Chapter 2

Isabella woke from the dark with the taste of old tears on her lips. They had dried hours ago, leaving a brittle trail across her cheek like glass that had set and would never wash away.

Her body felt like it belonged to someone else—rigid, mechanical, moving only because habit demanded it. Step by step, she began preparing breakfast, each motion precise, almost rehearsed, as if she were a machine built for this single task.

Footsteps descended the stairs. William appeared in the doorway, a cigarette burning between his fingers. Smoke curled around half his face, blurring the sharp lines of his jaw, but not the eyes—those eyes were knives, cold and deep enough to cut.

The moment their gazes met, her heartbeat faltered.

Then came the sound. A sharp, deliberate crash. Plates shattered. The breakfast she had made lay scattered across the floor.

"Isabella," his voice was a low, dangerous snarl, "who told you you could imitate Beatrice? Do you think you're worthy?"

Her gaze dropped. Her skin was pale, drained of all color. She crouched down, wooden, silent, and began to gather the mess.

William's hand shot out, gripping her wrist hard enough to bruise. "Who are you pretending for? Answer me!"

She tore her wrist free and kept picking up the pieces.

He let out a cold laugh. Then he bent down, scooped up the broken eggs from the floor, and shoved them into her mouth.

She gagged instantly, trying to turn her head away, but the eggs kept coming. The taste was sulfur and rot, thick and clinging, filling her throat until she could barely breathe. Her lungs burned. Her vision blurred. The chill that spread through her body was not the clean cold of winter—it was the kind that seeped into bone and stayed there.

At last, his grip loosened. She collapsed forward, coughing violently, her throat raw, her eyes bloodshot. Each cough felt like it tore something inside her. Tears spilled, unbidden, purely from the body's rebellion.

William stood over her, his shadow swallowing her whole. "Eat," he ordered, voice almost cruel in its calm. "Isn't this what Beatrice loved most? If you're going to become her, then learn."

The door slammed shut.

Silence filled the vast room, broken only by her ragged breathing. Her lips trembled as her heart sank deeper with each beat. Hot tears rolled down her face, heavy and unstoppable.

She reached for the eggs, one by one, and put them into her mouth. Her stomach twisted violently, urging her to vomit, but she forced it back. Beatrice had loved eggs. Isabella had always hated them—the smell alone made her stomach turn. Since childhood, Beatrice had eaten them for her, smiling as she said, "Isabella, no next time."

But there had always been a next time. Until now.

Now there truly would be no next time.

Her eyes burned red as she shoved another egg into her mouth, chewing until her jaw ached. The taste was worse than bile. Her lips split under the pressure of her teeth, the copper tang of blood spreading across her tongue.

She kept eating until her stomach revolted. Dropping to her knees, she clutched her abdomen and stumbled to the bathroom, emptying herself into the toilet. The stench rose around her. She closed her eyes, letting tears wash her face, her body drained, shivering under an invisible frost.

The sound of the phone cut through her haze.

"Isabella," came William's voice, flat and businesslike. "There's a dinner tonight. You'll attend on behalf of the company."

She answered with a quiet, "Mm."

She was a department manager at a publicly listed company. Normally she didn't have to attend such events, but whenever William wanted her there, she went.

That evening, she wore a deep violet backless gown. The moment she stepped into the venue, heads turned.

It wasn't until she reached the table that she realized the client was William.

Her department head leaned toward her, smiling too broadly. "Mr. William Spencer, pleasure to see you. This is Isabella Tudor."

When she didn't move, the man's eyes flicked at her, urging her silently. "Isabella, greet Mr. Spencer."

A tap to her arm. She parted her lips, ready to speak.

William's mouth curved, but the smile never reached his eyes. "No need. I couldn't bear it."

He lounged on the leather sofa, swirling red wine in his glass. "Drink all of these," he said casually, "and I'll sign the contract."

"Alright."

She didn't hesitate. She picked up the first glass and drank.

The wine was rich and sharp, the heat of the alcohol cutting down her throat like fire. Her senses dulled, her body moving on autopilot. One glass. Then another. And another.

By the time the table was bare, she could barely stand. Her vision swam, her balance fragile. "Is that enough?" she asked, voice thin.

"Enough," William said finally, lifting his gaze. His eyes were dark, unreadable. "I underestimated you."

She said nothing. The air in the room felt thick, trapping her in place, every glance from the others like a net she could neither tear nor escape.

Then, without warning, William swept the empty glasses from the table. The crash of shattering glass rang out sharp and final.

"Get out."

She lowered her eyes and left.

The door clicked shut behind her, sealing away the murmured flattery from inside.

Outside, the night had deepened. A drop of cold water struck her cheek. She looked up.

Snow.

Three years ago to the day, snow had fallen heavier than she'd ever seen. That night, William had been ambushed, left bleeding in an alley. She had carried him home.

He was heavy—so heavy she thought her spine might snap. Her feet blistered, but she kept going. What should have been minutes took over an hour.

Later, Beatrice found out. Together, they decided to let him stay.

Back then, William remembered nothing but his name. He trusted no one—except Beatrice.

They fell in love.

Isabella had been the outsider, watching from the edges as they laughed, as they whispered to each other, as they built something she could never touch.

The snow had been bitterly cold.

Even now, three years later, she could still feel that cold in her bones.

She held out her hand. A snowflake landed in her palm, melting into nothing.

"Too cold, Beatrice," she murmured. "Winter without you is colder still."

She smiled faintly, though her chest felt hollow, stripped of everything. Snow fell in a white curtain, mingling with the wet tracks on her face.

If she could go back three years, she would. If she had never saved William. If she had died instead. If… if…

If none of it had happened.

That would have been better.