Vendetta of the Hidden Heiress

Isabella's POV

I glanced at the grandfather clock in the hallway for what felt like the hundredth time tonight. Eight forty-five. He was late. Again.

"Grace," I called softly to the servant hovering near the kitchen door. "Did Mr. Sterling say anything about coming home tonight?"

Grace's eyes filled with that pitying look I'd grown to hate over the years. She shook her head gently. "I'm not sure if he'll be back, ma'am. He didn't mention anything to the staff."

Of course he didn't.

I forced a smile that didn't reach my eyes. "Thank you, Grace. That will be all."

She hesitated, as if wanting to say something comforting, but thought better of it and disappeared into the kitchen. I was alone again. Always alone in this massive house that was supposed to be our home.

I looked down at the dining table stretched out before me like an accusation. The crystal chandelier overhead cast dancing lights across the expensive china, the silverware polished to perfection, the array of dishes I'd spent hours planning with the chef. Herb-crusted lamb, roasted vegetables glazed with honey and thyme, truffle risotto, fresh bread still warm from the oven. A bottle of 1995 Château Margaux, Julien's favorite, sat breathing in its decanter.

Everything perfect, untouched, and cold.

I smoothed down the emerald silk dress I'd chosen so carefully. It hugged my figure in all the right places, the color bringing out the gold flecks in my brown eyes. I'd spent an hour on my hair, letting it fall in soft curls over my bare shoulders. My makeup was flawless, subtle but enhancing.

For what? For who?

Six years. We'd been married for six years. And for the last four, Julien had stopped looking at me the way a husband should look at his wife. I couldn't pinpoint the exact moment it happened. Maybe it was gradual, like watching a flower wilt petal by petal until one day you realize it's dead and you're not sure when it died.

Was I being hopeful, waiting here like this? Or was I just being a fool?

I knew the answer. I'd known it for a long time. But admitting it would mean accepting that I'd wasted the best years of my life loving a man who saw me as nothing more than an obligation. A duty he'd checked off his list to please his mother.

The sound of the front door opening made my heart jump. I stood up quickly, smoothing my dress again, checking my reflection in the silver coffee pot. Pathetic. That's what I was. Pathetic and desperate.

But then I heard something that made my blood run cold.

Laughter. Light, feminine laughter that wasn't mine.

Julien walked into the dining room, and my breath caught. Not because of him, though he looked as devastatingly handsome as ever in his tailored black suit, his dark hair perfectly styled, his sharp features set in that perpetually cold expression I'd come to know so well.

No. My breath caught because he wasn't alone.

A woman clung to his arm like she belonged there. Victoria Chen. I recognized her from the photos Julien kept in his study, the ones he thought I didn't know about. His first love. The woman he would have married if his mother hadn't deemed her "unsuitable" all those years ago.

She was beautiful in that effortless way some women are. Delicate features, perfectly styled black hair, designer clothes that screamed old money. And the way she looked at Julien, eyes sparkling with intimacy, it was like watching someone touch something that was mine but had never really belonged to me.

They didn't notice me at first. Too wrapped up in whatever private joke they were sharing. Each glance between them, each casual touch of her hand on his arm, each smile he gave her so freely, it all sliced through me like shards of broken glass embedding themselves deeper and deeper into my chest.

Finally, Julien's eyes landed on me. No warmth. No recognition of the effort I'd made. Just that blank, indifferent stare that had become his default expression whenever he looked at me.

"Isabella," he said flatly, as if my name was a chore to pronounce. "This is Victoria. She's my friend. She'll be staying here for a while."

Friend. The word was so absurd I almost laughed. You don't look at a friend the way he'd been looking at her. You don't bring a friend into the home you share with your wife and announce she'll be staying without even asking.

But I'd learned not to make scenes. Not to show emotion. That's what Margaret, his mother, had drilled into me over the years. "A Sterling wife maintains composure. A Sterling wife doesn't embarrass the family with emotional outbursts."

So I smiled. That practiced, empty smile that had become my mask. "Of course. Welcome to our home, Victoria."

Victoria's smile was saccharine sweet, but her eyes glinted with something darker. Victory, maybe. "Thank you, Isabella. Julien has told me so much about you."

I doubted that very much.

We sat down to dinner, me at one end of the long table, Julien at the other, and Victoria strategically placed beside him. The food I'd carefully planned might as well have been cardboard. I couldn't taste anything. Couldn't feel anything but the numbness spreading through my chest like ice water in my veins.

Years of neglect. Years of humiliation. Margaret's constant reminders that I wasn't good enough, that my "common" background was an embarrassment to the Sterling name. The relatives who spoke about me as if I wasn't in the room. The social events where Julien would leave me standing alone while he networked, never once introducing me as his wife with any hint of pride.

I'd endured it all. Swallowed it all. Believing that somehow, someday, if I was patient enough, good enough, quiet enough, he would love me again. Or maybe love me for the first time.

But watching Victoria lean closer to Julien, watching her pick up a piece of lamb with her fork and bring it to his lips, watching him accept it with a soft smile I hadn't seen in years, something inside me began to crack.

She was feeding him. At my table. In my home. Right in front of me.

And he let her.

My hand tightened around the stem of my wine glass until my knuckles turned white. The crystal was delicate, expensive, part of a set that had been a wedding gift. I felt it begin to give under the pressure of my grip, felt the slight give of the glass against my palm.

"Isabella." Julien's voice cut through the roaring in my ears. His eyes were narrowed in warning. "Don't make a scene. You'll only embarrass yourself."

Embarrass myself. As if I was the one behaving inappropriately. As if I was the one who'd brought another woman into our home and was allowing her to humiliate his wife.

Something snapped. Not just the wine glass stem, though I felt it break in my hand. Something deeper. Something that had been bending and bending under the weight of six years of lovelessness and neglect.

I looked at the broken stem in my hand, at the wine bleeding across the white tablecloth like a wound, and I started to laugh. It bubbled up from somewhere deep inside me, hysteria mixed with liberation, the sound foreign to my own ears.

Both Julien and Victoria stared at me like I'd lost my mind. Maybe I had.

I stood up slowly, the chair scraping against the floor. I picked up my wine glass, still half full of that expensive Bordeaux, and walked toward Julien with deliberate steps. My heels clicked against the marble floor like a countdown.

"Isabella, what are you…"

I threw the wine directly in his face.

The red liquid splashed across his perfect features, dripping down his sharp jaw, staining his crisp white shirt. Victoria gasped, jumping back as drops splattered on her dress.

Julien sat there, frozen in shock, wine dripping from his hair, his expression a mixture of disbelief and rage.

I leaned down, close enough that only he could hear the tremor in my voice, the years of pain compressed into three words:

"You pathetic fool.”