Masks Begin to Slip
The atmosphere at dinner was unbearable.
Isabella sat at the head of the table, her posture perfect, her tone smooth. "I heard the search teams haven't found her yet," she said softly, spooning soup with delicate grace. "Such a shame. I do hope Eleanor's all right."
Clara felt her stomach twist. The way Isabella spoke — calm, measured, almost sympathetic — made it sound like she knew exactly what had happened.
Ethan didn't answer. He sat in silence, eyes cold, his fork untouched.
Victoria, however, couldn't stay silent. "You sound awfully calm about this, Isabella."
The woman's lashes fluttered innocently. "And what would you have me do? Scream? Cry?" She set her spoon down gently. "Eleanor was kind to me once. I'm simply praying she's safe."
"Don't," Victoria said sharply. "Don't pretend."
The tension snapped like a wire.
Ethan's voice came low but steady. "Enough."
But as he spoke, Clara's gaze caught something small and almost invisible — a faint scratch on Isabella's wrist, half-hidden beneath her bracelet.
Something in her gut twisted. She remembered Eleanor's study — the scattered papers, the perfume in the air. That same perfume now lingered faintly around Isabella.
Her hand tightened on her napkin.
Ethan rose from his seat. "Dinner's over," he said quietly, and left the table without another word.
Clara followed him moments later, her heart pounding. When she reached him in the hallway, he was staring out a window, the night sky reflecting in his eyes.
"She's behind it, isn't she?" Clara asked softly.
Ethan didn't turn. "I can't accuse her without proof."
"But you believe it."
He exhaled, the sound heavy. "I believe she's capable of anything."
And for the first time, Clara saw just how deep the storm had already begun to brew.