Had Rhea never once, in all these goddamn years, felt guilty for what she did to Isolde? No shame? Just pride? Pride in being the reason Isolde grew up broken, scarred, crawling with trauma that never healed, only festered into something uglier with time?
"Accept your pathetic fucking fate, Isolde," Rhea hissed.
"You'll end up just like your mother. Replaced. Pushed aside by women who are better than you. Trying to kill Olivianne or me won't change a goddamn thing. There will always be someone more beautiful than you. You'll always be the one left behind, because there's nothing in you worth loving. You and your mother were made to be discarded. Forgotten."
Isolde's stare turned glacial. What the fuck was she still doing, wasting her time listening to this bitch?
What was she even expecting—an apology? Regret?
