Chapter 3: How did you get this?

Isabella sat in the backseat, her luggage beside her, staring at her reflection on the glass as the city outside blurred past the tinted windows. 

  The driver barely spoke, only glanced at her through the rearview mirror when he stopped in front of the hotel entrance — a towering structure of glass and quiet opulence.

  She didn’t hesitate. She needed distance. She needed silence that didn’t echo with laughter that wasn’t hers.

  “Welcome to The Clarendon,” the concierge greeted her as she stepped into the marble lobby, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor. Crystal chandeliers shimmered overhead, reflecting off gold-trimmed columns and velvet lounges. It smelled faintly of white lilies and expensive whiskey, an indulgent sort of peace she hadn’t felt in years.

  She checked in under her adopted name, Isabella Reeves. A private card. Her safety net — the one account untouched by the Hamiltons.

  “Your suite is on the twenty-first floor, ma’am,” the receptionist said with a practiced smile. “Would you like us to send up champagne or anything special?”

  She hesitated, then shook her head. “Just the key, please.”

  Moments later, the elevator doors slid open and right on the mirrored walls was her reflection staring back at her. A pale young woman with hollow eyes, her composure fraying at the edges.

  When the doors opened, soft jazz drifted faintly through the corridor. She walked down the plush carpet to her suite, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.

  It was beautiful, perhaps too beautiful. Warm light spilled across an expanse of cream and gold with floor-to-ceiling windows framing the skyline.

  And for the first time all day, Isabella let her shoulders drop.

  She wheeled her suitcase to the corner and made her way toward the bathroom. The marble tiles were cool beneath her feet as she turned on the shower, letting the water roar to life. Steam filled the space almost instantly, blurring the mirror, drowning everything in a foggy haze.

  Then, she stepped under the spray.

  The heat stung her skin, washing away the faint trace of Julien’s cologne that clung to her clothes, the remnants of humiliation, the spit she hadn’t wiped from her cheek.

  Her fingers pressed against the tiles as she leaned forward, her breath shuddering. She didn’t cry, not yet at least. But the ache inside her chest was unbearable.

  Some minutes passed and when she finally turned off the water, the mirror was clouded with steam. She reached out, wiped a hand across it and stopped halfway.

  Her skin was flushed, her hair clinging to her neck, her eyes red-rimmed but fierce. As she stared a tear slipped down her cheek. Then another.

  She was broken, yes. But she was alive.

  She caught her reflection’s gaze and whispered, almost mockingly, “Pathetic.”

  And then louder, as if daring the room to hear her “Fuck it.”

  Her voice cracked, but there was a strange freedom in it. “Fuck everything.”

  The next words came like a promise, bitter and trembling. “I won’t spend the night sulking over you, Julien.”

  She turned away from the mirror and reached for the robe hanging by the door.

  Few hours later, Isabella stood before the full-length mirror in the suite, dressed in a black satin slip dress that shimmered gracefully. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders, still damp, curling slightly at the ends. A touch of makeup, nothing too much since she wasn't a fan of it. Just red lips to cover the pale exhaustion.

  When she looked at herself this time, she didn’t see a wife. She saw a woman clawing her way back to herself.

  She grabbed her clutch and walked out.

  ***

  The elevator doors opened to a low hum of conversation and music. The room glowed amber under soft pendant lights, all leather seats and glass surfaces reflecting the city lights through the windows.

  The VIP bar was located on the top floor — a sanctuary for the city’s elite.

  A jazz band played near the corner, the singer’s voice husky and low, threading through the murmured laughter and the clink of crystal glasses.

  Isabella walked to the counter, her heels soundless against the polished floor. The bartender, a black young man in his late twenties looked up, startled for a second, not because she was familiar, but because she looked like a vision carved from heartbreak and poise.

  “What can I get you, Ma'am?” he asked.

  She smiled faintly. “Something strong.”

  He nodded, reached for a bottle of amber liquor, and poured. “Whiskey neat?”

  She didn’t blink. “Make it double.”

  The first sip burned her throat. The second warmed her chest. By the third, she felt the room blur softly around the edges, the noise, the light, the music, all of it blending into a quiet hum that numbed the ache inside her.

  She didn’t stop at three, however.

  The bartender said something about slowing down. She waved him off.

  Her mind buzzed, her body light. And then, as she turned slightly, she saw him.

  Sitting in the farthest corner of the bar. Alone.

  He was dressed in black, his shirt sleeves rolled neatly, one hand wrapped around a glass of something dark. His face was striking, too sharp and calm, the kind of beauty that drew the eye without permission.

  He wasn’t looking at anyone. Just sitting there, silent, detached, as though the noise of the world didn’t touch him.

  And something in her, maybe the whiskey, maybe the loneliness, pulled her toward him.

  She slid off the stool, unsteady but graceful, and made her way across the room.

  He didn’t notice her at first. Or maybe he did, and simply didn’t care.

  She stopped beside his table, resting a hand on its edge. “Mind if I sit here?”

  He didn’t answer. His gaze stayed fixed on the skyline beyond the glass.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” she murmured, lowering herself into the seat opposite him.

  Still nothing.

  She leaned forward slightly, her eyes half-lidded, her voice a whisper over the music. “You always this friendly?”

  He finally looked at her, slow and deliberate. His eyes were cold and unreadable. Then calmly he spoke.

  “You’re drunk,” he said flatly.

  She smiled faintly, tilting her head. “Maybe. But I’m also... lonely.”

  “Find someone else,” he said, his voice low and almost detached.

  “Don’t want someone else,” she murmured. “Want you.”

  He set his glass down, finally meeting her eyes fully. There was something dangerous in the way he looked at her. It wasn't lust or pity, but something sharper.

  “You don’t even know me,” he said.

  “Do I need to?” she asked softly, her words slurring just a little. “You’re here. I’m here. That’s enough.”

  He exhaled slowly, his patience thinning. “Go back to your table.”

  She didn’t move. Instead, she reached for his hand, her fingers brushing his wrist as she did.

  He caught her almost instantly. His grip was firm but soft.

  “Don’t,” he said. His voice was low like he was issuing a warning.

  But then he stopped.

  His eyes dropped to her wrist. To the faint shape was visible just below her wrist. A small mark fang-like mark.

  And for a heartbeat, he didn’t breathe.

  His thumb brushed against it, tracing the outline. “How did you get this?” he asked, his tone suddenly sharp, unfamiliar.

  She blinked, her head spinning. “What?”

  “This mark.” His voice was quieter now, intense. “How did you get it?”

  Her lips curved, lazy and mischievous in her drunken haze. “What, you like it?”

  Her voice dropped to a teasing whisper. “Wanna kiss it?”

  And immediately, something flickered in his eyes. 

  He shook her slightly, trying to pull her back to focus. “Listen to me,” he said. “How did you—”

  But she was already slipping under.

  Her eyelids fluttered. The room spun. “What?” she murmured weakly, half-asleep now.

  “I said,” he repeated, his voice a sharp whisper, “how did you get this?”

  No answer. Her head lolled slightly, and before he could stop her, she was out cold. The exhaustion and alcohol claiming her completely.

  He cursed under his breath, catching her before she could fall.

  For a long moment, he just held her, studying her face — the same delicate features, the mark on her wrist still visible in the bar light.

  Then, almost mechanically, he reached for his cuff and unbuttoned his left sleeve.

  He pulled it back, revealing his own wrist.

  There, faint but unmistakable, was the same mark, shaped like a fang, just slightly lower than hers.