The Jilted Wife Is A Secret Heiress

The Wellington steak sat in the center of the mahogany dining table, cold, gray, a monument to wasted time.

Isabella reached out and adjusted the plate for the tenth time. Her fingertips brushed the porcelain, , and they were trembling slightly. She aligned the silver fork until it was perfectly parallel with the knife.

The old grandfather clock in the hallway chimed. The sound was heavy, penetrating the floors of the Beacon Hill mansion. Midnight had come.

The day was over. Her birthday was over.

Isabella withdrew her hand and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. The silence inside the house was suffocating. It wasn't just quiet; it was a dense, physical weight pressing against her chest, making it hard to breathe.

She looked down at her attire. A simple cotton dress, bought three years ago at a discount store in Southie. It was soft, worn, and utterly out of place in this room that smelled of beeswax and old money.

The sharp beep of the front door's fingerprint lock broke the silence.

Isabella stood up immediately. The chair scraped against the floor with an unpleasant screech, making her frown. She smoothed the wrinkles from her dress. Her heart hammered inside her ribcage like a trapped bird.

Hamilton walked into the dining room.

He brought the cold wind with him. He wore a dark wool coat worth more than the house she'd grown up in. His jaw was tight, his eyes scanning the room without really seeing it. Or seeing her.

A scent clung to him. Not the crisp winter air. Vanilla and expensive musk.

Cuba's perfume.

Isabella swallowed, her throat tightening. She reached for the small gift box on the side table. Inside was a scarf she had spent two months knitting. Cashmere, soft gray, meant to match his eyes.

"Hamilton," she said. Her voice was thin, almost a whisper. "I waited."

Hamilton didn't look at her. He walked straight to the crystal decanter on the sideboard. Amber liquid splashed into a glass. He drank it in one gulp, the motion sharp and angry.

"I don't need a welcome committee, Isabella," he said with his back to her. "And I don't need a gift. I just need you to stay out of my space for five minutes."

Isabella took a step forward, clutching the box tightly. "It's... the third year. Our anniversary. And my birthday."

Hamilton turned around.

His face was a mask of exhaustion and disdain. He looked at her as if she were a stain on his immaculate carpet.

"Our marriage is a transaction," he said. His words were precise, cutting through the air like a scalpel. "Stop trying to turn it into a romance novel. You needed tuition. I needed a wife who doesn't ask questions. Don't overact."

Isabella felt the blood drain from her face. Her fingers clenched around the gift box, numb.

Before she could respond, a vibration buzzed against the mahogany surface of the sideboard. Hamilton's phone.

The screen lit