I delicately dab the concealer under my left eye, wincing as I brush over the tender skin. Trying to camouflage the telltale marks of abuse has become an art form. One that I've sadly perfected over time.
Every stroke of the brush feels like a betrayal, an acceptance of the reality I'm living in. Jackson's rage, once an occasional occurrence, has now become my daily storm. Each day holds the promise of a new bruise, a fresh reminder of the torturous existence that is marriage to him.
As I look in the mirror, I see the reflection of a woman trapped in a daily saga of fear and despair. I’ve been married to Jackson for what feels like a lifetime, with each passing day feeling harder than the last. The memory of when I first arrived suddenly swirls in my mind.
The silence in the car is deafening. My emotions swirl all over the place. From sadness and betrayal to anger and bitterness. I can't believe I'm married to Jackson Blackhart. My heart pounds in my chest like a sledgehammer, every beat echoing the truth I can hardly bear to face. I glance at Jackson, on his harsh profile silhouetted against the car's dim light.
His eyes are focused on the road, but the rigid set of his jaw tells me he's just as aware of the tension coiled between us. As the city lights give way to the looming shadows of our destination, my stomach churns with a gnawing uncertainty. The house that awaits us, my new home, feels like a prison already. Each mile that rolls by under the car's tires enhances the growing sense of dread.
"Isabella," Jackson's voice cuts through the silence like a knife, cold and harsh. "You will play the part of a dutiful wife. I will expect you to fulfill your wifely duties." His words hang in the air as a chilling decree.
“Go to hell, Jackson," I hiss and my words are laced with venom. "You and my father may have forced me into this marriage, but I will never share my body with you."
The impact comes a split second later. His backhand strikes my cheek with a force that jerks my head sideways. I can taste coppery blood where I've bitten my lip.
"You would do well to remember who you're talking to, Isabella," his voice is dangerously low. "I won't tolerate your disrespect."
As the car pulls up in front of Jackson's home, I can't help but let out a gasp. It's not a home, it's a fortress. Tall, imposing walls of stone and glass stretch out before me, their stark elegance softened only by the moon's glow. Lavish gardens sprawl around us, their greenery soaked in silver. Fountains glisten in the moonlight, and their opulence is intimidating. The mansion's grandeur takes my breath away because it's so beautiful.
I step out of the car, and the crunch of gravel under my shoes echoes ominously in the silent night. I take a moment to take it all in. The grand staircase led up to a set of massive oak doors, the walls lined with ivy, and the windows aglow with the warm light from inside. Everything is meticulously maintained, reflecting a richness that feels alien. This isn't a home, it's a cold testament to Jackson's wealth and power.
Jackson walks away, leaving me standing there, gaping at the enormity of his mansion. My eyes follow him as he strides confidently toward the entrance, his broad shoulders set with an air of authority. I quicken my pace to catch up with him as my shorter strides struggle to match his long, powerful gait.
The front doors swing open, revealing an interior that leaves me momentarily breathless. The lavishness is almost overwhelming, with tall marble columns supporting a high, ornate ceiling. Crystal chandeliers hang down, their light refracting in a thousand directions to paint the grand foyer with a warm, inviting glow.
I had grown up in a wealthy family, yes. But this? This is Blackhart wealth. It's a level of affluence that's almost obscene in its extravagance. The walls are adorned with exquisite paintings, the floors are covered in plush carpets, and the furniture is made of the finest leather and wood. I can hardly believe this place is now my home. This isn't just wealth. It's another world entirely. Jackson turns to the housekeeper, who has been waiting silently off to the side.
"Mrs. Collins," his voice echoes in the vast entrance hall. "Show Isabella to our bedroom."
I stiffen at his words, and my heart pounds in my chest. "I'm not sharing a room with you, Jackson," I declare, my voice shaky but determined.
He pauses in his steps, turning slowly to look at me. A chilling smile curls up from his lips as he chuckles.
"Fine," he drawls. "I'll give you this one night. You can have a separate bedroom tonight to get used to the idea that you're Mrs. Blackhart now."
"But..." I start to protest, only for him to hold up his hand, cutting me off.
"No time for arguments, Isabella," he warns, glancing at the large grandfather clock that stands imposingly in the corner of the hall. "We have dinner at my brother's place in an hour, and you need to change."
As Jackson strides away, the echoing click of the shutting door grates against my every nerve. I take a deep breath to keep my rising fear at bay. Mrs. Collins, a delicate, older woman with a kind face, gestures for me to follow her.
Upon reaching a spare bedroom, Mrs. Collins ushers me inside. The room is tastefully decorated, but its magnificence does nothing to comfort me. She guides me to the walk-in closet, where racks upon racks of women's clothing hang neatly.
