London

Selene stumbled as she was shoved forward, landing hard on the cold marble floor.

She blinked rapidly, her heart pounding, breath short. The room smelled like perfume, old money, and something sickening beneath it—control.

Her stepmother sat on the velvet couch in her signature silk robe, a glass of red wine in hand, smirking like she'd just won a game.

Liam walked past Selene like she was nothing more than luggage, flopping into the chair opposite the woman. "Told you I'd bring her," he said, wiping his hands dramatically, as if he'd just finished taking out the trash.

Selene glared up at both of them, her knees aching, wrists sore from the grip of the men who had dragged her into the house.

Her stepmother raised her glass. "Welcome home, darling," she said in that syrupy venomous voice. "You had your fun. But now, it's over. Get ready for the wedding."

Selene pushed herself up, rage swirling like a storm inside her chest. "I'm not marrying him," she said, her voice low, controlled, shaking. "I rather die than wear a fucking dress for that bastard."

Her stepmother didn't flinch. "You think you have a choice?" she laughed "You think this is some romantic fairytale?" She stood slowly, walking toward her like a cat with its prey. "If you don't marry him, your father dies. Simple."

Selene's lips trembled, but she didn't step back. "You're bluffing. He's sick, but you wouldn't—"

"Oh, sweetheart," the woman chuckled darkly. "You still don't get it, do you? He listens to me only. If I say he lives, he lives. If I say he doesn't... well, your dad will end in a casket."

Selene's hands balled into fists. "What has may dad ever did to you,,, you are living here all dressed up just because of him. & you think all of this is yours my dad will never—"

Her stepmother's face snapped into something cold and deadly.

The slap came hard and sharp.

Selene's head snapped sideways, her cheek stinging, tears flooding her eyes from the impact alone. But she didn't cry. Not this time.

Liam laughed low from the chair.

He stood slowly and came over, crouching in front of her, tilting her face toward him with one hand. "Don't bruise her too much," he said calmly, to the stepmother. "She's supposed to look pretty"

Selene turned her face away, her voice hoarse and full of venom. "Don't touch me, you fucking pathetic excuse of a man."

Liam's eyes darkened.

He grabbed her throat—not too hard, but enough to show her he could if he wanted to. Selene's breath caught, and she stared at him, hatred pulsing through every inch of her.

Her stepmother sighed. "Enough. Lock her up."

Two bodyguards came from the hallway. Selene tried to pull back, but their hands were like steel clamps around her arms.

She screamed, kicked, clawed, but they dragged her down the hallway like she was nothing. Nothing but a pawn.

The door slammed shut behind her.

The lock clicked.

Selene slid down the wall, her body shaking, the taste of blood in her mouth.

But her eyes were dry.

And burning.

Isabelle stood by the window, the sunlight catching the glint of gold on her necklace. Her smile was razor sharp.

"Prepare the wedding arrangements," she said to the servant beside her. The servant blinked, unsure whether to nod or run. She turned to Liam "And prepare the inheritance papers. After the ceremony…" she paused, a sly smirk curling her lips, "Edward Beaumont will die. And everything—will be ours."

Liam, leaning on the doorframe, raised an eyebrow with a wicked smirk. "What about her?" he asked.

Isabelle turned slightly, brushing imaginary dust off her sleeve. "Use her as you wish. A servant. A trophy. A plaything. It won't matter. Once the will is signed and sealed, she's as disposable as her mother was."

Liam chuckled under his breath, satisfied. "Lovely."

He gave Isabelle a mock salute and walked out of the hallway, humming to himself.

Isabelle didn't wait long.

"Bring the tea," she said to the housemaid. "And no sugar this time."

She walked with slow, practiced steps toward the east wing. The tea tray rattled softly in the maid's hand as they reached the room. Isabelle took the cup herself before the girl could knock.

"Leave," she ordered.

The hallway emptied.

Outside the door to Edward's room, Isabelle opened her bag and took out a small glass vial. A few drops of clear liquid slid into the steaming tea without a trace. She stirred it gently, humming a soft lullaby under her breath. One Selene's mother used to sing—until she made sure she'd never sing again.

Isabelle walked in, a vision of dutiful grace.

Edward lay propped up on a bed of white pillows, his once-powerful frame now frail, eyes sunken and tired, but still filled with warmth when he saw her.

"Isabelle," he said weakly. "You brought tea?"

"I did, love." Her voice was honeyed and warm, masking the poison in her hands. "Selene's home. Isn't that wonderful?"

His eyes brightened. "She is?" He tried to sit up a little. "Why hasn't she come to see me?"

Isabelle approached with the cup, sitting beside him on the bed. "She's resting. She didn't want to wake you. You were asleep when she arrived, and she said she'll see you at dinner. She was so emotional—she just needed a moment."

Edward sighed. "Still thoughtful, even now." He smiled at the memory. "I'm glad she came. You're really doing so much for me, Isabelle. I'm lucky to have you."

He reached for the cup. Isabelle watched him drink.

"Of course you are," she whispered.

The tea went down slow. Edward sighed as the warmth hit him. His eyes fluttered a little.

Isabelle leaned in, brushing his hair with a motherly gentleness. "You just rest, my love. Everything is being taken care of."

She smiled again, and this time, there was no kindness left in her face.

Only victory.