I froze at the top of the stairs, watching as Alaric pinned my father against the wall. Though I couldn't hear the words exchanged, my father's face drained of color—first white with fear, then mottled red with humiliation.
Alaric released him just as abruptly as he'd grabbed him, smoothing down the lapels of my father's jacket with mocking precision. I crept back down a few steps, straining to hear.
"...only reason you still draw breath," Alaric was saying, his voice low but cutting. "Isabella's continued affection for you—misplaced as it may be—is the only thing keeping you from ruin. Remember that."
My father straightened his collar, attempting to regain some dignity. "You have no right to threaten me in my own home. I am still a Baron, and—"
"And I am a Duke who holds your debts," Alaric cut him off. "Who knows your secrets. Who has the ear of the King. Would you like to test which of us the Crown favors, Baron?"
He spat my father's title like it was something foul. Without waiting for a response, Alaric turned and strode toward the door. Alistair materialized from the shadows to open it for him, his face impassive as always. In seconds, Alaric was gone.
I retreated quickly, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping. I had barely made it to my bedroom when I heard my father's heavy footsteps stomping up the stairs, followed by his voice bellowing my name.
"Isabella! Where are you hiding, girl?"
I took a deep breath and opened my door. "I'm here, Father."
His face was twisted with rage, a vein pulsing at his temple. "You!" He jabbed a finger at me. "You didn't tell me the truth about your conversation with the Duke at the party!"
"I did tell you the truth," I replied, surprised by how steady my voice sounded.
"Nonsense! You expect me to believe that the Duke of Blackwood fell for you at first sight? That a man of his standing suddenly decided he wanted my masked daughter as his wife after one conversation?"
I kept my expression neutral. "I don't know why he chose me, Father. I told you exactly what was said between us."
My father paced the narrow hallway, fists clenched. "This doesn't make sense. Men like him don't marry women like you unless—" He stopped suddenly, turning to face me with suspicion. "What do you know about him? What power do you hold over him?"
"None," I answered truthfully. "I'm as surprised as you are by his interest."
He studied my masked face, as if trying to see through it to whatever secrets he imagined I was hiding. "You must have something he wants. The Duke isn't known for charity."
"Perhaps he sees something in me that you never bothered to look for," I said, surprising myself with my boldness.
My father's eyes widened slightly before narrowing again. "Don't get clever with me, girl. I remember when you were the beauty of the family. Before..." He gestured vaguely at my mask.
"Yes, before," I agreed, stepping closer to him. "Before, when you called me your beautiful rose. Before, when you boasted about how my face would secure a fine match someday. But the moment I was scarred, I became nothing to you. Less than nothing—a burden, an embarrassment."
"That's not—"
"It is true," I interrupted. "You've hardly looked at me since that day. You let your new wife and her daughter treat me like a servant."
For a moment, something like guilt flickered across his features. Then it hardened into anger again. "You have no idea the pressure I've been under, the financial strain—"
"And now you think I'm your salvation," I said quietly. "A way to clear your debts through my marriage."
He didn't deny it. Instead, he changed tactics, his voice suddenly conciliatory. "Isabella, you must understand the position Lady Beatrix and Clara were in when they joined our family. Clara was simply jealous of your beauty—it was childish, yes, but natural for a young girl—"
"She threw acid on my face, Father." My voice was flat, emotionless. "That's not childish jealousy."
He flinched. "We never proved—"
"We never tried," I corrected. "You accepted her story about a mysterious attacker without question."
My father looked away, unable to meet my eyes. When he spoke again, his voice had taken on an almost pleading quality. "What's done is done. What matters now is moving forward. You're to be a Duchess! And with your position secure..." He paused, calculating. "Perhaps it would be best if you enjoyed these last two days at home. You should be free to do as you please in the house."
I couldn't help but laugh. "After nearly eight years of treatment worse than your servants received, now I'm to have freedom for two days?"
He spread his hands. "It's a new beginning for us all."
I studied him, seeing the desperation, the fear of Alaric's threats, the greed for what my marriage could bring him. This sudden change wasn't remorse or love—it was self-preservation.
"Alright, Father," I said finally. "For these two days, I'll enjoy being the beloved daughter of Baron Reginald Beaumont."
He smiled, clearly relieved that I wasn't going to be difficult. "Excellent! I'll inform Lady Beatrix and Clara that you're to be given every courtesy."
"I'm sure they'll be thrilled," I said dryly.
My father chose to ignore the sarcasm. "Rest well, Isabella. Tomorrow will be a new day for our family."
As he walked away, I whispered to myself, "An illusion of family, you mean."
Back in my room, I sat by the window, looking out at the starlit garden where Clara would soon be digging a grave for my kitten. The thought brought me a small, bitter satisfaction.
A soft knock at my door startled me. When I opened it, I was shocked to find Lady Beatrix standing there, her usual haughty expression replaced by something attempting to resemble warmth.
"Isabella, dear," she said, the endearment sounding foreign on her lips. "Your father has spoken to me about the... changing circumstances."
"I'm sure he has," I replied neutrally.
She produced a small box from behind her back. "I thought perhaps you might like to have this. For your hair, for the wedding."
Inside the box was a jeweled hairpin—not particularly valuable, but pretty enough. It was clearly a hasty attempt at currying favor.
"Thank you," I said, taking the box without enthusiasm.
"We're all so proud," she continued stiffly. "A Duchess in the family! Who would have thought..." She trailed off, perhaps realizing how her words exposed her true feelings.
"Who indeed?" I agreed, enjoying her discomfort. "Especially since you once told me I'd be lucky to marry a blind beggar."
She had the grace to flush. "The past is behind us now, isn't it? We should look forward to your bright future."
"My future, yes. Not ours."
Her smile faltered. "Well, I'll let you rest. Goodnight, Isabella."
After she left, I turned the hairpin over in my hands. It was likely something she'd had lying around, never meant for me until panic set in. Still, it was amusing to witness her scramble.
From down the hall, I could hear my father's voice, low and urgent, clearly plotting with Lady Beatrix and Clara about how to leverage my marriage. I caught fragments—"The Duke's estates," "financial security," "connections to the Crown."
I smiled to myself. For years, I'd been the family ghost, ignored and abused. Now I was suddenly their most valuable asset. The irony wasn't lost on me.
Alaric was right to make me wait these two days before coming to his estate. There was something satisfying about watching my tormentors bend over backward to please me, knowing it was all a desperate charade born of fear and greed.
I moved to my wardrobe, considering what to pack for my new life. Not that there was much worth taking—most of my possessions were shabby hand-me-downs or practical items with little sentimental value.
Tomorrow, I decided, I would visit my kitten's grave after Clara finished digging it. I would say a proper goodbye to the only creature that had shown me genuine affection in this house. And then I would begin preparing for my departure.
As I listened to my family's continued scheming down the hall, I couldn't help but smile behind my mask. Alaric was right to not let me come stay with him so easily. There was so much fun for me to have here, watching them squirm under the weight of their own desperate ambitions.