Chapter Two
The room stayed quiet long after my words landed.
The silence pressed against my chest until guilt crept in—sharp and unwanted—for calling him my mother's new favourite.
Finally, he spoke.
"I… I'll call someone to attend to you," he said softly. "I'm sorry, Miss Isla."
I watched him leave, his hurried footsteps echoing down the corridor until even that sound disappeared.
—
Later that week, restlessness gnawed at me.
"Madeline," I said, "I'd like to take a stroll in the garden."
She paused, surprise flickering across her face. "Ma'am? You usually prefer staying indoors."
"Today, I don't," I replied. "Please."
She didn't argue. She never did.
As she wheeled me through the corridors, I realised something else—I hadn't seen Euan since that night. Not at breakfast. Not in my mother's wing. Not once. It was as if he had vanished completely.
At the garden entrance, I stopped her.
"I can manage from here."
She hesitated, then stepped back.
I pushed myself forward, the open air brushing my skin like a promise I wasn't meant to keep.
Then I heard it.
A sound—raw, indulgent, unmistakable.
My mother's voice.
I froze.
The garden echoed with her shameless cries, followed by another voice—low, strained, obedient. The sounds twisted together, filling the space with something ugly and invasive.
Even here.
Even outside.
She had no restraint.
Disgust curdled in my stomach.
Curiosity betrayed me anyway.
I wheeled forward, the sounds growing louder, closer—until—
Crash.
My chair slammed into a flower pot, tipping violently. I hit the ground hard, breath tearing from my lungs as pain flared through my legs and spine.
Silence followed.
Then footsteps.
Fast. Furious.
My mother stormed toward me, dragging her dress into place, fury sharpening her features.
"Who the hell is there?" she snapped.
"Good afternoon, Mama," I said from the ground.
Her eyes burned. "Isla? Why are you here? Where is Madeline? Is this not her responsibility?"
"I told her to stay back," I replied evenly. "I wanted air. Or is that forbidden too?"
"You will not speak to me like that," she hissed. "I am your mother."
I laughed—short, bitter. "A mother would help me up. A mother wouldn't behave like this while my father's fate remains a mystery."
"Isla!" she screamed.
Then her tone shifted, smooth and dangerous. "Come. Let me help you."
"Don't touch me," I spat. "Keep your hands to yourself."
She straightened slowly.
"Oh," she said coolly. "Then help yourself."
She stepped over me and walked away, her heels clicking like a sentence being passed.
I stayed on the ground, staring after her, something brutal settling in my chest.
In this house, I wasn't her daughter.
I was property.
—
My hands shook as I tried to steady myself.
Then a voice came from the shadows.
"I know you hate me," Euan said quietly. "But… can I help you?"
"Don't touch me," I snapped. "I won't be responsible for what I do."
He stopped immediately, raising his hands. "Alright."
I dragged myself to the flower pot, gripping it as I hauled myself upright. With effort, I repositioned my wheelchair and lowered myself back into it, breathing hard.
I turned toward the house.
The chair stopped.
"Miss Isla—"
"It's Isla," I cut in. "And take your hands off my chair."
He stepped around to face me, forcing my gaze up to his.
"You have every reason to hate me," he said. "But nothing I do in this house is simple. It's survival."
His eyes didn't waver.
"For people like me," he continued, "obedience is how you stay alive."
Something in his voice unsettled me—not desire, not pity—but truth.
He stepped away, disappearing back into the house, leaving me alone with thoughts I didn't want.
—
That night, guilt gnawed at me.
My mother had punished Madeline for letting me out alone. Even through the pain, Madeline tended to me gently, refusing to complain.
As she handed me my medication, I met her tired eyes.
She didn't deserve this.
I took the pills quietly, without protest, offering her a small nod of gratitude instead.
—
Days later, the estate changed.
Men arrived—hard-eyed, sharp-smiled, carrying violence in their posture. My mother ordered everyone to remain where they were.
The air thickened.
One man stepped forward. Tall. Controlled.
"I am Dante Moretti," he said. "A messenger of Lorenzo Vitale."
A name that carried weight.
"He sends this."
A black, ancient-looking box was placed before my mother. When it was opened, a dagger lay inside—blackened steel engraved with a serpent coiled around a crown. A message. A challenge.
My mother's eyes darkened.
Then she laughed.
And in a single, ruthless motion, she struck.
Blood spilled.
Chaos erupted.
I pressed myself against the window, trembling as violence consumed the estate.
That was the moment I understood—
A war had begun.
And I was trapped at the heart of it.
Lorenzo's men didn't last long.
Within minutes, my mother's guards had overwhelmed them. Bodies lay sprawled across the marble floor, blood seeping into the grooves like dark ink. Only one remained alive—barely.
My mother stepped forward.
Her gaze locked onto him.
"Go back," she said calmly, her voice sharp enough to cut. "And tell your boss exactly who did this."
She leaned closer.
"Tell him I am Isobel MacGregor."
The man was dragged away, screaming fading into the distance as the blood was scrubbed from the floor and the bodies removed. Silence reclaimed the hall.
I stood frozen—not because of the violence. That was routine.
But because of the name she had just challenged.
Lorenzo Vitale.
The man who had taken me when I was eight years old. The man whose cruelty still haunted my sleep. I had seen both his darkness and my mother's, and in that moment, I understood something with chilling clarity.
This war would not be clean.
And no one in this house would survive it untouched.
—
Weeks passed.
The estate settled back into its rigid rhythm, as if violence were nothing more than a passing storm.
That morning, I watched from my window as my home tutor arrived. My mother spoke to him briefly at the gate before climbing into her black Escalade and driving away.
"May I see Isla?" the tutor asked the maids.
A knock followed soon after.
"Miss Isla, your tutor is here."
"Ask him to come in," I replied. "I'll take my lesson in my room today."
When he entered, we exchanged polite greetings. Madeline lingered for a moment before I dismissed her.
"I'll return shortly, Mr. Harrison," I said, heading into the bathroom.
I studied my reflection longer than necessary—thin nightgown, bare legs, defiance flickering in my eyes. Then I returned to the room.
"I'll sit here," I said, settling on the bed. "You may use the sofa."
The lesson began.
Or at least, it tried to.
His eyes avoided mine. His voice faltered. Tension thickened the air, unspoken and dangerous. I tested boundaries out of boredom, out of control, out of something darker I didn't want to name.
Eventually, he stood abruptly.
"I think… we should end the lesson early," he said, voice strained.
I didn't stop him.
He left in a hurry, dignity fraying at the edges, leaving the room heavier than before.
—
Not long after, curiosity led me somewhere forbidden.
I waited until the corridors were quiet, then slipped into my mother's bedroom using a key I'd taken weeks ago. My heart pounded as I searched her drawers—nothing.
Then the wardrobe.
Inside, hidden behind silk and tailored darkness, was the dagger.
Blackened steel. A serpent coiled around a crown.
Lorenzo's mark.
My breath caught.
Why keep it?
Before I could think further, the sound of the estate gates opening echoed through the house.
Panic surged.
I rushed to put everything back, but my body betrayed me. My legs weakened, muscles refusing to obey. I stumbled, crashing to the floor.
"Not now," I hissed under my breath, dragging myself forward inch by inch.
Seven minutes.
That's all I had.
My knee struck the table.
"Ouch!"
Too loud.
"What was that?" my mother's voice rang out from the hallway.
Footsteps approached—measured, deliberate.
The door swung open.
And I knew—
I had been caught.