Inside Madam Mary room —walls lined with velvet tapestries and shelves glittering with rare porcelain—she snatched up the gilded cellphone the moment it trilled. A greedy smile stretched across her painted lips as she pressed it to her ear.
"Oh? How did it go? Do tell me everything!"
But as the words poured from the receiver, her face drained of color, going as pale as fresh cream. Her manicured nails dug into the carved wood of her desk as she hissed through gritted teeth:
"Are you fucking serious?! She ran away? How could all of you—grown men with every resource at your disposal—let a little girl slip through your fingers? She fights like a damned warrior!"
The voice on the other end was cold as ice, sharp as glass: "you never told us she was that strong you said she is a naive girl . You know what's at stake here, You failed us, and failure demands payment. You'll settle it for your daughter ,we needs a replacement… or face consequences far worse than you can imagine."
The line went dead with a sharp click. Rage consumed her like wildfire—she swept her arm across the desk, sending crystal vases, silver frames, and stacks of documents crashing to the floor in a shattering cascade. With a primal scream, she stormed from her room, her silk gown billowing behind her as she barreled down the corridor toward Isabella's quarters.
She slammed her fist against the heavy oak door—bang, bang, bang—the sound echoing through the halls like thunder. Inside, Isabella had just sunk into her rose-petal infused bath, trying to find a moment of peace amid the chaos of her life. But the pounding grew more violent, shaking the door in its frame.
Hastily wrapping herself in a plush velvet bathrobe, she unlocked the door and pulled it open—only to be met with Madam Mary's twisted face.
Before Isabella could speak, Madam Mary's hand cracked across her cheek with brutal force.
"Fucking bitch!" she snarled, her accent thick with fury. "They say they'll punish you for this—strip you of everything you have, cast you out into the streets where you belong!""You can't even handle a simple task—something any civilized girl would manage without fuss!" Madam Mary shrieked, her nails digging into Isabella's hair as she wrenched her forward. "Are you really that stupid? A little thing and you messed it up!
She shoved Isabella hard—sending her sprawling against a gilded suit of armor that stood guard in the corridor. The metal clanged loudly as Isabella stumbled back, her bathrobe slipping as she struggled to stay upright.
Madam Mary saw the coat of a man on her bed
"So this is where you've been? Running off with some man behind our backs?" Madam Mary spat, circling her like a predator. "Do you want to bring shame to this entire household? Do you want the courts involved?!"
"Having fun parading around with your mystery man, you little whore? Did you think you could escape us so easily?!"
Isabella bit her lip until she tasted blood, refusing to speak—her silence only fueling the older woman's rage. With another harsh yank of her hair, Madam Mary began dragging her toward the grand staircase.
"Are you insane?! I sent you to deliver a single package to the merchant's guild—and this is what you do? Fraternize with strangers?!" She paused at the bottom of the stairs, her face twisted with malice. "Just wait until your father returns home. He'll skin you alive for this! I'm calling him right now."
As she stormed toward the drawing room to fetch the telephone, Florence—Isabella's stepsister—swept through the front doors, her gown stained with champagne and her hair tumbling in disarray from a night of partying.
"Mom? What's all the commotion?" she drawled, barely glancing at Isabella before her eyes landed on the red mark across her cheek. A cruel smirk played at her lips as she looked down her nose at her. "Oh—looks like someone got what was coming to them."
She brushed past Isabella roughly, shoving her into the marble banister with her shoulder. "Honestly, Isabella—can't you do anything right? You're such an embarrassment to this family.
"Madam Mary swept her bejeweled hand—adorned with emerald toward her lips in a gesture as deliberate as it was commanding. A single, sharp glance silenced the room before starring at Florence, as if saying "Not a single breath of word shall pass your lips about the elaborate arrangements we have meticulously crafted for her."
With regal poise, she glided across the marble floors—her silk gown rustling like autumn leaves against the polished stone—toward the ornate mahogany doors of her room. Pausing at the threshold, she turned her sculpted features toward Isabelle, her expression etched with a contempt so profound it might have been carved from marble itself.
"You are a blight upon our family's illustrious name—a gaudy stain on centuries of distinguished lineage," she declared, her words ringing through the cavernous hall. "I dare wonder what divine madness could have clouded Father's discerning eye to see any shred of worth in one so utterly lacking in grace or dignity."