Divorce would have shattered Isabella Sinclair three years ago. But now? Now, it felt like shaking off dust from an old coat she should have discarded long ago.
Not that there wasn’t sorrow.
Of course there was.
Three years of pretending—of molding herself into someone she wasn’t—all for a fleeting love from her youth. She had been foolish enough to believe Ethan Blackwood might remember their shared past. But even if he did, what difference would it make now?
Ethan had already found his true love, and in the process, he had become someone she found utterly repulsive.
Now that it was all behind her, the divorce felt trivial, as inconsequential as choosing between coffee or tea in the morning. Instead of the heartbreak she had once feared, she felt free, as though shackles had been unlocked and cast aside.
Perhaps it was because those three years had been nothing but a relentless tide of disappointment. When she finally uncovered the truth, her heart had hardened, turning numb.
How had she not seen it before?
How had she not realized how vile Ethan truly was?
She tilted her head back, exhaling softly. “This is my new beginning.”
That night, Isabella slept deeply, dreamlessly, the weight of her past fading like mist at dawn.
The next morning, she arrived at the Blackwood family’s former estate, perched atop a hill with sweeping views that could steal the breath from any visitor.
Isabella expected to meet William Blackwood directly.
But instead, it was Eleanor Blackwood—Ethan’s mother—who greeted her.
“Isabella, you’re here,” Eleanor murmured, lifting a delicate porcelain cup to her lips.
Despite being in her fifties, Eleanor carried herself with the effortless grace of a woman untouched by time. She wore a fitted emerald cheongsam, pearl earrings glinting at her lobes, every movement poised and deliberate. When her gaze settled on Isabella, surprise flickered in her eyes.
Gone were the plain, oversized clothes Isabella had once worn, the stiff clip pinning her hair back. Today, she wore a soft lavender dress that flowed like water around her, lending her an air of quiet elegance—something that hadn’t been there before.
“Good morning, Mrs. Blackwood,” Isabella greeted, her tone polite but distant.
No matter how ugly things had become with Ethan, she still upheld the courtesy ingrained in her.
“None of that formality, dear. Come, sit with me,” Eleanor said warmly, rising to take Isabella’s hand.
Yet beneath the warmth, she noticed the change in Isabella’s demeanor.
Her expression was serene, her manner composed. But there was something else now—a cold detachment, a stark contrast to the docile girl Eleanor had once known.
“Call me Eleanor, as you always did,” she sighed, a trace of weariness in her voice. “Ethan’s loss. I can only imagine how difficult these years have been for you.”
Isabella responded with a polite smile, allowing herself to be guided to the couch, though her posture remained unyielding.
“I wouldn’t think it appropriate,” she replied, her voice calm but firm. “It’s just a title, after all. No need to overthink it, Mrs. Blackwood.”
Her words were impeccably tactful—yet they left no room for negotiation.
Eleanor’s brow lifted slightly, frustration flickering before she masked it with a practiced, maternal smile.
“I’ve made my displeasure with Ethan quite clear. Believe me, I gave him an earful last night. If his grandfather weren’t so ill, he would have dragged the entire family into this.”
Eleanor was accustomed to handling situations with charm and finesse, but she hadn’t anticipated this sharper edge from Isabella.
By simply clinging to formality, Isabella had erected an invisible wall between them—subtle, but unmistakable.
She wasn’t cruel, but the message was clear.
Eleanor sighed dramatically, dabbing at her eyes with a delicate finger as if brushing away tears.
“You’ve had such a difficult life, darling. No family to lean on, and now this divorce. How will you manage alone?”
She slid an enameled gold bracelet from her wrist.
“My son may have made mistakes—ones I can’t undo—but I’ve always considered you family. If you’ll allow it, I’d like to continue treating you as such. That way, we preserve the bond we’ve built. You’ve always been like a daughter to me.”
She tried to press the bracelet into Isabella’s hand, but Isabella didn’t yield, gently pushing it back.
“Thank you for the kindness, Mrs. Blackwood,” she said softly, “but I’ll be fine on my own.”
Isabella knew better than to underestimate any woman in this house.
And Eleanor, with her decades of navigating high society’s intricate webs, was a master of saying one thing while meaning another. Her words dripped with honeyed warmth, yet beneath them lay careful calculation—each syllable laced with unspoken intent.
The message was clear: William’s health is failing. You’re an orphan with no powerful backing. Don’t make waves.
Accepting the bracelet would mean maintaining ties to the Blackwoods—keeping her compliant, keeping her quiet.
Beneath the veneer of kindness was a warning.
Eleanor’s methods were leagues beyond Sophia Kensington’s crude attempts.
Her voice remained smooth as she said, “Don’t be shy. If I say you’re still family, Ethan has no say in the matter.”
