Chapter 4: Hives and Suits.

Two weeks had passed since the nightmare by the pool, but the scars ran deeper than skin.

Mirabel stood in the expansive kitchen, the steady rhythm of her knife slicing through carrots the only sound breaking the silence. 

Her skin had finally healed, the angry red hives faded into faint patches that still itched when she moved too quickly. But the memory of burning water and Isabella’s cold laughter lingered like a bruise that refused to fade. 

She had nearly drowned that night, begging for mercy while her body betrayed her. And yet, no one in the Harrington family had spoken of it since. Not an apology. Not even an acknowledgement.

She wiped her hands on her apron, the fabric rough against her sensitive skin. Invisible, she reminded herself. That’s safer.

“Mirabel!” A young maid poked her head into the kitchen, breathless. “Miss Isabella wants you in the living room. Now.”

Mirabel’s stomach tightened, but she nodded obediently. She set down the knife and made her way through the corridors, each step heavier than the last.

The living room was a picture of carefree luxury. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating her parents and Isabella seated around a polished mahogany table. 

They were laughing, playing cards, glasses of wine in hand. Her father slapped the table in victory over a hand, while her mother leaned back with a satisfied smile. Isabella looked radiant, tossing her hair as she teased her parents.

They didn’t even glance at Mirabel as she entered. Not a flicker of guilt. Not a single acknowledgment of how Isabella had held her under that icy water until her lungs screamed and her vision darkened. 

The indifference hit Mirabel like a fresh wave of hives; burning, invisible, impossible to ignore. How can they laugh? she thought, her chest aching. I almost died because of her, and it’s just another Tuesday to them.

“Mirabel, darling,” Isabella called sweetly, her voice dripping with false warmth. She didn’t look up from her cards. 

“Be a dear and make me some fresh chocolate biscuits. From scratch. I’m craving something warm and homemade. And make sure YOU do it yourself. No one else. I want them perfect for when guests arrive.”

Mirabel lowered her gaze. “Yes, Isabella.”

She turned and retreated to the kitchen, the weight of humiliation pressing on her shoulders. The maids were waiting, their faces stormy.

“Let us help you, Miss Mirabel,” Rosa whispered fiercely, already reaching for the mixing bowls. “That spoiled brat has no right…”

“No,” Mirabel said gently but firmly, stopping her with a hand. “I’ll do it alone. If they find out you helped, they’ll punish you too. I won’t let that happen because of me.”

Naomi slammed a drawer shut, her eyes flashing with anger. “We’re so fucking pissed at her. Treating you like this after what she did at the pool? She could’ve killed you! And the parents just sit there smiling like nothing happened. It’s not right. You deserve better than this hellhole.”

The other maids murmured their agreement, their loyalty a small warmth in Mirabel’s cold world. But she shook her head again, rolling up her sleeves. “Please. For me. I can handle it.”

They backed off reluctantly, muttering curses under their breath as Mirabel measured flour, cocoa, and sugar with practiced hands. 

The work was mindless, giving her time to steady her breathing. By the time the biscuits were golden and fragrant from the oven, her hands ached but her expression remained calm.

She arranged them neatly on a silver tray and carried it back to the living room just as the sharp honk of a luxury car echoed from the driveway. The front door opened moments later.

Dante Virelli stepped inside.

The air in the room shifted instantly. He wore a tailored black suit that emphasized his broad shoulders and commanding height. His strong jaw was set, dark eyes scanning everything with cold precision. Power radiated from him like a storm cloud.

Isabella was on her feet in seconds, rushing toward him with a bright, flirtatious smile. “Mr. Virelli! What an honor. Welcome to our home.” She pressed close, touching his arm as if they were old friends. “I’ve been hoping you’d visit after that unfortunate incident at my gala.”

Dante’s expression remained unreadable as he allowed the family to usher him to the best seat on the sofa. Mirabel moved silently along the edges of the room, setting out the warm biscuits and fresh tea. Her heart raced, but she kept her head down.

Her mother noticed and waved a dismissive hand. “Mirabel, you may leave us now. This is a private discussion.”

Mirabel turned to go, relief flickering briefly.

“No.”

Dante’s voice cut through the room like ice. Everyone froze. His eyes locked onto Mirabel, dark and intense. “She stays. After all, she owes me. Remember?”

The mood turned unsettling. Tension thickened the air. Mirabel stood frozen by the side table, tray still in hand. Dante’s gaze swept over the room slowly, taking in the opulent furnishings, the nervous smiles of her parents, and Isabella’s barely concealed irritation.

Finally, he leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. “I came here with a purpose. I want to marry the daughter of this house.”

Mirabel’s heart leaped. A quiet rush of relief flooded her. Isabella. Of course. This was it,  the golden daughter would finally leave, married off to this terrifying man. Mirabel would lose her main tormentor. The thought brought an unexpected spark of freedom.

Her parents’ faces lit up with pure joy. Her father nearly dropped his cards. “Mr. Virelli, this is wonderful news! Isabella has always been the pride of our family. She would make an exceptional wife for a man of your stature.”

Isabella preened, stepping closer to Dante with a victorious glint in her eyes.

But Dante raised a hand, his expression unchanging. “No.”

The word dropped like a stone.

“I mean your REAL daughter.” His piercing gaze shifted directly to Mirabel, pinning her in place. A faint, dangerous smile touched his lips. “This one.”