Late into the night, Isla twisted beneath her sheets, trapped between sleep and waking as her nightmares clung to her. Rest refused to come.
Cold wind slipped through the open windows, setting the curtains into a restless dance. The chill crept across her skin, biting and unkind, yet she lay still, powerless to pull the covers closer.
Without warning, her door flew open.
A shadow stepped out of the darkness and moved toward her bed. Isla's heart lurched. Fear surged through her veins, her body ready to scream—until the figure came into focus.
Her mother.
Relief washed over her, loosening the tension in her limbs. Camilla sat beside her and brushed her fingers gently through Isla's hair.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
The room was dim, but Isla could hear the pain in her mother's voice. With careful hands, Camilla drew the covers up and tucked her in, as though trying to shield her from more than just the cold. She crossed the room and closed the windows, silencing the wind, then pressed a warm kiss to Isla's forehead.
"Good night, Isla."
She slipped away, closing the door softly behind her.
Isla was too exhausted to wonder why. Sleep claimed her almost instantly.
In the morning
As always, Isla washed and dressed while the maids restored order to her room. Downstairs waited breakfast—and her family. The thought made her stomach tighten. The insults. The threats. The careless cruelty she endured day after day.
I'll survive it, she told herself. Like I always do.
She cast one last look at her reflection before leaving her room and heading toward the dining hall.
To her surprise, she arrived early.
"Morning, Mama." Isla leaned in to kiss Camilla's cheek, earning a soft, grateful smile.
She took the seat beside her mother, pointedly ignoring her brothers.
Gratitude was a strange thing to feel in that room, especially with them present. Isla shot them a look of quiet disdain, drawing comfort from Camilla's nearness.
Because without her mother at her side, Isla knew one thing for certain—she would be completely defenseless.
For now, at least. Edward would always find a way to hurt her, even with Camilla nearby.
Isla frowned faintly at the thought.
Almost on cue, her father entered the dining room.
Edward was dressed simply in satin-black trousers and a neatly pressed white long-sleeved shirt. He leaned down and kissed Camilla's forehead.
"Good morning, mia cara."
Camilla returned a polite smile, though Isla noticed the stiffness in it—the quiet discomfort hidden behind her mother's calm expression.
Edward took his seat beside her just as the maids began serving breakfast. Plates were set carefully on the table, and the children greeted in unison.
"Good morning, Father."
"Good morning," Edward replied, a faint smile playing on his lips as his gaze drifted around the table.
Breakfast was generous: crisp bacon, warm toasted bread, soft scrambled eggs, fresh fruit, and milk. Cutlery clinked gently against porcelain as the family ate in silence. The maids stood respectfully at a distance, eyes lowered.
"This morning," Edward said calmly, his voice cutting cleanly through the hush, "I received an invitation to a ball."
Every head lifted.
His eyes settled on Isla, lingering with unsettling intent.
"It will be a wonderful opportunity for you," he said, "to finally meet your betrothed."
Isla's fingers tightened around her fork. It wasn't the announcement that unsettled her—it was the casual certainty with which her future was spoken aloud.
Her father had never cared for her. So what sort of man would he choose?
Questions rose sharply in her mind, but she forced them down. Fear was a weakness Edward would exploit.
She lifted her chin, schooling her expression. Whatever awaited her, she would face it.
"Be ready by six," Edward said curtly, already standing.
And just like that, he was gone.
The corridor beyond the dining hall buzzed with activity. Before Isla could take more than a few steps, a line of maids appeared, standing neatly as though they had been waiting for her arrival.
"Miss," one said with a bow, "we are here to prepare you."
So early?
"Yes—for the ball this evening."
Isla's gaze flicked to the black bag in the maid's hands, unease curling in her stomach.
"Fine," she said quietly. "Let's get it over with."
Back in her room, the maids moved around her like careful spirits, their hands light, reverent. Fabric was smoothed, jewelry fastened, every movement deliberate.
Her blonde hair was braided into an elegant style, loose strands framing her face. The makeup was subtle—just enough to highlight her features without changing them.
When the satin red gown was revealed, it shimmered beneath the lights, rich and striking.
"I can manage," Isla said, retreating to dress alone.
When she returned, silence followed.
"If that doesn't leave everyone breathless," one maid murmured, "nothing will."
Isla laughed softly, nerves fluttering beneath her ribs. "You speak as though I'm walking into a storm."
"Sometimes storms," the maid replied, "change everything."
Another leaned closer. "Your father spared no detail."
Isla brushed imaginary dust from her dress. "I expected nothing less."
"You look extraordinary," the girl added. "He'll be pleased."
That thought tightened Isla's chest. "That's what frightens me."
The youngest maid squeezed her hand gently. "Whatever awaits you tonight, remember—you are stronger than you think."
Isla nodded, her reflection staring back at her elegant, composed, and utterly trapped.
She descended the grand staircase, the soft whisper of her dress echoing through the vast hall. Crystal chandeliers bathed the walls in gold and shadow as her heartbeat matched each measured step.
At the bottom, her family waited.
Camilla stood radiant in deep emerald, jewels woven into her hair catching the light like stars. Edward stood beside her, immaculate and unreadable. His gaze flicked briefly to Isla—cool, assessing—before sliding away.
Her brothers flanked them. Henry's expression was sharp with resentment, but Diego offered a quiet, genuine smile.
"You'll be going alone," Edward said flatly, already taking Camilla's arm.
No explanation. No hesitation.
Isla swallowed, steadying herself.
As if I ever had a choice.
With that thought burning in her chest, she turned toward the waiting car.