Chapter 2 Awakening

Isabella‘s POV

I shook my head, pushing aside my own shock. My anger rose like a wave. “I’m fine,” I muttered. But my voice cracked. I realized I wasn’t fine at all. I was furious, humiliated, and sick of feeling powerless.

William stood there, glaring at me in his tarnished armor, refusing to show even a trace of remorse. My blood pounded. I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms. “GET OUT,” I finally screamed, my throat raw. “GET OUT,RIGHT NOW!”

He gave me this look—half surprised, half offended—then his shock vanished, replaced by that arrogant scowl of his. He marched off, the echo of his armor clanking down the corridor until it faded to nothing. I collapsed onto the floor, letting Emma embrace me. My tears spilled out despite my best efforts to keep it together.

Emma sobbed softly against my shoulder. “He’s gone, my lady… please, just breathe…”

I stroked her hair, trying to calm both of us down. “It’s going to be okay,” I whispered. “We’ll figure something out.”

But even as I said those words, I felt hollow. The truth was, I couldn’t stay here. That slap was just another reminder that William Beauchamp never really saw me as his wife. He saw me as some accessory, no more valuable than a piece of old furniture. And now, with Beatrice Blackwood stepping into the picture, he had even less reason to pretend. I swallowed back more tears and gently pushed myself to my feet.

“Emma,” I said. “Go get my dowry list from that wooden chest in the corner. The one I’ve kept locked ever since I moved in. Bring all of it.”

She wiped her eyes and blinked at me. “Your dowry? But… but my lady—”

I forced a cold smile. “Don’t call him ‘my lord’ again. I never shared a real wedding night with him, so he’s no husband of mine. As for the dowry, I need to make sure it’s still here. I’m not about to stay in a home where I’m disrespected and treated like an unwanted burden.”

Emma bit her lower lip, then nodded, scurrying off to fetch the list. My eyes fell shut as I leaned back against the wall, my heart pounding. This wasn’t the life my mother wanted for me. She had always dreamed I’d find a plain husband and live a peaceful existence. I thought of her fragile hands, how she went blind from crying when my father and brothers never returned from that brutal war in the south.

Father was a duke who loved only one woman—my mother—and they had six children together, five sons and me. My brothers followed him into battle, but none of them came back. In her heartbreak, she clung to me, saying she just wanted me to marry, to have children, to find some tiny flicker of happiness in a dark world.

So I tried. I studied all those domestic skills—household management, the manners a noblewoman should have—because I wanted her to smile again. I wanted to believe there was some hope in continuing the Montfort line. But everything fell apart six months ago, when an assassination squad broke into my family’s mansion, murdering everyone. They spared not a single child or servant. My baby nephew, only three years old, was found with more knife wounds than I could bear to count. Soldiers arrived too late, capturing only a handful of the culprits, who turned out to be foreign spies.

By the time I reached the estate, the floors and walls were drenched in blood. My mother and grandmother lay in pieces so mutilated I could hardly identify them. Everyone I’d known, everyone I’d loved, gone. Just like that.

With William’s new “ideal partner” riding in—Beatrice Blackwood, that famed knight, so beloved by the king—nobody really needed me anymore. I was a nuisance at best, an inconvenience they barely tolerated.

Emma returned, wooden chest in her arms. “I have it,” she whispered. “All your account books, the list of jewels, everything.”

I look down at the ornate lockbox on my desk—the one holding the deeds to my family’s lands, jewels, and enough gold to keep me safe from anyone who dares to push me around. I gently run my fingers over its carved surface. Mother prepared this treasure for me when I married into William Beauchamp’s family. She wanted me to have the power to protect myself. But it feels so bittersweet—like a reminder of what’s gone and what’s changed.

Emma, my loyal maid, hovers by the window. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, looking anxious. “My lady,” she says, her voice trembling, “your mother left you all this, but you’ve already spent over forty gold pounds just covering everyone else’s costs this year. How can we keep going like this?”

I inhale slowly, forcing myself not to let tears spill. “I know,” I reply, my voice sounding sharper than I intend. “She did it all so I could stand tall in this house. But look at where we are now. They feed off my resources, and I’m left bleeding coin by the day.”

Emma’s eyes dart toward the door, as if someone might be listening. “Then maybe we should leave… but where to, my lady? Your family’s mansion is ruined. The memory of that massacre still haunts us all.”

I take a shaky breath and straighten my back. “I don’t care where we go. Anywhere is better than suffocating here while William parades his new bride around, acting like I’m just some leftover. If I stay and watch them hold hands and laugh, I’ll lose my mind.”

Emma starts to speak but hesitates. “They’d be thrilled if you left—if you just walked out. They want that, don’t they?”

“Yes,” I admit. “They do. But I have a better plan.”

Emma stares at me wide-eyed, so I keep going, voice lowering to a whisper. “If the king won’t revoke that royal order granting William’s marriage to Beatrice Blackwood, then I’ll go before the entire court. I’ll beg, threaten—whatever it takes—to get an official annulment. I’m not leaving like a dog kicked out of the house. I want a proper release of my vows. If they refuse, I’ll make a scene so big they won’t know what hit them.”

Emma grasps my wrist. “My lady, that’s so dangerous! People might think you’re losing your senses!”

I cup her trembling hands in mine. “I won’t kill myself in front of the throne. I’m not that foolish. But I’ll make them see I’m serious.”

Right then, there was a knock at the door. One of Margaret Beauchamp’s maids called out, “My lady Isabella, Lady Margaret requires your presence.”

Emma sighed. “It must be about Lady Beatrice again. She’s probably hoping you’ll give in.”

I grabbed a shawl and draped it over my shoulders. “Well, let’s not keep her waiting.”