you set foot in this house. Not because I was jealous of Clara, but because I outshined her in every way that actually matters."
"You're talking nonsense," Lady Beatrix snapped, though her eyes darted away from mine. "You're absolutely crazy."
"Perhaps I am," I conceded, surprising her. "After all, I'd have to be crazy to have endured your abuse for so long. To have stayed silent while Clara destroyed my belongings, while you denied me food, while Father pretended I didn't exist."
Lady Beatrix's lips curled into a sneer. "This engagement to Duke Thorne won't last. Once he sees what's beneath that mask—"
"He already knows," I lied smoothly. "And unlike you, he doesn't find me wanting."
Her eyes widened momentarily before narrowing again. "Don't get comfortable in your newfound position. The Duke has a reputation for cruelty that makes my treatment of you look like kindness. When he discards you, you'll come crawling back here."
"Here?" I gestured around at the manor's faded glory. "To this crumbling house? Tell me, stepmother, how long before Father has to sell this place to pay his gambling debts?"
A flash of panic crossed her face before she could mask it. "Your father's finances are none of your concern."
"They never were," I agreed. "Just as I was never your concern. Yet here you are, desperate to maintain the illusion of grandeur while the walls quite literally crumble around you."
"You think you're so clever now, don't you?" Lady Beatrix snarled. "Stay right here. I'm going outside to find your father."
I smiled beneath my mask. "By all means, do what you must. But know this—I'm no longer the frightened girl you can order about. Go ahead, find Father. I'm sure he'll be thrilled to jeopardize the connection to the Duke's fortune just to punish me for standing up to Clara."
Lady Beatrix stared at me, her mouth working silently as she realized the truth of my words. Baron Reginald Beaumont might despise me, but he coveted the Duke's wealth more than he indulged his wife's vindictiveness.
I turned away, dismissing her. "Goodbye... Mother."
The word, spoken with deliberate mockery, had the desired effect. Lady Beatrix gasped as if I'd slapped her.
"How dare you!" she shrieked, her composure finally shattering completely. She lunged after me, grabbing for my arm.
I spun around, faster than she expected. "Don't touch me," I warned, my voice low and dangerous. "Not ever again."
She froze, her hand still outstretched.
"For years, I've been your punching bag," I continued, each word precise and measured. "I've endured your cruelty, your neglect, your spite. I've swallowed every harsh word and nursed every bruise in silence. But that ends today."
Lady Beatrix's face paled. "You ungrateful—"
"Ungrateful?" I laughed, the sound harsh even to my own ears. "What exactly should I be grateful for? The scraps from your table? The hand-me-down dresses? The constant reminder that I was unwanted? Tell me, what great gift have you bestowed upon me that deserves my gratitude?"
She had no answer, just sputtering rage.
"I've spent years fighting the darkness you've tried to plant inside me," I continued. "There were nights I lay awake wondering if I should simply give in to the madness you all seemed to expect from me. It would have been easier, wouldn't it? If I'd just become the monster you claimed I was?"
A flicker of unease crossed Lady Beatrix's face.
"But I refused," I said softly. "I refused to let you break me. And now I'm leaving, with or without your blessing. So what will it be, Lady Beatrix? Will you continue this pointless fight? Or will you finally admit defeat?"
For a long moment, she said nothing, her eyes darting between my masked face and the empty hallway behind me, as if seeking an escape route.
"This isn't over," she finally hissed.
"It is for me," I replied, turning away once more. "Goodbye, stepmother."
I walked away, keeping my back straight and my head high, even as I felt her venomous glare burning into me. Each step felt like a victory, a declaration of independence from the tyranny I'd endured for so long.
Only when I reached the safety of my room did I allow myself to falter. A sharp pain lanced through my head, sudden and fierce. I stumbled, gripping the edge of my small dressing table to steady myself.
Years of suppressed anger and resentment seemed to flood through me all at once, threatening to drown me in their intensity. My breathing came in short gasps as I lowered myself into a chair, my hands trembling.
How easy it would be to give in to that rage, to let it consume me entirely. To become the madwoman they'd always accused me of being. To return Lady Beatrix's cruelty tenfold, to make Clara suffer as I had suffered, to force my father to acknowledge the daughter he'd so willingly sacrificed.
The thoughts were seductive in their darkness, promising a swift and satisfying revenge for all I'd endured.
But that wasn't who I wanted to be.
I pressed my fingers against my temples, fighting against the throbbing pain. "I will not lose myself," I whispered fiercely. "Not to them. Not to anyone."
The pain intensified, bringing tears to my eyes. Years of bottled emotions demanding release, battering against the walls I'd built to contain them. I'd been so focused on surviving that I hadn't allowed myself to feel the true depth of my anger and hurt.
Now, with freedom within my grasp, those emotions refused to be contained any longer.
I staggered to my feet, barely making it to the small basin of water on my nightstand before emptying the contents of my stomach. My whole body shook with the force of it, sweat beading on my forehead as I gripped the edge of the table.
When the spasm passed, I slumped back into the chair, exhausted. My reflection stared back at me from the small, tarnished mirror—a pale face, half-hidden behind a mask, with eyes that looked too old for their years.
"I am Isabella Beaumont," I whispered to my reflection. "Soon to be Isabella Thorne. I am not broken. I am not mad. I am stronger than they know."
The words felt like a lifeline, something to anchor me against the storm of emotions threatening to sweep me away. I repeated them, again and again, until my breathing steadied and the pain in my head began to recede.
Outside my door, I could hear the household continuing its normal routines—servants moving about their tasks, the occasional raised voice from below stairs, the creak of the old floorboards under familiar footsteps.
Soon, I would leave it all behind. The crumbling manor, the faded glory of the Beaumont name, the daily cruelties both large and small. In two days' time, I would depart for a new life as the Duchess of Blackwood.
What awaited me there, I couldn't say. Duke Alaric Thorne might prove to be as monstrous as his reputation suggested. But at least it would be a different kind of monster than the ones I'd grown up with.
And perhaps, just perhaps, I might finally find a measure of peace.
I closed my eyes, pressing my fingers once more against my aching temples. "I will not lose myself," I vowed again, even as the darkness swirled within me, promising sweet vengeance if only I would surrender to its call. "I will not become what they wanted me to be."
But as the pain in my head intensified once more, I wondered if I was already too late.