Chapter 2

I stumbled back to my cottage, each step sending fresh waves of pain across my lacerated back. The resort staff had offered to call a doctor, but I'd declined. Three years of similar 'accidents' had taught me how to tend my own wounds.

The cottage was small—the least desirable accommodation at The Cliffside—but at least I was alone. I peeled off my ruined dress, wincing as dried blood pulled at my skin. In the bathroom mirror, I surveyed the damage: dozens of crystal shards had left a constellation of cuts across my shoulders and upper back. None deep enough to require stitches, but together they formed a map of yet another sacrifice.

As I carefully extracted the remaining glass fragments, a knock at the door interrupted my grim task.

"Delivery for Mrs. Whitmore," called a cheerful voice.

I wrapped myself in a robe and opened the door to find a resort employee holding an enormous fruit basket adorned with an extravagant white bow.

"With compliments from Miss Hayes," he announced, loud enough that anyone passing by would hear. "She hopes you feel better soon."

I accepted the basket with murmured thanks, knowing exactly what it was: not kindness, but a performance. Charlotte ensuring witnesses would note her generosity toward poor, clumsy Isabella.

After closing the door, I found the small card nestled among exotic fruits: *So unfortunate about your little accident. Perhaps try to be less dramatic tomorrow? -C*

I dropped the card into the trash and returned to my wounds.

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The next evening, I slipped into the resort's acclaimed seafood pavilion, taking my assigned seat at the Whitmore family table. Sebastian sat across from me, Charlotte pressed close to his side, her hand possessively on his arm. Neither acknowledged my arrival.

"The chef has prepared a special lobster bisque for Mr. Whitmore," announced the waiter, presenting an ornate bowl with a flourish.

As the steaming soup was placed before Sebastian, something shifted in the air—that familiar prickle of warning crawling across my skin. I inhaled deeply, my senses heightened by years of anticipating danger. Beneath the rich aroma of butter and seafood lurked something metallic, something wrong.

Without hesitation, I reached across the table and seized the bowl.

"Isabella, what are you—" Sebastian began, but I had already raised the bowl to my lips.

I drained the bisque in one continuous gulp, ignoring the burn as it scorched down my throat. Sebastian's face darkened with anger, but I held his gaze steadily.

Three minutes. That's how long I had before my body recognized the poison.

It began with a subtle tremor in my hands, then a cold sweat breaking across my forehead. My vision blurred as nausea crashed through me in violent waves.

"Excuse me," I managed to whisper, but my legs gave way as I tried to stand.

"For God's sake," Sebastian hissed, his voice laced with cold amusement rather than concern. "Are you drunk?"

I clutched the edge of the table, fighting to remain upright as my stomach convulsed. Around us, conversations halted as diners turned to stare.

"So embarrassing," Charlotte whispered loudly enough for nearby tables to hear. "She's always been unstable."

I stumbled toward the exit, barely making it to the garden before violent retching overtook me. Doubled over beside a decorative fountain, I purged the poison from my system, each heave feeling like it might tear me apart.

Cool night air eventually cleared my head enough to register Sebastian standing several feet away, his expression a mixture of disgust and irritation.

"Are you this desperate to ruin our vacation?" he asked, arms crossed over his chest.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. "The bisque was spoiled," I managed.

"It was a chef's special, Isabella. A rare delicacy he prepared specifically for me." His tone suggested I'd stolen something precious rather than saved his life. "But of course, you had to make a scene."

Behind him, Charlotte appeared, her face a perfect mask of concern. "Darling, perhaps we should call her a car. She's clearly unwell." The subtle emphasis on the last word carried its real meaning: unstable, attention-seeking, broken.

As they turned away, arm in arm, Sebastian's parting words drifted back to me: "Pull yourself together before breakfast. I won't tolerate another spectacle."

I sank onto a stone bench, waiting for the poison to finish its course through my system, wondering how many more times I could die a little to keep him alive.