Victoria sat alone in her study, her fingers drumming an agitated rhythm against the mahogany desk. The overhead chandelier flickered as if the house itself could feel the storm brewing inside her.
On the desk, a single envelope lay open, its contents spread out like the entrails of some unfortunate prey. Photos. Blurry but unmistakable. Isabel — alive. Isabel, standing beside Alexander, her arm looped through his. Isabel, looking at Victoria's house from a distance like a ghost returned from the grave.
A tremor started in Victoria's jaw and spread through her whole body. Her lips parted in a silent snarl before she slammed her palm down on the desk so hard the crystal pen holder toppled and clattered to the floor.
"It's impossible," she hissed to herself. "I watched her die."
But she hadn't, not really. She'd left the final act to the poison, convinced no one would dare ask questions when the girl's frail health was well-known. The perfect cover story — a tragedy. A pity. So easy to bury.
Victoria rose from her chair and stalked to the fireplace. She could see her reflection in the gilded mirror above the mantle — the perfect stepmother, the grieving widow. But the mask had begun to crack, lines of fury splintering the mask of elegance she had worn for so many years.
A soft knock at the door made her spin around, her silk robe swishing at her ankles. Margaret, her most loyal housemaid, stood trembling at the threshold.
"What is it?" Victoria snapped.
"I… I just wanted to ask if you wanted your tea, ma'am," Margaret stammered, eyes flicking to the scattered photos before darting away.
Victoria crossed the room in three long strides, grabbing Margaret's chin in a vice-like grip. "Listen to me, and listen well. If you speak a single word of what you've seen, I will bury you so deep your own mother wouldn't find your bones."
Margaret whimpered and nodded, her eyes welling with tears. Victoria released her with a shove, sending her stumbling back into the hallway.
She slammed the door shut, her chest heaving. For the first time in years, a crack of real fear wormed its way through her mind. If Isabel was alive, it meant she knew everything — or worse, remembered enough to make the perfect victim turn into the perfect threat.
"Alexander," Victoria spat, pacing like a caged panther. She should have finished him too. He had always been too clever by half, too loyal to Isabel's father — and too observant. She should have slit his throat when she had the chance.
She swept the photos into a pile and tossed them into the fireplace. The flames caught instantly, devouring Isabel's face, but the image was seared into her mind — Isabel's defiance, the spark of vengeance in her eyes.
A sharp rap came at the door again — heavier this time. It was Frederick, her personal lawyer, and fixer for things that required a more… creative touch.
He stepped inside, his expression calm but his eyes flickering to the burning photos.
"Is it true?" he asked. "The girl's alive?"
Victoria's laugh was brittle as glass. "Apparently the dead don't stay buried these days."
Frederick closed the door behind him. "What do you want me to do?"
Victoria moved to her bar cart, poured herself a glass of whiskey, and downed half of it in one swallow. Her hands trembled as she set the glass down.
"Find her. And find out how much she knows — who she's spoken to, who's helping her. That rat Alexander is sniffing around, too."
Frederick nodded but hesitated. "If she's gone to the police—"
"She hasn't," Victoria snapped, her eyes narrowing. "If she had, they'd have been at my door already. No, she wants to play hero. She wants to watch me crumble. Like her pathetic father."
Frederick shifted uncomfortably. "And if she does go to the police?"
Victoria's lips curled into a cold smile. "Then we make her look insane. A traumatized girl haunted by memories of a tragic 'accident.' A girl who's always been fragile — easy to paint as unstable. You know the story. We'll bury her in the same lies that buried her the first time."
She took another sip of whiskey, this time savoring the burn. The wheels were already turning in her mind. She still had contacts — people who owed her favors, secrets she could trade for loyalty.
But beneath the steely mask, a tiny splinter of panic lodged in her heart. Isabel wasn't the same frightened child anymore. She was angry — and worse, she was smart enough to know how to use that anger.
Victoria slammed the empty glass down so hard it cracked. She didn't even flinch.
"Frederick," she said, her voice low, deadly calm. "If Isabel wants war, then war she shall have. But make no mistake — she won't leave this game alive twice."
Frederick inclined his head. "I'll handle it."
"Good." Victoria turned back to the mirror above the fireplace. She wiped a stray tear from her cheek and forced herself to smile — the same smile that had charmed judges, business partners, and socialites for years.
Let them see a grieving stepmother, a pillar of charity and sophistication. But inside, the serpent stirred — coils tightening around everything Isabel thought she could reclaim.
She touched her reflection, tracing the faint line of worry forming between her brows.
"No one takes what's mine," she whispered to her own reflection. "Not again."
A gust of wind rattled the windows as the flames behind her roared higher, burning Isabel's image to ash. But the fear — the fear clung to the corners of the room like a ghost that wouldn't leave.
Victoria turned away from the fire, her eyes cold, calculating. She would strike first — and this time, she wouldn't miss.
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