Chapter 2

Nora’s POV

The alarm went off at five in the morning, my body felt as though it were anchored to the bed. Every joint throbbed with a dull ache that had slowly become my constant companion over the past few months.

I sat up on the edge of the bed, resting my head in my hands for a long moment, waiting for the dizziness to pass. Beside me, the sheets were flat and untouched. Adrian hadn’t come to bed last night; he had stayed down in the study, or perhaps in the guest room where Isla was staying. I didn't ask. In our marriage, asking questions had long since become an unpardonable offense.

I forced myself up, put on my robe, and walked down the quiet, dimly lit corridor to the kitchen. Cooking was the only routine I had left. For eight years, I had prepared every breakfast and ensured that the Blackwell household was spotless. It was a habit born of a desperate hope that if I made myself useful enough, if I was dutiful enough, Adrian might one day look at me with something resembling warmth.

The kitchen was cold and shadowy. I turned on the lights, set a large pot of broth onto the stove, and turned the flame up high. The doctors had told me my organs were failing, that my body was breaking down from the inside, but standing in front of the warm stove, watching the steam rise into the cool morning air, felt almost grounding.

I was chopping vegetables when the soft click of slippered feet echoed in the kitchen.

"Good morning, Nora."

I turned to see Isla standing in the doorway. She wore a silk robe that draped elegantly around her frame, her hair artfully messy, looking beautiful even at six in the morning. She gave me a sweet smile that never reached her eyes.

"Isla," I said, my voice quiet. "You're up early." 

"I thought I’d come down and help," she said, stepping into the kitchen and gliding toward the stove with a familiarity that made my stomach twist. "Adrian and Aunt Helena were saying yesterday how tired you’ve been looking. I figured I should start taking over some of the household duties anyway, given the... new arrangements."

"It's fine," I said quickly, reaching out to block her path gently. "I can handle breakfast. You don't need to do anything."

"Nora, don't be like that," Isla said, her tone dripping with gentle sweetness as she brushed past my hand. "You really shouldn't be so defensive. I'm just trying to be a good friend to the family."

"Isla, please—" I began, but she was already reaching over the stove.

The pot of stew was boiling, with white steam billowing from beneath the iron lid. The metal handles were glowing with heat. "Isla, don't touch that! It's boiling!" I yelled, reaching forward to grab a pair of heat-resistant mitts from the counter.

She didn't listen. With a deliberate, sudden motion, Isla reached out her bare hands and grabbed the hot handles of the pot. The moment her skin touched the iron, she let out a piercing scream. "Ahhhhh!"

Instead of stepping back, she yanked the pot off the burner and deliberately twisted her hands, dropping the entire cauldron onto the floor between us.

The pot struck the ground with a deafening clang. Scalding broth, hot vegetables, and boiling oil spread across the floor like a tidal wave. Before I could even register what was happening, half of the soup spilled over my left foot, leg, and forearm.

I collapsed onto my knees directly into the pool of scalding liquid, and a choked scream tore from my throat as the skin on my arm and leg instantly blistered under the intense heat. Pain flooded my vision until the kitchen swam in a blur.

Footsteps thundered down the hall.

"Isla! What happened?!"

Adrian burst into the kitchen, his white shirt half-unbuttoned, his face pale with panic. Right behind him was his mother, Helena, clutching her robe around her chest, with my daughter, Natalia, rubbing her sleepy eyes near the doorway. Isla was crumpled on the floor near the island, cradling her red, blistered palms to her chest, sobbing uncontrollably.

"Adrian! Oh god, Adrian!" Isla sobbed, casting her wide, tear-filled eyes up at him as he rushed straight to her side, ignoring the soup on the floor.

"Isla! What happened? Are you hurt?" Adrian cried, his voice laced with a raw anxiety I hadn't heard in eight years. He dropped to his knees beside her, carefully lifting her hands.

"I... I was only trying to help Nora!" Isla whimpered, her body trembling against Adrian's chest. "I offered to take the soup off the stove so she wouldn't strain herself... but... but she told me I didn't belong in her kitchen! She told me to pick up the pot with my bare hands to prove I was useful, and when I hesitated, she... she shoved me!"

The accusation hung in the air, grotesque and unbelievable.

"That's not true!" I gasped from the floor, my voice cracking under the agonizing pain radiating through my left arm and leg. "Adrian... she grabbed it... I tried to stop her—"

"Shut up!"

A sharp, stinging blow cracked across my left cheek. The force of the slap threw my head back, my hand flying to my burning face. Helena stood over me, her chest heaving, her eyes burning with anger.

"You vile, wicked woman!" Helena spat, her voice shaking with rage as she looked down at me with disgust. "How dare you! Isla came into this house out of the goodness of her heart to help us, to give this family an heir, and you try to disfigure her out of jealousy?! You are a monster, Nora!"

"Helena... please, listen to me..." Tears finally spilled over my face. "I didn't... I didn't do it..."

I looked toward Adrian, silently pleading for him to look at me, to see the blisters rising on my soaked leg and the agony in my eyes. Adrian didn't even look at my face. His eyes were cold and utterly devoid of human warmth as he stared down at me while holding Isla in his arms.

"Enough, Nora," Adrian said, his voice dropping into a deadly tone. "I don't want to hear another word out of your mouth."

"Adrian..."

"I said enough!" he snapped. He turned away from me, carefully taking Isla into his arms as if she were made of glass. She buried her face into the crook of his neck, letting out soft, pitiful whimpers while her hands rested against his chest.

"Jessica, get the ice pack from the freezer," Adrian ordered the maid standing at the door as he carried Isla out of the kitchen. When he reached the doorway, he raised his voice and shouted, ‘James! Get the car ready right now!"

"Daddy, is aunty Isla going to be okay?" Natalia’s small voice drifted back from the hallway, laced with genuine fear and worry.

"She'll be okay, sweetie. Daddy's taking care of her," Adrian replied.

Slam.

The front door shut with a heavy, final thud that echoed through the empty house. Seconds later, the roar of an engine started up as the car sped away into the morning light.

Silence descended upon the kitchen.

I remained on the cold, broth-stained floor, curled into a tiny ball, clutching my left arm. The pain in my skin was unbearable, but the hollow, gaping void inside my chest hurt so much worse. They had walked out. They had taken Isla to the hospital, without checking if I was alive.

"Mrs. Blackwell?"