His Wife, The Secret Forensic Genius

Isabella "Bella" Douglas POV:

I woke in the sterile white of a clinic room, my hand bandaged and throbbing, my body wracked with a fever from the venom.

Maria, the Douglas family housekeeper, was sitting by my bed, her face a mask of worry, her eyes red from weeping.

"I called the family doctor," she whispered, dabbing my forehead with a cool cloth. "They left you on the floor, child. They just left you."

She told me how Jameson and my brothers had rushed to Haleigh's side, ignoring my convulsing body on the marble floor.

They had cursed Maria for fussing over what they called "a little spider bite."

Maria listed my years of silent sacrifice-the money I'd quietly funneled into their failing family enterprise, the care I gave them when they were sick, the unwavering loyalty I offered without question.

"They never saw you, child," she said, her voice thick with sorrow. "They only ever saw her."

Her words, meant to comfort, instead struck a deeper chord. The pain didn't shatter me. It forged me. What had been cracked and broken inside hardened into something new, something unbreakable.

Freedom was two days away. That was now more than a comfort; it was a promise.

I returned to the penthouse with a cold sense of purpose, only to find a lavish birthday party in full swing. For Haleigh.

It was my birthday, too. No one had remembered.

I watched from the doorway as Jameson and my brothers presented Haleigh with her gifts: a diamond necklace that glittered like ice, the keys to a vintage sports car, the deed to a vineyard in Napa.

My brothers sneered when they saw me.

"Enjoy your little vacation?" Blake asked. "A spider bite isn't an excuse to disappear when your sister needs you."

Jameson approached, his voice a mockery of concern. "Haleigh is fragile. She's my wife now. You need to accept that."

Instead of the usual rage, a chilling calm settled over me.

"You're right," I said, my smile unsettling him. "She is."

Haleigh announced it was time for a birthday slideshow.

But instead of sweet childhood photos, the screen flashed with images of Haleigh from her five years away-drunken nights in cheap motels, strange men with their hands all over her.

The words "Happy Birthday to New York's Favorite Whore" burned across the final image.

The music died. The laughter choked. The room froze.

My brothers scrambled to kill the feed, their faces murderous.

Haleigh, ever the actress, pointed a trembling finger at me and collapsed into Jameson's arms.

"She did this!" she wailed, her sobs echoing in the stunned silence.

Jameson cradled her, his eyes locking on mine. They were cold, hard chips of ice that promised retribution.

"You will pay for this," he snarled.