Chapter 5: The Past Resurfaces

The house was abnormally quiet that evening. Isabella walked the halls, disturbed, her thoughts oscillating between Alexander's words and the weight of his secrets. She knew he was hiding something from her. Something more important than business, more important than revenge.

Her suspicion only grew when the butler delivered to her an envelope with Alexander's name written in delicate, feminine letters. Isabella's fingers hurt to rip it open, yet she struggled not to turn it over intact when Alexander came.

One glance at the handwriting, and for a moment his mask wavered. His face hardened, his jaw clenched, and his eyes flashed with something that seemed almost pain.

"Who is it from?" Isabella whispered.

Alexander stuck the envelope in his pocket and did not say anything. "No one you need to worry about."

But Isabella saw the truth in his eyes: it was someone. Someone important. Someone who could breach the steel walls he had built.

That night, Isabella couldn't sleep. The image of the envelope haunted her mind. She tightened her robe around herself and tiptoed downstairs.

The door to the study was open a crack, golden light pouring out into the darkened hall. She looked in.

Alexander was at his desk, the letter spread before him. He was white-faced, his eyes uninterpretable, but his hold on the paper was so tight it strained against rips.

A woman's name sprang off the page.

Cassandra.

"Still tormenting you, Alexander?" Isabella's voice broke in before she could censor herself.

He spun violently, his eyes glinting like a man caught in some kind of illicit activity. "You shouldn't be here."

Her chin rose defiantly. "Maybe not. But I'm your wife. And I have a right to know about Cassandra."

His mouth curled into a wry smile, without even a flicker of humor. "You think you can stomach the truth, Isabella. But trust me—when it comes to Cassandra, ignorance is bliss."

Something in his voice made a shiver run down her spine. It wasn't anger. It was pain. Old, buried, festering pain.

"Was she the one who destroyed you?" Isabella asked quietly.

There was silence between them, heavy with unspoken things. His hands trembled as he folded the letter, and his voice was low and rough.

"She wasn't just the one who destroyed me," he said. "She's the reason for everything."

Isabella's heart pounded. Cassandra. Whoever she was, she wasn't merely a figure in Alexander's past she was the specter haunting his present life, the darkness in their marriage, the hurt that no kiss could ever heal.

And Isabella knew, at her very center, that Cassandra's return would flip everything over.

It was raining heavily that morning, drumming against the glass walls of the mansion as a warning. Isabella sat with her back to the window, a book lying in her lap but not opened, her thoughts tangled around one name: Cassandra.

When the knock on the door arrived, she hadn't considered it would be hers.

The butler's voice down the hall. "Sir, a guest has arrived."

Alexander appeared out of nowhere, his step resolute, his expression unyielding. Isabella trailed behind him, curiosity propelling her forward despite the burden in her chest.

And then she saw her.

Cassandra.

She was the reverse of Isabella smooth, elegant, a woman hewn from secrets and shadows. She was a beauty that was sharp, deadly, one that was full of allure and destruction. When she saw Alexander, her eyes softened, as if time had not escaped at all.

"Alexander," Cassandra drawled, her voice honey and silk.

His breathing caught just perceptibly for Isabella's eyes.

"Cassandra," he replied, his voice curt, defensive.

The woman's gaze flashed briefly to Isabella, and a small, understanding smile was curled on her lips. "So this is the wife."

The words dripped with sarcasm, but her voice was polite. Isabella stung from the rebuff, but she held her chin high.

"Yes," Alexander declared. "This is Isabella. My wife."

Something flickered across Cassandra's face pain? jealousy? humor? but it was gone. "I didn't come to cause trouble," she asserted, but the glint in her eye told a different story. "I came to talk. With you. Alone."

Isabella's heart twisted. Alone. That one word sliced into her reserve.

But before she could protest, Alexander spun to face her, his jaw locked. "Isabella, give us a moment.".

The demand smoldered like treason. But she forced herself to nod, moving backward slowly, even as the smell of Cassandra's perfume bite and aphrodisiac hung in the air.

Behind closed doors, in the study, Cassandra dropped the facade. "So it's true. You married her. To punish me?"

Alexander's fists were at his sides. "Don't flatter yourself. Not everything I do is about you."

Her laughter was acrid. "You still hate me enough to lie.".

He turned away, his heaving chest. "I don't hate you, Cassandra. Hate would mean that I still care. What you did—what you destroyed left no room for anything."

Her eyes softened, fleetingly. "Then why are you shaking at the moment?"

Locked outside her door, Isabella's heart thrashed. She hadn't wanted to listen, but the words found her too clearly. Each word cut deeper than the previous one.

Alexander wasn't just fighting his history. He was still tied to it.

And Cassandra wasn't here to cover up old wounds. She was here to open them up again.