Chapter 6
Isolde Park POV:
I sat in the back of the taxi, watching the landscape of my old life blur and recede. The grimy, low-rise apartment buildings of Queens gave way to the manicured green of the suburbs, which in turn bled into the dense, private forests of upstate New York.
My reflection in the window was a pale, blank-faced stranger. The woman who had cried over burnt toast and worried about paying rent was gone. There were no tears now. There was nothing but a vast, cold emptiness where her feelings used to be.
My phone buzzed in my purse, a frantic, insistent vibration. I didn't need to look to know it was Ben. A barrage of desperate texts and missed calls. I pulled the phone out, held down the power button, and watched the screen go black without reading a single word.
The taxi slowed, turning onto a private road marked by an imposing set of wrought-iron gates. The driver, a man who had been chattering nonstop for the past hour, fell silent. He stared through the windshield at the sprawling stone manor visible at the end of the long, winding driveway. It looked less like a house and more like a castle.
“This is it?” he whispered, his voice full of awe.
I paid him in cash, adding a generous tip for his silence. I got out and pulled my single, unremarkable suitcase from the trunk. It looked comically out of place against the backdrop of such immense wealth.
As I approached the gates, a small, discreet camera swiveled to focus on my face. A soft chime sounded, and the heavy gates slid open without a sound.
Waiting for me just inside was Alfred, his back ramrod straight in his traditional butler’s uniform. His silver hair was perfectly combed, but as I drew closer, I saw that his eyes were red-rimmed.
“Miss Park,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re finally home.”
The icy fortress around my heart cracked, just for a moment. He was the closest thing to a parent I’d ever had. “I’m home, Alfred,” I said softly.
His hand trembled slightly as he took the handle of my suitcase. He handled it as if it were made of fine china, not cheap plastic.
I stepped into the grand foyer. The familiar scent of lemon polish, old books, and money filled my lungs. It felt both foreign and like the only real thing in the world. The soaring ceilings and cold marble floors seemed to echo with the ghosts of my lonely childhood. This was not a home; it was a battlefield. My battlefield.
A figure appeared at the top of the sweeping grand staircase. My father, William Park. He descended slowly, each step measured and controlled. He wore a perfectly tailored Savile Row suit, his expression a complicated mask of disapproval and relief.
He stopped in front of me, his gaze sweeping over my simple jeans and t-shirt. His brow furrowed.
His first words to his daughter after three years were not of love or concern. They were an indictment. “Is your three years of nonsense finally over?”
Any warmth I might have felt from Alfred’s welcome was instantly extinguished. I lifted my chin, my own expression becoming as cold and hard as the marble beneath my feet. “I need to rest.”
A flicker of something—pity, perhaps, or pain—crossed his face before it was replaced by his usual stern authority. “Your room is as you left it. Clean yourself up. Put on something decent.”
The space between us felt like a chasm. He wanted to say more, I could see it in the tightening of his jaw, but he just waved a dismissive hand. “Alfred, take her upstairs.”
Alfred, his face a portrait of discomfort, picked up my suitcase and led the way. As I passed my father on the stairs, we didn't make eye contact. We were two opposing generals, temporarily observing a truce.
I could feel his eyes on my back as I ascended. I knew that look. It wasn’t just anger; it was fear. He was terrified I would end up like my mother, broken and destroyed by a world he couldn’t control. His method of preventing it was to try and control me instead.
At the door to my suite, Alfred paused. “He missed you terribly, Miss Isolde,” he said in a low voice.
I didn’t answer. I just pushed the door open.
The room was exactly as I’d left it. A pristine, dustless museum of the girl I used to be. It was all shades of cream and gold, soft and feminine. It felt like a stranger’s room.
I walked to the massive floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the sprawling estate. The familiar view brought a strange mix of comfort and exhaustion. I was home. The cage was gilded, but I was back in it.
A soft knock came at the door. It was my father. He was holding a glass of warm milk. A peace offering. My childhood comfort.
I took it from him, my fingers brushing his. I didn't drink.
He broke the heavy silence, his tone all business. “There is a family dinner tonight. It’s important.”
He met my eyes, and the final piece of the puzzle clicked into place. He delivered the critical information like a general issuing orders.
“Your uncle, Alger, will be attending.”
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