"Madam, perhaps you'd like to pick something to wear for this evening," Mrs. Collins suggests in her soft, pleasant voice.
"Mrs. Collins, you don't have to call me Madam," I reply, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice.
"Very well, Mrs. Blackhart," she nods, her voice respectful.
A shiver runs down my spine at the sound of my married name. "Please, don't ever call me that," I plead, meeting her kind eyes with a desperate gaze.
"I... I understand, Miss Isabella," she replies with a hint of sympathy in her voice.
I hesitantly reach out to touch the clothes hanging in the closet. "Whose clothes are these?" I ask as my fingers brush against the silky fabric of a dress.
"Mr. Blackhart always keeps a selection of women's clothing here," she explains somewhat hesitantly.
Realization washes over me, and I pull my hand back in disgust. He keeps clothes here for the many women who rotate through here, no doubt. Without another word, Mrs. Collins exits the room, leaving me alone with the unwelcome remnants of Jackson's past.
Before I know it, I'm dressed in one of the countless gowns Jackson keeps in the mansion. We're in the car, headed to his brother's house. As we pull up, my eyes widen in disbelief. His brother's house is even grander than his if that's even possible.
"Jackson," I begin, trying to keep my voice steady. "What's your brother's name? Is there anyone I should know?" I’ve heard of him. I’ve never met him, but I know he runs the family.
He doesn't even look at me as he replies. "You don't need to know, Isabella. All you have to do is stand there and look pretty. You're not required to speak unless spoken to. You're to be seen, not heard."
His words sting, but I don't let him see my hurt. "You're a jackass, Jackson. I'm not some shiny object that you pull off the shelf to show off whenever you want,” I snap.
He parks the car suddenly and grabs my chin, turning me to face him. His eyes are cold, and his grip is firm. "That's exactly what you are, Isabella," he says, his voice deadly calm, "And you better get used to it."
We leave the car and walk inside. No sooner do Jackson and I step into the sitting room than everyone turns toward us. An older woman, tall and thin, rolls her eyes.
"Jackson," she chastises, her voice dripping with disdain. "How many times have I told you that family dinners are not for the floozies you hook up with?"
Jackson just laughs and strides over to her. He bends down to give her a hug, leaving me standing there, wallowing in my awkwardness.
"She's not just a floozy, Mom," he counters with a smirk as he walks back over to me. "She's technically my wife."
The room explodes in a flurry of gasps and hushed whispers. Jackson's mother looks like she's been slapped, her face now flushed red as she reels from his announcement. She steps back as her eyes widen in shock.
"Your what?" she splutters, her voice rising in pitch.
At her side, a younger woman, most likely his sister, judging by the uncanny resemblance, stares at me with her lip curled in a sneer.
"You've got to be kidding," she scoffs, her gaze raking over me with visible disdain. “This...woman?"
The room is thick with tension, and the air is heavy with unspoken accusations. Their eyes are all on me. Each stare is a blow that makes me wince as if I’m not good enough to be in this family. I stand my ground with my heart pounding in my chest as I stare right back at them. I am not the one who should be ashamed. I am not their plaything to be insulted and mocked.
Suddenly, another voice cuts through the tension. "Jackson, what the fuck have you done?"
The voice belongs to a man of imposing stature standing at the entrance of the room. His gaze is as cold as ice, his features hard and unyielding. This must be his brother. The head of the family. I catch his gaze from across the room. There's something unsettlingly captivating about him. It’s a magnetic pull I can't quite explain.
Despite myself, I feel a flicker of something dangerous, an unwanted intrigue that I quickly pushed aside. His eyes are a deep blue, unreadable, yet I feel a shiver run down my spine. Why did his gaze linger? I quickly look away with my heart strangely fluttering.
Jackson turns to face him with a neutral expression. "Damien," he greets, deceptively calm.
"I demand an answer, Jackson," Damien's voice booms through the room, the fury clear in his icy gaze.
His authority is tangible, radiating off him in waves that seem to shake the very foundations of the grand mansion. There's a power about him that's compelling, intimidating, and strangely mesmerizing all at once. His tone is accusing. His piercing blue eyes fix on Jackson with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
Jackson, on the other hand, remains eerily calm. His shining eyes meet Damien's head-on. His voice is smooth, almost nonchalant, but I can sense a tremor of fear beneath the cool façade. It's subtle, almost undetectable, but it's there, like the faintest whisper of a secret trying to break free.
"I didn't think it was necessary to inform you, Damien," he says, his tone light, almost dismissive.
I can see it, though. The tightness around his eyes and the way his hands clench into fists at his sides.
