Chapter 8
Isabella POV
Rosalie’s tears spilled over her pale cheeks, a flawless picture of a heartbroken elder sister.
"I have protected you," she sobbed, her voice echoing over the roar of the freezing river. "I have been a mother to you and Sophia! And this is how you repay me? If you continue this reckless path, Isabella, I will wash my hands of you. You can survive the wolves of this family on your own."
I didn't blink. I didn't offer a word of apology. I simply stared at her.
Knowing what I knew now—that the blood in her veins belonged to a mild-mannered Advisor and not a Falcone—made her performance utterly pathetic. The sheer audacity of a bastard daughter threatening to throw me to the wolves churned my stomach, but my face remained a mask of carved ice. My silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, stripping away her power second by second.
Rosalie’s sobs faltered. She realized I wasn't buying a single drop of her grief.
The mask finally slipped. Pure, venomous hatred flashed in her eyes, twisting her soft features into something ugly. She spun on her heel, grabbing her maid Diana by the arm. They marched to the waiting Lincoln, slamming the doors behind them. The fragile illusion of our sisterhood was dead, and the war was no longer hidden in the shadows.
The drive back to the Falcone Estate was a blur of dark asphalt and my own racing thoughts. When I finally stepped into my private suite, the heavy silk curtains were drawn tight, suffocating the room in the scent of expensive lavender and beeswax.
Bianca stood by the door, wringing her hands in anxious silence. I bypassed her, walking straight to my vanity. I pulled open the bottom drawer and retrieved a heavy, mother-of-pearl jewelry box.
I flipped the latch. Inside wasn't jewelry, but a stack of crisp parchment.
I unfolded the top sheet. My own handwriting stared back at me—perfectly forged. Explicit, sickeningly sweet love poems addressed to Colby Yates, the syphilis-ridden son of a Chicago alderman. Beneath them lay a reply, signed by Colby, demanding a secret rendezvous in the confessionals of Holy Trinity Church.
In my past life, these letters had been my execution. Rosalie had swapped Julian for Colby to ensure my absolute ruin. The scandal had branded me a whore, leading directly to my sweet sister Sophia’s broken engagement with the Carbone family, and her eventual death in shame and sickness.
A wave of murderous rage washed over me, but my hands remained perfectly steady. Daisy. My other maid had complained of a sudden migraine and returned to the estate early. The *Rat* had played her part perfectly.
"Bianca," I said, my voice eerily calm. "Bring me the brass brazier."
She hurried to obey, her eyes wide with unspoken questions. I dropped the poisoned words into the metal bowl and struck a match. We watched the flames devour the lies, the orange glow reflecting in Bianca's terrified eyes.
"Bring me fresh paper and my fountain pen," I ordered as the last embers died down.
I sat at the mahogany desk. For the next hour, the only sound in the room was the sharp scratch of my nib against paper. I wrote ten letters. Ten precise, lethal strikes that would turn Rosalie’s trap into her own grave.
I sealed the final envelope with dark red wax, stacking it neatly beside the others. The air in the room was thick with smoke and impending violence. I turned my gaze to Bianca, who was staring nervously at the pile of ashes in the brazier.
"We aren't done for the night," I told her softly, standing up from the desk. "I need you to do exactly as I say, and you cannot be seen by anyone."
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