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CHAPTER 7
Isabella
I wake up, relieved to find Jackson's side of the bed empty. My heart had pounded like a drum last night when he stumbled into the room with the heavy scent of dirt and sweat coating him. I was prepared, my fingers clutching the cool blade hidden under my pillow, ready to strike at the slightest provocation.
Fortunately, he simply collapsed onto the bed with his snores filling the room moments later. Whatever task his brother had set for him must have been exhausting. I let out a sigh as the tension in my muscles ease. For now, it seems I’m safe.
I reach for my phone to check the time, and I see a text from Jackson, which is an unexpected sight. He's not one to call or text, which makes the sudden message that much more unusual. His words are curt and straight to the point.
Jackass: We’re having a party tonight. Fix your fucking face and be presentable.
I sit the phone back down and let out a soft sigh as his words echo in my mind. "Asshole," I mumble under my breath, the bitterness lacing my words proof of the resentment simmering beneath the surface.
The morning light peeks through the narrow slit in the curtains, and the soft rays illuminate the room. I push myself up and swing my legs over the edge of the bed, wincing as my feet touch the cold floor. Each step toward the bathroom feels like a Herculean effort, but I continue, driven by the necessity of maintaining appearances.
In front of the mirror, I take in my reflection. My skin is pale, and the dark circles under my eyes are glaringly obvious. My fingers trace the contours of a bruise on my cheek, a bitter reminder of Jackson's temper. I reach for the concealer and skillfully dab it over the discolored skin. A bit of foundation and some blush, and the damage is masked, hidden beneath layers of makeup.
Next comes the outfit. I rummage through the closet and pull out a simple dress. The fabric is soft against my skin, and the fit is perfect. A matching pair of shoes and a touch of perfume complete the ensemble. Glancing in the mirror, I hardly recognize the woman staring back at me. She looks put together and confident, the complete opposite of the storm inside me.
Stepping out of the room, I slowly make my way downstairs to see the house buzzing with activity. Decorators rush from room to room, their arms loaded with streamers and decorations. Their faces are flushed with the bustle of their preparations. The staff is busy cleaning, their movements precise and efficient as they scrub and polish, ensuring every inch of the house is spotless.
The scent of cleaning supplies mixes with the faint smell of baking, a sign that the kitchen staff is hard at work. As I navigate through this whirl of activity, I can't help but feel a pang of envy at their obliviousness. At their ability to focus on the task at hand, undisturbed by the undercurrent of danger that seems to follow me.
As I venture closer to the kitchen, the rhythmic chopping of knives, the sizzling of pans, and the murmurs of the cooks fill the air. The heat from the oven hits me, the warm scent of roasting meat and caramelizing onions enveloping me. Peering inside, I'm taken aback by the sight. There are more people in the kitchen than I've ever seen in a sea of white hats and aprons, all bent over their tasks.
Countertops overflow with an assortment of ingredients. Stacks of fresh vegetables, slabs of meat, and bottles of spices are all around. Pots and pans simmering on the stove, each one harboring a different, tantalizing aroma. Judging by the amount of food being prepared, they're cooking enough to feed an army or, in this case, a house filled with guests.
I can't help but marvel at the precision and coordination on display. They navigate around each other, and their movements are so well-choreographed that it's almost like a dance. Despite the chaos, they're an impressive sight, their focus unwavering and their dedication evident. Spotting Mrs. Collins from the corner of my eye, I managed to slip away from the chaos to approach her. The older woman is standing by the counter, her tiny frame dwarfed by the massive cake taking shape in front of her.
"Mrs. Collins," I begin, forcing a smile onto my face. "What's the occasion?"
She beams at me as her eyes twinkle with excitement. "Oh, Miss Isabella! It's for Aurora's birthday."
I frown as my displeasure seeps into my expression. The last thing I want is to suffer the presence of Jackson's crude family and socialize with strangers who know nothing of the reality of my life. The anticipation of the oncoming night fills me with a sense of dread.
Mrs. Collins gives me a sympathetic look, patting my arm gently. "Why don't you go back to your room, dear? I'll bring you up some breakfast in a moment."
I nod, relieved to escape the bustling energy of the kitchen and retreat to the bedroom. True to her word, Mrs. Collins appears a few minutes later with a tray in her hands. The breakfast is simple. A soft-boiled egg, a couple of toast fingers, and a small bowl of mixed berries. A steaming cup of tea, the aroma of Earl Grey wafting from it, completes the meal. Despite my sour mood, I can't help but appreciate the comfort this simple meal provides.
As I pick at my food, Mrs. Collins moves towards the closet with her eyes scanning the myriad of clothing. "You'll need to look your best tonight, Miss Isabella," she says, her tone laced with a resignation that mirrors my own. She pulls out a few dresses, each more extravagant than the last.
I shake my head with my fingers absently tracing the edge of the eggshell. "I don't feel like dressing up tonight, Mrs. Collins."
She sighs, and her gaze softens. "I understand, dear. But you know it's necessary."
I push the tray away with the remains of my breakfast untouched. "I'll pick something out later, Mrs. Collins. I need some time alone."
She nods and steps away from the closet. "Of course, dear. Take all the time you need."
Standing in front of the mirror, I let my gaze travel over my reflection. I'm draped in a rich velvet dress, and the emerald color enhances my pale complexion. Its off-shoulder design exposes my collarbones, the material hugging my body before flaring out at the waist into a full skirt. Matching emerald heels complete the ensemble, adding extra elegance. As I trace the delicate embroidery along the bodice, I can't help but appreciate the craftsmanship, yet the heavy fabric feels like a shackle, a beautiful façade for the farce that is my life.
The thought of spending the evening with Jackson's family fills me with apprehension. Behind closed doors, their disdain for me is evident. The snide comments, the rude dismissals, and the cold indifference. Yet, in public, they masterfully masquerade as the ideal family. Their pretentious smiles never reach their eyes, and their words drip with insincere kindness.
It's a perverse game we play, each of us concealing our true feelings behind a mask of pleasantness. Their false pretenses fuel my resentment, a bitter pill I must swallow for the sake of appearances. It's a cruel irony that the glitz and glamour of my attire tonight serve as a reminder of the ugliness of the reality I endure. Tonight, like every other night, I will put on a brave face and play my part in this grand charade.
Descending the grand staircase, the party unfolds beneath me like a display of wealth and affluence. A sea of elegantly dressed men and women mill about in the grand hall, their laughter and conversation blending seamlessly with the gentle strains of the orchestra's symphony. The room is bathed in a soft, golden light emanating from the elaborate chandeliers that hang from the high ceiling.
The long, heavy drapes are drawn back to reveal tall windows that overlook the sprawling estate, the moonlight casting an ethereal glow over the manicured gardens. Silver trays filled with champagne flutes and hors d'oeuvres are circulated by uniformed waitstaff, their movements well-choreographed in a dance of servitude. Large, ornate mirrors along the walls reflect the magnificence of the room, amplifying the grandeur of the party.
