Today is a day I can relax and be myself. I can let my guard down and enjoy my time away from Jackson’s mansion. Taking a deep breath, I relish the freedom that accompanies stepping outside the mansion's suffocating confines. It's always a relief to spend time with Seraphina. She’s the one person who doesn't judge me or question my motives.
Of course, Jackson couldn't care less where I go or who I see. It's not like he's concerned about me. However, he always makes sure I'm watched everywhere I go and ensures I have a driver. He doesn't trust me, believing I might seize the opportunity to escape his clutches. He’s not wrong.
His treatment confuses me. On one hand, he seems indifferent; on the other, he exerts control as if fearful of losing his grip on me. He came home last week, beat to hell, but I couldn’t care less. Whoever he pissed off, he obviously deserved it. I was surprised to learn it was Damien who hurt him, though Damien seems like the kind of man you don’t want to piss off.
"God, Isabella. This would look amazing on you," Seraphina says, holding up a flowing, off-the-shoulder number that's far more daring than anything I'd usually wear.
We’re at the mall because she wanted to go shopping. I readily agreed, eager to get out of the house because I had nothing to do. However, I’m finding it hard to match her enthusiasm today. As I sift through the clothes, a thought of Damien intrudes unexpectedly. I don’t understand why his cold, stern eyes and commanding presence invade my thoughts at the most random moments. It's infuriating.
She notices my solemn demeanor. "How are you? Is that marriage of yours still as shitty as when it started?" she asks.
I let out a bitter laugh, running my fingers over the delicate fabric of the dress. "Terrible. I can't wait to get away from Jackson," I confess, my voice barely above a whisper.
Seraphina's smile fades as she turns to look at me, her voice full of concern. "You know, Isabella, you can't hide everything. I've seen the bruises."
My cheeks burn at her words, and my grip on the dress tightens.
"I can handle it," I say quickly with a defensive edge in my voice. I force a smile to deflect the worry in her eyes. "I just need to find a way out. Trust me, I’m working on it."
Shaking her head, she turns away, and we continue browsing the racks in silence. A few minutes later, she holds up a dress that catches my eye. It's a striking crimson number with delicate lace detailing and a plunging neckline.
"I think this one would look great on you," she suggests with a grin.
I pause as the dress captures my attention. "It's cute," I admit with a small smile, "But I'd never buy it."
As Seraphina plunges deeper into the throng of shoppers, I find myself trailing behind, merely a spectator in this shopping excursion she insisted we go on. Despite Jackson's countless admonishments to 'look the part' and his incessant demands that I spend his money, I've never relented. I refuse to spend a single dime of his money, much to his irritation. Sure, I'll put on the clothes he buys, the extravagant dresses and the exquisite jewelry, because I have to.
I'm trapped in this role he’s cast me in, but that's where I draw the line. Beyond that, I stick to what’s mine. The clothes I had transported over from my childhood home that now lie abandoned. I can feel their familiar fabric against my skin, a constant reminder of the freedom I once had. The memories, though painful, provide a sort of comfort. A reminder that I’m still me underneath all the charades and the façade.
Seraphina's voice pulls me from the abyss of my thoughts. "You're stronger than you realize, Isabella. Remember, I'm always here for you. I may not be Blackhart wealthy, but I am wealthy. I’ll help you get out."
Her words remind me of the strength I've been forced to cultivate, a bitter armor forged in the fires of my marriage. I give her a grateful nod and smile. This conversation has turned sad.
"So, enough about my disaster of a love life," I say, shifting the focus away from my own problems. "What about you? Any exciting romantic developments on the horizon?"
A blush creeps onto her cheeks, her eyes twinkling as she grins at me. "Well, since you've asked, there might be someone...," she says, her voice tinged with excitement.
I can't help but laugh at her enthusiasm. "Really? Tell me!"
“His name is Ethan," she begins, her face lighting up at the mention of his name. "He's kind, funny, and... he treats me with respect. It's a refreshing change from my previous relationships. You know how men in our world can be."
The happiness in her voice makes me smile despite my own troubles. "He sounds wonderful. I'm genuinely happy for you."
She grins back, and her spirit is infectious. "Thank you. It's the early days, but... it feels different. It feels right."
A pang of longing echoes in my chest as I used to wish for such simple happiness. However, I push it aside, focusing on my friend's joy. "That's good. Keep me posted, okay? And hey, maybe one day I'll get to meet this, Ethan."
"You'll be the first one to know. It's about time we had some good news around here," she promises with a nod.
