Isabella barely slept after slipping out of Karl's room that morning. Every creak of the hallway, every gust of wind brushing the mansion windows made her jump. Her nerves were frayed, her chest hollow. She couldn't stop seeing Karl's eyes as he told her it was a mistake. Couldn't stop hearing her own voice agreeing with him, even though something deep in her gut twisted with doubt.
By morning, she forced herself to look composed. Her hair was pulled back tightly, and she wore a simple cream dress Vance had picked out for her weeks ago. She avoided mirrors. She avoided thoughts. Most of all, she avoided Karl.
Their paths didn't cross during breakfast, which was a relief. Vance sat at the head of the long mahogany table, flipping through the morning paper while sipping his coffee. Marco and a few other men murmured quietly at the far end. Isabella sat silently, poking at her eggs. She felt like everyone could see the shame clinging to her skin.
Vance glanced up at her once. "You look pale," he said without emotion.
She gave a small shrug. "Didn't sleep well."
He didn't press. Instead, he muttered something about meetings and left the table without even looking back.
As soon as he was gone, Isabella dropped her fork. The food churned in her stomach. She pushed the plate away and stood, whispering something to the nearest maid before hurrying back to her room.
The next few days passed like a slow burn.
She barely left her room. She told the staff she was under the weather, and no one questioned it. When she had to attend dinners, she sat quietly, keeping her eyes down, pretending everything was fine. She became a shadow in the house, moving quickly and silently, praying Karl would do the same.
And he did.
They didn't speak. Didn't look at each other. Not once.
But she felt his presence.
Once, in the hallway outside the library, she turned a corner and nearly bumped into him. Their eyes met for a split second. She froze. His mouth parted like he might say something, but she bolted, pretending she hadn't seen him.
She locked herself in her room and leaned against the door, heart racing. Her skin was hot, and not from embarrassment.
It was the memory. His breath on her neck. The way he had whispered her name like he meant it. The way his hands had explored her skin like he already knew her, like she belonged to him.
It had been a mistake.
She kept repeating that to herself, but her body refused to forget.
A week passed. Then another.
Still, she hadn't spoken to Karl. And Vance... Vance had returned from a short business trip in Sicily. He was colder than usual, snapping at his men, ignoring her completely. Isabella didn't mind. His silence was better than his attention.
Until the evening he knocked on her door.
She jumped, quickly smoothing her skirt before opening it.
Vance stood there, one hand on the frame. "I'm hosting a dinner next week," he said. "Some associates are coming in from Prague. You'll attend."
She nodded. "Of course."
He narrowed his eyes. "You'll behave. No mood swings. No outbursts. Understood?"
"Yes, Vance."
He stared at her a moment longer, then walked away without another word.
She closed the door and let out a slow breath. Her hands trembled.
The next day, Isabella found herself staring into her reflection. Her skin looked dull, lips chapped, eyes rimmed with exhaustion. Maybe it was stress. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was both.
She pressed a hand to her stomach, frowning.
Something felt off. But she waved the thought away. She was just tired.
Later that afternoon, she decided to take a walk through the gardens for the first time in days. She needed air. The walls were closing in around her.
She slipped out quietly through the side hall, careful not to draw attention. The sun warmed her face, and for a moment, the world didn't feel so heavy.
Until she saw him.
Karl was leaning against the far wall, smoking. He stiffened when he saw her. For a second, neither of them moved.
Then she turned sharply, about to walk away.
"Isabella," he said, voice low.
She stopped. Closed her eyes.
He walked toward her slowly, the tension between could not be denied.
"I'm not trying to talk about that night," he said. "I just... I wanted to know if you're okay."
She didn't answer at first. Then, without turning to him, she whispered, "I'm fine."
"You don't look fine."
She turned her head, eyes flashing. "And you do? Because you've looked like hell lately."
A humorless smile tugged at his lips. "Fair."
They stood there, the silence stretching.
"Did you... remember any of it?" he asked quietly.
Her breath caught.
Yes.
Every second.
But she lied. "No. Not really."
He looked down. "Same."
They both knew it wasn't true.
"Look," she said, voice tight. "We already agreed it didn't mean anything. So let's keep it that way."
He gave a slow nod. "Right."
She turned again and left him standing there, cigarette burning between his fingers.
Back in her room, she stood at the sink and splashed cold water on her face. Her hands were still shaking.
It meant nothing.
Nothing.
So why did it feel like everything?
That night, she couldn't sleep. Again. Her dreams were filled with flashes of Karl, of Vance's cold eyes, of running barefoot through blood and glass. She woke up drenched in sweat, hand gripping the pillow like it could save her from drowning in guilt.
She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding. Her body felt strange. Her emotions were a mess. She hadn't even started her period this month, but maybe it was stress. Maybe her body was reacting to everything happening around her.
She reached for her phone, opened the calendar.
A full month had passed since that night.
Her fingers froze.
She sat up slowly, hand drifting to her stomach again. Was it possible?
No. It couldn't be.
Still, something inside her whispered otherwise.
She didn't cry. She didn't panic. She simply laid back down and stared into the darkness, the truth clawing its way up her spine like ice.
Tomorrow, she would know for sure.