I Faked My Death, He Lost His Soul

“That’s not true!” she hissed, her voice sharp. “He’d be glad it’s me! I’m not telling him yet because I want it to be a revelation! So keep your mouth shut!”

“Don’t worry. Your little marital games don’t interest me.”

This life was for me.

Somehow, I still ended up at the gathering—a high-stakes meet of syndicate associates and legitimate business fronts at a historic, guarded manor.

I wore a blood-red gown that plunged in the back, a statement of fire against Seraphina’s virginal white chiffon.

When the time came for the opening formalities, a traditional dance, William’s eyes passed over me and settled on Seraphina. He extended his hand to her.

A low murmur rippled through the crowd.

“The Caruso heiress is Isabella, no? Why the sister?”

“The message is clear. The Don prefers the… manageable one.”

“Naturally. Seraphina Caruso understands decorum. The older one… beautiful, but volatile. A liability for a man in his position.”

William ignored the whispers. He glanced at me, his explanation flat. “You don’t know the steps. Observe and learn from your sister this time.”

Then he led Seraphina to the center of the marble floor. They moved together with polished grace, a picture of controlled harmony under the crystal chandeliers.

Watching them spin, I felt no jealousy. Just a profound, draining sense of disgust.

I slipped away. I found a deserted stone balcony overlooking the manicured grounds, letting the cold air clear my head.

The peace didn’t last.

Seraphina found me. Her cheeks were flushed from dancing, her eyes bright with triumph.

“Sister, hiding out here? Couldn’t bear to watch?” She stepped close, her voice a venomous purr. “I told you. Between us, any man, even William, will choose the civilized option.”

She paused, leaning in. “But it must be in your blood. Your mother couldn’t keep my mother from taking her place. And you can’t keep me from taking yours. A legacy of failure.”

General insults I could dismiss.

But she brought my mother into this.

The cold clarity in my mind crystallized into something razor-sharp. I turned. My hand moved without thought.

The crack of my palm against her cheek was startlingly loud in the quiet night.

Seraphina’s head snapped to the side. A vivid red handprint bloomed on her pale skin.

She touched her face, stunned. “You… you hit me?”

“That’s just the start,” I said, my voice low and deadly. I advanced.

She stepped back, her confidence wavering. “Isabella, don’t you dare—”

I closed the distance, my fingers tangling in the delicate fabric of her gown at the neckline. “Who gave you the courage to taunt me alone? Have you forgotten, Sera? I spent my teenage years in combat training. Breaking a fragile thing like you would be easy.”

I yanked her toward the balcony’s stone railing. The drop to the dark gardens below was significant.

She gasped, real fear entering her eyes as she peered over. “Isabella! Stop it!”

“Let’s see if I dare.”

I didn’t shove her. I released her gown and gave her a hard, open-handed push against her shoulder—a controlled, forceful blow meant to shock, not to kill.

She stumbled back with a cry, her heel catching on an uneven flagstone. Her arms flailed, she hit the low, decorative section of the railing—and it gave way with a sickening crack of old wood.

Her scream was cut short as she vanished over the edge.