Feeling her happiness wash over me, I can't help but feel a sense of relief for Seraphina. It's not often that women in our social circle find someone who treats them with kindness and respect. The sad reality of our world is that we women are mere objects in the grand scheme of things.
We’re paraded around, shown off when the men want us to be seen, and then shelved once they're done with us. They dictate to us. They tell us what to say, where to sit, how to act, and when to speak. It's not just unfair. It's downright demeaning.
The constricting societal norms, the expectations, the control, it's all too much sometimes. Though for now, I push those thoughts aside, focusing on the spark of hope that Seraphina's news has ignited. Maybe, just maybe, I'll find someone who treats me that way. That's if I ever get away from Jackson.
We shop for a few more hours, the store's fluorescent lighting illuminating Seraphina's excited face as she chatters away about Ethan. As the afternoon lingers into the evening, I finally decide to call it a day.
"Harrison," I instruct my driver when we exit the department store. "Take me to my house, please."
"Yes, Mrs. Blackhart," he acknowledges, his gaze steady on the road, and I cringe at my name.
The house, my real home, has sat vacant since the day I tied the knot with Jackson. Each time I visit, it's like stepping into a time capsule. Every room reminds me of simpler, happier times. I don't live here anymore, but I can't bear the thought of this place gathering dust or my family's possessions being neglected.
As we pull up to the modest residence, my heart aches with nostalgia. The front lawn, once a vibrant green, is now dull and overgrown, but the structure of the house stands firm, just as I remember. Inside, I start dusting the furniture, adjust old family photos, and check that everything is secure. The familiar routine brings a strange comfort, a whisper of normalcy in the chaos of my life.
I move from room to room, the rhythmic routine of cleaning soothing my frayed nerves. Then, a noise from my father's old office stops me in my tracks. My heart thuds in my chest. No one should be here. I haven't seen anyone in this house since the day of the wedding. I creep towards the door, my hand instinctively reaching for a letter opener lying on the hallway table. It's sharp and pointy, perfect to instill some fear.
If it's him, if it's my father who sold me off to that beast without a second thought, he's going to get a piece of my mind. His betrayal stings more than Jackson’s physical blows. I grip the letter opener so tight that my knuckles turn white. He'd better hope I don't decide to let him feel a fraction of the pain I've been bearing silently.
As my hand pushes the heavy wooden door open, a feeling of shock washes over me. The office, once in picture-perfect order, has been turned into a disaster. The air is thick with the scent of disturbed dust. My father’s desk, a once imposing figure of polished mahogany, is overturned, its drawers opened for all to see.
The sight sends a shiver down my spine. It’s as if a whirlwind had swept through, leaving no regard for the sanctity of this space. The disorder is jarring, a stark contrast to the meticulousness my father maintained. Whoever did this was searching for something. This is a clear violation of the last piece of my past life.
Another noise echoes in the silence, and instinctively, my gaze whips towards the window. A wave of fear rolls over me as I take in the scene. It's open. My heart hammers in my chest as my grip tightens around the letter opener so more. There's no room for fear, not now. I stride over to the window, swallowing the lump of dread in my throat.
Peering out, I catch sight of a figure dressed in all black, scaling down the exterior wall to the ground. The figure is not moving very fast, and their movements are hesitant like the intruder is not used to doing this.
"Hey! Who the hell are you!" I yell, pushing down the chill of fear.
The intruder looks up, but a mask conceals their face, leaving me clueless as to their identity. With a swift movement, the intruder hits the ground and almost falls before taking off running, albeit slowly.
Anger flares in my chest. "Stay the hell away from my house!" I shout after them, my voice echoing off the empty walls of the house. "If you're looking for my father, he isn't here! If you find him, tell him to kiss my ass!"
The intruder pauses and turns to look at me before turning around to run again. Pulling away from the window, I turn back to the chaotic mess the intruder left. An ache forms in my chest as I look at the destroyed office. The intruder didn't just violate my privacy, they tarnished the memories embedded in this room. Memories of my mother, whose laughter used to echo in these halls. Although my father is a bastard, I won't let his mistakes ruin my mother's home.
I begin to pick up the scattered papers, each crumpled sheet feeling like a stab to the heart. Among the wreckage, I notice a pile of shredded documents dumped carelessly on the floor. They must have been in a hurry, looking for whatever it was they needed.
As I continue to clean, something catches my eye. The paper shredder, overturned in the chaos, has a thick stack of papers jammed in the feeder. I reach for it, and my fingers are barely able to grasp the compressed mass. The papers are stubborn, resisting my attempts to dislodge them. I pull harder, but my hand slips. With a final, determined yank, the papers come free.
