Chapter 3

I woke on the hardwood floor, my throat burning and my vision blurry. The cacophony of female voices and pulsing music crashed over me like waves. Victoria's bachelorette party was in full swing, and I was nothing more than debris in their path.

With trembling hands, I pushed myself up against the wall. My chest felt like it was being crushed in a vise. Thor's presence in the house had triggered a severe allergic reaction, and my emergency inhaler had only partially relieved the symptoms. I needed to get my most precious possessions out before they were destroyed—before I was destroyed.

I staggered to my feet and made my way to the wine cellar, clinging to the wall for support. My mother's collection—the bottles we'd carefully selected together before her final deployment, each one tied to a memory, a promise of celebrations we'd never share—was all I had left of her. I couldn't leave them behind.

The sound of breaking glass echoed from the kitchen as I carefully wrapped the first bottle in a dish towel. My fingers moved mechanically, muscle memory from the countless times Mom and I had packed and unpacked these treasures as we moved from base to base.

"This Bordeaux is from the year I was born," she'd told me once, holding up a dusty bottle to the light. "We'll open it on your wedding day."

A wedding day that had come and gone without her. A marriage that had dissolved like morning mist.

I placed the wrapped bottle in a small box and reached for another when my lungs seized. The air felt thick, impossible to draw in. Black spots danced at the edges of my vision as I slumped against the cellar wall, sliding down until I hit the floor.

From my position in the hallway, I could see into the living room where Victoria held court. She was perched on my couch—the one Marcus had complained was too plain—surrounded by her friends, all of them gleaming with expensive jewelry and malice.

"Isabella?" One of them noticed me, her voice dripping with false concern. "Oh my God, are you okay?"

Victoria turned, her gaze sliding over me with clinical detachment. She made no move to help, instead raising her champagne flute higher.

"She's fine," she said dismissively. "Probably just had too much to drink. Sad, really."

I hadn't had a drop. They all knew it.

I struggled to my feet again, determined to save what I could. My mother's voice seemed to echo in my head: *Stand up, Isabella. No matter how many times they knock you down.*

The party had migrated toward the wine cellar. I froze, clutching my small box of wrapped bottles. Chloe Vance stood at the center of the group, her platinum hair gleaming under the recessed lights I'd installed myself.

"Ladies," she announced, lifting a bottle from my mother's collection, "a toast to the *real* bride!"

The women cheered, raising their glasses to Victoria, who preened under their adoration.

"To Victoria and Marcus," Chloe continued, her eyes finding mine across the room, making sure I was watching. "May your marriage be as exquisite as this..." she squinted at the label, "...1982 Château Margaux."

My heart stopped. That bottle—my mother had saved it for decades. "Please," I whispered, but my voice was lost in their laughter.

With theatrical flair, Chloe raised the bottle high, then brought it crashing down onto the marble countertop. Dark red liquid splashed across the white surface like blood, fragments of glass scattering across the floor.

"Oops," she giggled, not a trace of remorse in her eyes.

The women shrieked with laughter as if this destruction was the height of entertainment. Victoria's eyes met mine, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

"More!" someone shouted, and suddenly they were pulling bottles from the racks, examining labels before discarding them.

Chloe grabbed a corkscrew from the drawer and approached the wooden cases where the most valuable bottles were stored. With a vicious kick, she drove the metal point through the delicate wood, splintering the case my mother had hand-carved.

"Stop," I tried to scream, but it came out as a wheeze. No one even looked my way.

Bottle after bottle shattered. Memories spilled across my kitchen floor, soaking into the grout lines, impossible to recover. My mother's legacy, the only physical connection I had left to her, destroyed for sport by women who had everything and still wanted more.

I slid down the wall again, clutching the small box of rescued bottles to my chest, my tears mixing with the wine that had splashed onto my clothes. In that moment, I understood with perfect clarity that there was nothing—absolutely nothing—these people wouldn't take from me.

And then, cutting through the chaos of destruction and my own despair, came the unmistakable sound of my front door being broken down.