THE ROSSETTI HEIRESS HAS STOPPED BEGGING

CHAPTER TWO

The laundry room smelled of detergent and steam. I stood at the long marble counter folding Leo’s tiny shirts, soft blue ones with little dinosaurs on the pockets—when the door opened without a knock.

Toria stepped inside like she owned the air itself. Red hair loose over one shoulder, silk robe clinging to her body barely covering any skin, that same smug curve to her painted mouth. Arthur was in a meeting downtown. She never wasted those hours.

“Still playing the devoted little mother,” she said, voice dripping sweetness sharp enough to cut. “How noble. Does it make you feel less pathetic, Isabella? Folding the bastard’s clothes while your husband f***s me in every room of this house?”

I kept folding. One sleeve. Then the other. My hands were steady only because I forced them to be.

“Leave,” I said quietly.

She laughed. The sound was bright and cruel. She crossed the room in three lazy steps and snatched a shirt from the pile, dangling it between two fingers like it was dirty.

“Look at you. The great Rossetti daughter reduced to laundry duty. Your father must be so proud. Or is he too busy counting the money Arthur paid for your used-up body?”

Something hot and ugly rose in my throat. I turned. “Don’t talk about my son.”

“Or what?” She stepped closer, eyes gleaming. “You’ll cry again? Beg again? You’re so predictable it’s boring.”

I reached for the shirt. She yanked it back and slapped me across the face.

The crack of her palm against my cheek echoed off the tiles. My head snapped to the side. Heat bloomed instantly, sharp and stinging.

I stared at her for one frozen second. Then I slapped her back.

Hard.

Her head jerked. A red mark bloomed across her cheek. For a heartbeat the laundry room was completely silent.

Then Toria’s eyes filled like someone had turned on a faucet. Big, glittering, perfect tears. She clutched her face and let out a broken sob so loud it carried straight down the hallway.

“Arthur—!”

Footsteps thundered. The door slammed open. Arthur filled the frame, dark hair slightly disordered, tie loosened, eyes already scanning for the threat. When he saw Toria’s tear-streaked face and the mark on her cheek, something lethal settled over his features.

“What the f**k is wrong with you?” he snarled at me.

I opened my mouth. “She hit me first. She—”

Toria crumpled against his chest with a theatrical little cry, shoulders shaking. “I only asked why she was still here… she just—she attacked me—”

Arthur’s arm locked around her like she was glass. His free hand shot out and struck me across the face so hard the world went white for a second. I hit the cold tile floor on my hands and knees, ear ringing, the taste of blood blooming on my tongue.

He stood over me, breathing hard, one hand still cradling Toria’s head against his shoulder.

“Never,” he said, voice low and deadly, “lay a finger on her again. Do you understand me? If you still value your life, you will not touch her. Not once. Not ever.”

I stayed on the floor, palm pressed to my aching cheek, the cold of the tile seeping through my clothes. My vision blurred at the edges.

Arthur’s voice softened into something almost gentle as he turned back to Toria. “Come on. We’re getting that checked. No one puts their hands on you in this house.”

He guided her out without another glance at me. The door closed. The silence that followed was thicker than the steam still rising from the dryer.

I stayed there for a long time. Eventually I pushed myself up, wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand, and walked out. The servants in the hallway flattened themselves against the walls as I passed. No one met my eyes. No one offered a tissue or a word. They had learned long ago that kindness toward me was dangerous.

Leo’s room was at the end of the east wing. Soft blue walls. A mobile of little planes turning slowly above the crib he had almost outgrown. He was on the rug with a wooden train, making soft chugging noises under his breath. When he saw me he grinned, that bright, gap-toothed smile that still undid me every time.

“Mama!”

I sank onto the rug beside him. He crawled into my lap without hesitation, small hands fisting in my shirt, head resting against my chest like he had been waiting for this exact spot all day. I wrapped my arms around him and breathed in the clean scent of his hair.

He looked so much like Arthur it hurt.

Same dark hair that curled at the ends when it got long. Same serious little frown when he concentrated. Same shape to his eyes—though his were still soft, still full of trust the way Arthur’s had never been with me. Sometimes I caught myself staring at him and feeling a complicated, painful twist in my chest. This child had Arthur’s face and my blood and somehow none of the coldness. He was the only pure thing left in this house.

I pressed a kiss to the top of his head and held him tighter.

“I love you,” I whispered into his hair. “No matter what. You hear me? No matter what.”

He just hummed and pushed the train along my thigh, completely content.

The next afternoon the entire atmosphere of the house shifted the moment the front doors opened.

Eleanor Knight arrived like a storm in pearls.

Arthur’s grandmother. Seventy-something, silver hair twisted into an unforgiving knot, posture so rigid it looked painful. She had never liked me. From the first dinner after the wedding she had looked at me the way one looks at a stain that refuses to come out. In her eyes I was the necessary evil that brought the Rossetti shipping routes into the family—nothing more.

She swept into the main parlor with Arthur at her side and Toria trailing just behind, already playing the devoted almost-granddaughter. I stood near the windows, hands clasped in front of me, pulse already climbing.

Eleanor’s sharp eyes scanned the room, lingered on me for half a second with open distaste, then settled on the low table where a velvet jewelry case sat open.

Toria’s voice trembled with perfect distress.

“Grandmother… I didn’t want to say anything, but I can’t stay silent anymore.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “My diamond tennis bracelet and the emerald earrings you gave me for my birthday—they’re gone. I searched everywhere. And then… I found them.”

She pointed a trembling finger at me.

“In Isabella’s vanity. Hidden under the false bottom of the mirror tray.”

The air left the room.

Eleanor’s face darkened like a sky before lightning. She turned slowly to Arthur, voice cold enough to frost glass.

“Is this how your wife behaves in this house? Stealing from family? Planting evidence like a common thief?”

“I didn’t—” I stepped forward, words tumbling out too fast. “I never touched her jewelry. I don’t even go into her rooms. Someone must have—”

Arthur’s hand cracked across my face before I finished the sentence.

The force of it spun me halfway around. I staggered, catching myself on the edge of a side table, cheek already swelling from yesterday’s bruise. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth again.

Eleanor watched without blinking.

Arthur’s voice was pure ice. “Enough of your lies. You’ve embarrassed this family for the last time.”

He turned to one of the waiting maids, eyes never leaving my face.

“Bring a pot of boiling water. Now.”

The maid’s face went white, but she bowed and hurried out. My stomach dropped through the floor. I looked at Arthur, at Toria’s barely concealed triumph, at Eleanor’s cold satisfaction, and something inside me began to shake so hard I had to lock my knees to stay upright.

“Arthur,” I whispered. “Please. I didn’t do this. Leo is upstairs. Please don’t—”

He didn’t even look at me when he answered. This was the same man I had loved at a distance and believed patience would bring his heart to me.

“You should have thought of that before you decided to steal from the people who actually belong in this family.”

The maid returned with a silver pot, steam rising from the spout in thick white curls. The air filled with the sharp scent of scalding water. Arthur took it from her without a word and nodded once at the two guards who had appeared behind me.

They gripped my arms.

I started to struggle, heart slamming against my ribs, the memory of yesterday’s ice water still raw on my skin. This would be worse. So much worse.

Arthur stepped closer, pot in hand, expression completely empty.

“Hold her still.”

The first splash hit my shoulder and the side of my neck.

I screamed.