"Yes, Clara," I said firmly, meeting her gaze without flinching. "I expect you to dig with your bare hands. Just as I had to do countless times at your and Lady Beatrix's command."
Clara's mouth fell open. Her eyes darted desperately to my father, seeking rescue from this humiliation.
"Father!" she pleaded. "You cannot allow this!"
To everyone's surprise—mine included—my father cleared his throat and straightened in his chair. "Clara, do as Isabella says."
"But—" Clara began, her voice rising.
"Enough!" My father's fist came down on the table, making the silverware jump. "You will do as your sister commands. For once in your life, you will face consequences for your actions."
I couldn't believe my ears. My father, defending me? The man who had turned a blind eye to my suffering for years?
Then I caught the calculating gleam in his eyes as he glanced at Duke Alaric. Of course—this wasn't about justice or making amends. This was about securing his future through my marriage to the Duke.
"Think of our family's future," my father hissed at Clara. "Think of what we stand to gain. Swallow your pride and dig the damn hole."
Clara's face flushed deep red. "Fine," she spat through gritted teeth. "I'll do it."
Lady Beatrix let out a sound of horror. "This is absurd! Clara's hands will be ruined!"
"As were mine," I replied coolly. "Many times over."
Lady Beatrix stood abruptly. "I cannot witness this barbarism." She turned to Clara. "Come, dear. I'll at least fetch you some gloves."
"No gloves," I said firmly. "Bare hands, just as it was for me."
Clara looked ready to scream, but after a long moment, she gave a stiff nod. As she and Lady Beatrix left the dining room, I caught a glimpse of pure hatred in my stepsister's eyes that would have once terrified me. Now it only confirmed I was doing exactly what needed to be done.
Once they were gone, Alaric turned to me, the corner of his mouth quirked in what might have been approval. "A proper burial for your kitten. Poetic justice."
My father shifted uncomfortably. "Your Grace, perhaps we could discuss the marriage contract now? I've had my solicitor draw up some preliminary terms—"
"That won't be necessary," Alaric cut him off. "My own legal team will handle everything." He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a small velvet box. "But there is another matter to address."
He opened the box, revealing an enormous diamond ring that caught the candlelight and scattered it across the table in dazzling fragments. The stone was easily the size of my thumbnail, surrounded by smaller diamonds in an ornate gold setting.
"This ring has been in the Thorne family for generations," Alaric explained. "Every Duchess of Blackwood has worn it."
I stared at the ring, momentarily speechless. It was magnificent, certainly—but also ostentatious and heavy-looking. I couldn't imagine wearing such a thing on my finger daily. It seemed designed more as a display of wealth than a symbol of affection.
Alaric must have noticed my hesitation. His eyes narrowed slightly. "Is something wrong, Isabella?"
"It's beautiful," I said automatically. But I couldn't bring myself to reach for it. After spending so many years being invisible, the thought of wearing something so attention-grabbing made me deeply uncomfortable.
Alaric snapped the box shut, his jaw tightening. "You don't like it."
"No, I—"
"I'll have something more suitable made," he said curtly.
My father leaned forward. "Your Grace, I assure you, Isabella is overwhelmed by your generosity. That ring is magnificent—"
"If she doesn't like it, it's too large," Alaric said sharply. "She needs something that won't weigh down her hand."
I felt a rush of gratitude. He'd read my discomfort perfectly, though I hadn't voiced it.
"I'll commission a new ring," Alaric continued, tucking the box back into his pocket. "Something more appropriate for daily wear."
My father looked aghast at the rejection of such an expensive heirloom. "Your Grace, surely—"
"The matter is settled," Alaric said with finality. "Now, I've made another decision. Isabella will be moving to my estate in two days' time."
"Two days?" My father's face paled. "But the wedding isn't for weeks! People will talk—"
"Let them," Alaric replied coldly. "Isabella will have her own wing and proper chaperones. I want her settled before the wedding preparations begin in earnest."
"But—"
"Is there something about your household that makes you confident she's better off here, Baron?" Alaric's voice dropped dangerously.
My father swallowed hard. "No, Your Grace."
"Good. Isabella will pack her belongings tomorrow, and my carriage will collect her the following morning." Alaric stood suddenly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe I've had enough of your hospitality for one evening. Isabella, would you see me out?"
I rose quickly, relief flooding through me. Two days. In just two days I would be free of this house.
Outside in the hallway, my legs suddenly felt weak. I reached for the wall to steady myself.
"I can't believe I did that," I whispered. "Clara will never forgive me."
"Good," Alaric said simply. "Some actions don't deserve forgiveness."
I looked up at him, finding his eyes filled with something that looked remarkably like respect.
"You performed admirably in there," he continued. "Not many would have the courage to stand up to their tormentors as you did."
"It doesn't feel like courage," I admitted. "It feels like... revenge."
"Sometimes they're the same thing." A hint of a smile crossed his face. "Justice delivered by your own hand often tastes sweeter than that delivered by others."
I heard footsteps approaching. My father was coming down the hall, his face set in a determined expression.
Alaric noticed too. He took my hand and pressed a kiss to my knuckles. "I need a private word with your father. Go upstairs and begin thinking about what you wish to bring to your new home."
My new home. The words sent a thrill through me.
"All right," I agreed, reluctantly pulling my hand from his. As much as I wanted to witness whatever Alaric planned to say to my father, I knew better than to argue.
I hurried up the stairs, pausing at the landing to look back. My father had reached Alaric and was gesturing emphatically about something, his face flushed.
Alaric's expression had changed completely. Gone was any trace of the cordial gentleman. In his place stood someone harder, colder—someone whose reputation as a "monster" suddenly seemed less exaggerated.
As I watched, he reached out and grabbed my father by the throat, pushing him against the wall with frightening speed. Even from a distance, I could see the terror in my father's eyes as Alaric leaned in close, whispering something I couldn't hear.
Whatever he was saying, I had no doubt it involved me—and a promise of consequences should my father fail to heed his warning.