"That's where you're wrong," Damien snaps in a cold, sharp tone. "As the head of this family, every move you make is to be communicated to me. You've crossed the line, brother. What happened that you came home hours after I saw you married?"
Jackson raises his head in defiance. “None of your business, Damien. You may run things, but I have a say in the things I do.”
Damien tilts his head to the side, his eyes narrowing on Jackson. “You’re wrong again.”
"Well, it's done now," Jackson says with a shrug, trying to mask the apprehension in his voice.
I can see him, the real Jackson, hidden beneath the bravado. He's scared of his older brother. The tension is thick, and the air is heavy with the weight of unspoken words and simmering anger. This is a battle of wills, a clash of titans, and I can't help but wonder where I fit into this strange, new world.
"That's not the point, and you know it!" Damien roars, his fists clenched at his sides. "You've disrespected the family. You've disrespected me."
Damien's anger seems more than just about family respect. His eyes occasionally flicker to me, a stormy mix of disapproval and something else, something unreadable, that makes my heart unexpectedly skip. Damien motions his head, a signal that Jackson seems to understand instantly. Without a word, both walk towards a pair of large doors at the end of the room.
Their heated voices can be heard echoing through the hallways until a door slams shut, silencing them abruptly. I’m left standing in the grand room. The tension is replaced by an awkward silence. His mother, a woman of regal stature, steps forward first.
With a forced smile, she introduces herself, "I'm Donna, dear."
The younger woman, who is the spitting image of Jackson, follows. "I'm Aurora," she states in a flat tone.
Before I can even open my mouth to respond, they start bombarding me with questions, each laced with an underlying insult, probing every aspect of my life that they deem unsatisfactory or unfit for their family. Their questions come so fast that I don't have a chance to answer any of them. Not that I wanted to, anyway. I don't know how long this goes on, but suddenly, Damien and Jackson stalk back into the room. My attention instantly goes to Damien.
"So, you whored yourself out to the highest bidder? It’s no surprise that you’d want the status and extravagance that come with being a Blackhart," he says, his words slicing through the tense silence like a knife.
His icy blue eyes are boring into mine, searching for a reaction. I feel a rush of anger surging through me, the heat of it stinging my cheeks.
"Go to hell, asshole," I snap, unable to keep the edge out of my voice. "I didn’t do anything. I don’t want anything to do with your damn brother. All of you can fuck off!"
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I feel Jackson's hand squeeze my arm in a silent warning, but it's too late. The words are out there, hanging in the air like a challenge. I can see the surprise flash in Damien's eyes, but it’s quickly replaced by a cold, calculating look. This is not over, not by a long shot.
As those memories fade, I'm brought back to the cold reality of the present. Since that fateful day, I've learned to play my part all too well. At the dinner table, I laugh gracefully at jokes I don't find funny, my eyes meeting Jackson's with a well-rehearsed glint of admiration. Nobody at the table would guess that behind my smile lies a storm of disdain. In public, I'm the picture-perfect wife, always smiling, always charming, a dutiful spouse by Jackson's side.
I speak only when necessary, creating an illusion of a perfect marriage. Which is a far cry from our reality. At home, it's a different story entirely. I give it Jackson as good as I get, never backing down, never yielding. He may have forced me to share his bed, but he has never possessed my body. No matter how hard he tries to persuade me, I remain steadfast. To satiate his desires, he brings home an endless stream of women, each one more forgettable than the last. I couldn’t care less about his indiscretions, and the fact that I remain unaffected seems to irk him to no end.
"Isabella!" Jackson shouts from downstairs. "Move your ass. I don't want to be late."
"It wouldn't take me so long to get ready if you'd stop leaving bruises in places people can see," I mumble to myself.
Not that anyone would care, nor would they say anything if they did. These are the Blackharts we're talking about. Their word is law around here. I roll my eyes at Jackson's voice echoing through the mansion as I add the final touch to my makeup with a deep red lipstick that perfectly matches my fitted dress. With one last glance in the mirror, I slip my feet into the killer heels waiting by the door, grab my purse, and prepare myself for what's to come. It's another dinner at Damien's house. Another part of the never-ending cycle of family traditions.
I've lost count of how many of these dinners I've attended, every single one mandatory, all at Damien's insistence. The awkwardness that hangs in the air, the undercurrent of resentment, the obvious tension, it never changes. Stepping out of the room and into the sprawling hallway, I steel myself for another long night.
Mingling with the Blackharts is like walking on a tightrope. One misstep, one wrong word, and it's a long drop down. As I make my way towards the front door, I can't help but wonder how much longer I can endure this. How much more of this charade can I put up with before the façade shatters?