Chapter 3
The next morning, my eyes fluttered open to find Matthew standing over the bed, holding a breathtaking, custom-tailored evening gown.
"Isabelle, tonight is Vivian's big debut for the family, and it's a charity event," he said smoothly. "You're my wife. You need to be by my side."
His tone was soft, but the underlying command was absolute.
I pulled the duvet up to my chin and replied in a hoarse voice, "I feel sick. Can I please stay home?"
"No."
Matthew leaned over, his cool fingertips trailing down my jawline. "Vivian specifically asked for you. She wants to publicly thank you for being so welcoming.
"Besides, the press will be swarming the place. If you don't show, the media will start spinning divorce rumors. It'll tank the stock.
"And you want to make sure the trust keeps paying for the upkeep of your brother's grave, don't you?"
It was a threat, using my dead brother as leverage.
I pushed the covers off and let his team of stylists manipulate me like a lifeless doll.
Staring at the ghostly, hollow-eyed woman in the vanity mirror, I forced a smile that looked more like a grimace of pain.
Fine, I would go.
I wanted to see exactly what kind of masterpiece Vivian was. I needed to look into the eyes of the "sister" Matthew was willing to annihilate my entire bloodline for.
The gala took place at the most luxurious hotel in town.
It was a sea of glittering diamonds, expensive champagne, and cutthroat socialites.
The moment I stepped into the grand hall on Matthew's arm, the roaring chatter died instantly.
Hundreds of eyes locked onto me, practically dripping with disgust, mockery, and raw malice.
"God, is that Isabelle Shaw? Isn't she the one who got stripped by the mob?"
"Mr. Foster is too generous. Why is he still dragging that damaged goods around?"
"If I were her, I would have thrown myself off a bridge by now. How does she show her face in public?"
In the center of the room, Vivian Foster stood like a radiant angel in a pure white couture gown, soaking up the adoration of the elite.
When she spotted me, she smiled sweetly, gliding over with a flute of champagne in hand.
"Isabelle, you made it. I was so worried you were still holding a grudge," Vivian cooed, her voice echoing loudly enough for the nearest guests to hear. "Tonight's theme is 'Women's Resilience,' and honestly, after everything you've survived, you're the ultimate inspiration."
The moment the words left her mouth, the massive LED screens surrounding the ballroom flickered to life.
"And now," the emcee announced over the speakers, "a special presentation to honor Ms. Shaw's 'resilience.'"
Vivian's lips curved into a vicious smirk.
The video on the screens wasn't a tribute. It was the uncut footage of me on the clock tower six months ago. Without any clothes on, I was hit with a whip.
The quality was horrifyingly crisp.
The audio caught the whip cracking against my flesh and those gut-wrenching screams. My bare body was shaking uncontrollably in the cold.
The camera even zoomed in. It caught every detail of my face, distorted by crying, as I was coerced into signing that contract selling myself away.
I clamped my hands over my ears and let out a bloodcurdling scream.
It was my worst nightmare. No matter what I did, I couldn't forget it.
"Oh my god, that is gross."
"Who let this play? I'm going to be sick. My eyes."
"Look at her. The slut probably enjoyed it."
The crowd erupted into a chorus of insults.
A woman dripping in pearls marched right up to me and hurled her glass of red wine directly into my face.
"Isabelle Shaw, you shameless whore. How dare you show up here?" she shrieked. "Your brother was beaten to death trying to cover your naked ass, and here you are dripping in diamonds. How does it feel wearing clothes bought with his blood?"
The wine dripped down my face, looking exactly like the blood pooling around my brother's head the day he died.
I collapsed onto the marble floor, gasping for air like a dying fish.
"Oh no. Shut it off. There's been a mistake."
Vivian gasped dramatically. She rushed over, dropping to her knees to "help" me up. But as her back turned to the crowd, her perfectly manicured fingers dug into the soft flesh of my arm, pinching me so hard.
Her large, innocent eyes sparkled with pure glee and venom.
"I'm so sorry, Isabelle," she whispered. "I don't know who messed up the video file. Please forgive me.
"But honestly, they have a point. You're filthy now. Stop clinging to a throne that doesn't belong to you. The title of Mrs. Foster was never meant for a dirty whore like you."
Her voice was a toxic hiss meant only for me.
Matthew finally "snapped out of it." He charged the stage, yanking the AV cords from the wall.
He threw his tuxedo jacket over my trembling shoulders, playing the role of the outraged, protective husband to absolute perfection. "Who did this?" he roared at the silent room. "Find out who hacked the feed. I will ruin them."
He picked me up and strode out of the room while the whole crowd stared and gossiped.
"It's okay, Isabelle. I've got you. I'm taking you home," he murmured.
His chest felt as broad and safe as it always did.
But as he turned to carry me out, I caught the split-second look he shot Vivian over his shoulder.
There was no fury in his eyes. There was only the silent, satisfied nod of a mission accomplished.
Matthew was such a wonderful actor.
If I hadn't overheard him in the study, I would have died believing he was the only man on earth who loved me.