"You're not the only one who's lost, you know."
The voice sliced through the fog of Isobel's mind—low, sharp, laced with venom—and still distant, like it belonged to a dream.
"I want to see her… I want to see the bitch who did this…"
Isobel's eyes snapped open.
The voice wasn't so distant anymore.
She was in a hospital room—white, sterile, suffocating. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting cold shadows across the tiled floor. Her head throbbed with a dull, insistent pain, and every inch of her body ached like she'd been crushed beneath a thousand bricks.
She tried to sit up, but a wave of dizziness hit her like a freight train. Gasping, she collapsed back against the pillow, her heart hammering in panic.
What happened?
Where am I?
Alexander—where's Alexander?
The sound of heels clicking sharply on tile jerked her attention toward the foot of the bed.
And then she saw her.
Victoria.
Alexander's stepmother stood stiff and furious, her arms folded across her chest, her jaw clenched so tightly it looked as though her face might crack from the pressure. Her manicured fingers curled into fists at her sides like she was holding herself back from lunging forward.
"You think you're the only one suffering?" Victoria's voice was ice on skin. "My son is gone, and you—"
Isobel's heart stalled.
Gone?
Her lips parted, but no sound came. Her throat was dry, her voice barely a whisper. "I—"
She couldn't piece the words together. Her thoughts were a jagged storm. Her chest rose and fell erratically as the memory of the crash punched back into her.
Her birthday.
The helicopter.
The screaming.
The fire.
The final jolt.
And Alexander's voice, yelling, Hold on!
"You think you can just walk away from this?" Victoria spat, stepping closer. "After everything you've done? You've ruined everything."
Isobel's trembling hand moved instinctively to her stomach. A painful pulse radiated through her core. Her fingers clutched at the hospital blanket, the sheets damp beneath her palms from the cold sweat on her skin.
"What… what do you mean?" she rasped.
Victoria didn't answer right away. Instead, her gaze swept to the side. A nurse stood by the door, one hand tentatively reaching out to calm her.
But Victoria didn't stop.
"Where's Alexander?" Isobel asked at last, her voice fragile, barely audible. Saying his name aloud hurt. Like pressing on a wound that hadn't even begun to heal.
Victoria's expression changed. Her red lips curled into something twisted—half pity, half malice.
"I wish I could say you'd see him again. But the truth is…" she leaned in, her voice sharp as glass, "they never found his body. The wreckage was torn apart… but no sign of him."
The world tilted.
Isobel's lungs seized. The oxygen felt too thick, too cold to breathe. Her stomach twisted violently, and she curled into herself.
He was gone?
No.
No, he couldn't be.
She didn't feel the tears when they spilled over, didn't register the sob building in her chest until it broke from her throat, raw and broken.
"I… I didn't mean for this to happen. I didn't…"
"Oh, don't even try," Victoria snapped, eyes narrowing. "You were the only one with him up there. Don't play innocent."
Her words cut like razors, and Isobel had no strength to deflect them. Her guilt was already eating her alive. Now
Victoria's accusations felt like confirmation.
"You saw the news," Victoria continued, venom dripping from her tongue. "Did you do this because of that photo? Was this your way of getting revenge?"
Isobel blinked through her tears, her head shaking. "No… no, I swear—"
But Victoria wasn't finished.
She took one more step, her stilettos clicking like gunshots in the silence. Her shadow fell over the bed like a curse.
"Now that he's dead, you'll move on, won't you?" she hissed. "You'll seduce another fool. Wrap him around your little finger the same way you did Alexander. Until he ends up dead too."
Isobel flinched. The words were poison, seeping into her blood, curdling every breath she took. Her body curled tighter, instinctively trying to protect herself—and the life inside her—from the hate aimed straight at her heart.
She was trembling.
"And if that wasn't enough..." Victoria's voice turned sharper, cutting through the sterile air like a blade. She leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing with venom. "You lost the baby, Isobel. Alexander's child. You destroyed everything. My son is dead, and your failure means his legacy is erased."
The words struck her like a hammer to the chest.
Isobel's hands flew to her stomach, her fingers pressing gently as if she could feel some spark of life there—some sign, some hope that it wasn't true.
"What? What are you talking about?" she whispered, her voice cracking with desperation. "How do you even know about the baby?"
Her voice broke entirely on the last word.
She felt like she was drowning, suffocating in a sea of grief and disbelief. Her world was slipping through her fingers and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
Alexander.
The baby.
Their love.
All gone.
The weight of it caved in on her chest. She could hardly breathe, barely exist.
She turned her face into the pillow and bit down on her lip to keep herself from screaming. Silent sobs wracked her body, and tears streamed down her cheeks, soaking into the cotton. She curled into herself, knees drawing up slightly like a child seeking refuge.
There was nothing left to live for.
And Victoria knew it.
She stood there, staring down at Isobel with a twisted smile tugging at her lips. She watched every sob, every gasp, every tremble—savoring it like a predator circling wounded prey.
"I don't know what you thought you'd gain by running off with Alexander's money," she said, her voice cool and cutting. "But let me make this clear. If you think for one second you're getting away with this, you're sorely mistaken."
The door creaked open.
In stepped Eloise—Alexander's younger sister.
Her long hair was tied back, her blazer sharp and dark against her pale skin. Her eyes scanned the room, landing on Isobel like a judge delivering a sentence.
Victoria turned slightly. "Eloise, darling, come in. I was just explaining to her what she's done."
Isobel's heart thudded painfully in her chest. The weight of their judgment was unbearable.
Eloise's lips tightened. "I think we should give her some time to process," she said, voice even, but void of sympathy. "She needs to understand what's coming."
A chill ran down Isobel's spine. What's coming?
"You think I don't know?" Victoria barked, turning back to her. "I know exactly what you deserve."
She stepped closer again, heels clicking like gunshots on tile. The venom in her tone turned icy.
"Now that he's gone, every cent he had, every drop of power, every ounce of his name—you'll never touch it. You'll be nothing. And you'll lose everything you ever thought you could build. Your reputation, your dignity, it'll all crumble."
Isobel's vision swam with fresh tears. Her fingers clawed at the sheets beneath her, white-knuckled and shaking.
This isn't real. This can't be happening.
"Let's leave her to think about that," Eloise said quietly, her tone unreadable.
Victoria lingered one more moment before finally stepping back. "You'll never be able to look anyone in the eye again," she hissed. "Never."
The door clicked shut behind them.
Silence followed—long and suffocating.
Isobel was alone again.
She stared at the ceiling, her body numb, her spirit shattered. The sterile beep of hospital monitors echoed faintly in the background, but it was the sound of her own breathing—shallow, uneven—that filled her ears the loudest.
She needed answers. She needed to know what had really happened. She needed proof—anything—that Alexander might still be alive.
Because she couldn't believe he was gone.
She wouldn't.
The door opened again.
A nurse stepped inside quietly, but Isobel barely noticed—until something on the nurse's phone caught her eye.
A headline.
Even from across the room, she could see the bold letters glowing on the screen.
Her stomach dropped as her eyes zeroed in.
"Isobel Stone: The Woman Who Destroyed Alexander Blackwell's Legacy."
Her breath stilled. Her pulse thundered.
The headline blurred as fresh tears filled her eyes. She reached out with a trembling hand toward her own phone on
the bedside table. Her fingers brushed the cracked screen, barely able to hold it steady as she unlocked it.
What else were they saying?
What else were they blaming her for?
She had to know—even if it destroyed her.