Isla’s POV
The pre-dawn chill seeped through the thin cotton of my nightdress like icy fingers. They hadn’t even let me change. Two Vance guards—hulking Betas with yellow eyes that glowed faintly in the dim foyer light—had yanked me from the attic before the first rooster crowed. My wrists were already raw from the rough rope they’d used to bind them behind my back, and every tug forward sent fresh sparks of pain up my arms.
Lady Vance waited at the bottom of the grand staircase, dressed impeccably in black silk as if this were a funeral procession rather than a debtor’s exile. Her posture was ramrod straight, hands folded neatly in front of her like she was about to recite morning prayers instead of condemning me to death.
She didn’t speak at first. She simply watched me being dragged
