Chapter 3

Back at Elysian Court, Isabella felt completely drained. She collapsed onto the bed, not wanting to move a muscle. There were no maids in the house. Ever since she married Desmond six months ago, she had taken on all the housework herself. Not because she wanted to, but because Desmond didn't like strangers in his space—and to be honest, he probably thought that was all she was good for anyway. Her mind was a mess, but exhaustion claimed her quickly, and she drifted off. Isabella had no idea how long she'd been out before the sharp pain in her body jolted her awake. Under the dim moonlight filtering through the window, she saw the man lying over her. He reeked of alcohol and was rough, not caring at all about her pain. When he bit down on the mark on her collarbone, Isabella gasped and let out a sharp cry. Her pale face twisted in pain as she tried to beg him to stop, but Desmond showed no sign of mercy. His handsome face was glistening with sweat, eyes burning with unresolved fury as he looked down at her. "Isabella, weren't you totally into me back then? Always secretly staring like a creep. What, I'm giving you what you wanted, and now you're not satisfied? Maybe I'm still not trying hard enough." His movements became even harsher, like he was trying to prove a point. So he knew. He had always known. Isabella let out a bitter laugh in her head. All this time, she thought her foolish, hidden feelings were tucked away out of sight. Back when he was with her sister, Nora, she'd sneak around and steal glances from afar, keeping her silly crush in check—or so she thought. But clearly, she hadn't been as subtle as she believed. A mix of shame, sorrow, and something even more complicated crept into her chest. Her body trembled as she pleaded, "Desmond, please… stop." Isabella had loved him—still did—but not like this. Not in a way that left her feeling broken and humiliated. The pain was unbearable. It tore through her like knives, leaving her numb. Lying motionless beneath him, she felt more like an object than a person. Just something for him to take his anger out on. Her head throbbed. Cold sweat clung to her skin. The pain drowned out every other thought. She couldn't even bring herself to care about the man coldly using her. Who knew how much time had passed when Desmond finally stopped, got up, and headed to the shower. When he came back out, spotting Isabella lying lifeless on the bed, he snapped, "Get up." She didn't move. Every time after he showered, she'd dry his hair. It was a routine. But tonight, she didn't even twitch. Desmond yanked her up by the arm and grabbed her chin, growling, "Quit playing dead." Still, nothing. He looked closer. Her face was flushed in a sickly way, and her lips were ghost-pale. His expression shifted. He reached out, pressing a hand to her forehead—burning hot. "Dammit!" he cursed under his breath. His eyes darkened, murderous, as he threw her back onto the bed and stormed out to make a call. Ten minutes later, Francis Carter, his private doctor, rushed in. One look at Isabella and he raised a brow, asking, "You had her standing in the sun all day or something?" Desmond shot him a sharp glare, icy and unforgiving. Francis shrugged, adjusting his glasses. "Relax. She's got heatstroke." Then he paused, frowning as his gaze landed on the bloodstain. "Why is she bleeding here?" Just as he reached for Isabella's collarbone to examine it, Desmond's hand came down like a wall between them. "Get the meds," his voice was low and cold. Francis gave him a long look, then glanced back at Isabella, sighing. "Desmond, come on. You might hate her guts, but torturing her when she's sick? That's just messed up." He really didn't want to see Desmond lose himself in revenge. "Nora's gone, but Isabella's not that bad. She's kind, easy to be around. Do you really have to treat her like this?" "You talk too much," Desmond cut him off and walked him to the door without another word. Francis didn't argue. He wrote a prescription and left. He knew today was Nora's death anniversary. He couldn't help but picture her face, lining it up with the image of Isabella curled up inside. Isabella had always been a wildcat—fierce, unpredictable, with a bite. Nora was more like a lamb—docile, tender, the kind you wanted to protect. But now... a dry laugh escaped him. That woman hadn't been nearly as innocent as Desmond had thought.