I carefully smooth out the crumpled, shredded papers, revealing fragments of text and half-visible letterheads. The words 'legal documentation' and 'trust' jump out at me from the top of the page, followed by my own name. It's a document from a law firm, one that faintly rings a bell, but I cannot immediately place it. My mind is a jumbled mess of confusion as I try to piece together the torn sentences, but I can’t make heads or tails of it.
The document speaks of a trust, but it’s frustratingly incomplete, with sentences breaking off just as they seem to be revealing something important.
"...under the condition set forth by the trust established... the sum will be released to Isabella...," my eyes squint, trying to decipher the disjointed phrases. "...on the event of ..."
The rest is lost, shredded into confetti. With a sigh, I sit back, the paper limp in my hand. It must be related to the money my father squandered away. I turn the paper over in my hands, hoping for more clues, but find none. Frustrated, I place the papers on a shelf and force myself to continue cleaning.
Exhausted and mentally drained, I finish cleaning the last of the chaos. The room, though far from its previous state of perfection, looks considerably less like a hurricane hit it. I step out of the room and pull the door closed behind me with a soft click.
As I step outside, the cool evening air hits me. The sky, now a blanket of twinkling stars, brings a hint of peace to the turmoil inside me. Harrison sees me, and he steps out and opens the car door. I take a deep breath, gather my strength, and walk towards the car. As I slide into the backseat, he shuts the door behind me, enclosing me in a cocoon of silence.
"Take me back," I request quietly when he slides back into the driver's seat, with my gaze lingering on the house one last time.
"To Mr. Blackhart's residence," I clarify, never referring to Jackson's house as my own. The mansion was never a home to me, only a gilded cage. Harrison gives a curt nod before pulling away, leaving behind my comfort and solitude and my true home fading into the distance. The noise of the engine is a dull hum in the background, barely registering as I lean back into the seat and close my eyes. I let the rhythm of the journey lull me into a state of dull tranquility.
The ride comes to an abrupt end, and before I know it, I'm back at the mansion. I walk through the ornate front door with my shoes echoing off the marble floor. My heart beats in rhythm with each step I take towards the bedroom. The bedroom I'm forced to share with Jackson. With a deep breath, I push open the door and stand there in complete shock. There's a woman on top of Jackson, and it's clear they're having sex. While Jackson has been bedding women since the day we married, he's never brought them back to the same bed he forces me to sleep in.
Jackson sees me standing in the doorway. "You're home earlier than expected," he says as he grabs the woman's hips and brings her down hard on top of them. The moans of pleasure they both let out make my skin crawl.
The woman turns around, still riding Jackson like a hoarse, and looks at me. "Do you mind? We're in the middle of something, bitch," she says before moaning again and bending down to kiss Jackson.
"I guess she wants to relax in bed," Jackson tells the woman when they finish kissing. He smacks ass her before pulling out of her. "Come on, get up. Let's get this over with so my wife can relax," he says.
He says wife in a mocking way, making me even angrier. I watch, stunned that, one; the woman doesn't seem to care that his wife is standing in the room, and two; he's so damn obscene about it. Jackson turns her onto her hands and knees, positions himself behind her, and starts hammering her from behind. I turn around and slam the door behind me, effectively muting the disgusting sounds they're making.
I stumble blindly through the maze of hallways with the echoes of their vulgar pleasure haunting me. Each step in this prison reminds me of the stark contrast to the life I'd envisioned. A life I wanted where I was free, now tainted by the cold, gilded cage I find myself in. A spare bedroom emerges up ahead, and I decide to seek refuge from the sickening reality. I step inside, desperate for solitude, and shut the door behind me, hoping to drown out those disturbing sounds. The room is cold and impersonal, but it offers the peace I desperately need.
In the sanctuary of the spare room, my composure crumbles. Anger, hurt, disgust. It’s a maelstrom that threatens to consume me. I wrap my arms around myself, seeking solace in solitude, away from the ugly reality that lies beyond these walls. Slowly, I approach the bed. I slip under the covers and curl my body into a tight ball. The chill of the sheets against my skin is a welcome sensation, grounding me, pulling me away from the nauseating images playing on repeat in my mind.
With a deep, steadying breath, I shut my eyes, forcing the world to fade away. I focus on the silence, the darkness, and the neutral scent of the unfamiliar bedding. Anything that isn't the memory of Jackson, the woman, and their disgusting display. As I try to settle my racing thoughts, I yearn for escape. Not just from this room, this mansion, this life, but from the all-consuming bitterness that's become my constant companion.