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“Get your filthy hands off me, you son of a bitch!” the woman says as she’s pushed inside. She stumbles before righting herself.
She turns toward me with a glare. “You didn’t have to have your goons drag me to your house like that, asshole. Clearly, the Blackharts never say please.”
“Please isn’t in my vocabulary. How do you know Isabella?” I ask, my voice deadly low.
She snorts before taking the seat in front of my desk. “I thought you would know that since your men kidnapped me. The Hawthorns have been friends with the Storms for ages. That’s how I know her.”
My eyes narrow on her. “Hawthorn? What are you doing hanging out with Isabella?”
“First of all, I have nothing to do with this whole Blackhart vs. Hawthorn rivalry going on. I honestly couldn’t care less what the hell you guys do and neither does Isabella. She knows nothing about that side of our families. Secondly, I’ve known Isabella since we were kids. Say what the fuck you want, so I can go home.”
I find myself sitting back in my chair. My body is rigid in shock as her words hang in the air. The insolence of this woman causes me to clench my jaw. Most people wouldn't dare to address me this way, but she's a Hawthorn. Their bloodline is almost as wealthy and powerful as the Blackharts. The audacity of her to show this level of disregard and bravado, is somewhat impressive. Still, she's a crucial part of this deadly puzzle, and I can't afford to let her boldness distract me from my purpose.
“Tell me about Isabella. Why did she marry Jackson? Was it money she wanted?” I snap.
Seraphina leans back and laughs. “You really didn’t know your brother at all. It’s clear you don’t know much about Isabella, either. If you dragged me in here to question me about Isabella because of your brother’s death, you’re an asshole.”
She gets up, heads toward the door, and I stand abruptly. “All of this started when she came into our lives,” I snarl, and I can see a tremor go through her at my tone. “Someone will pay.”
She looks at me with wide eyes and fear before storming out of my office.
“Man, she’s got balls,” Victor says. “I should have known she was a Hawthorn.”
I glare at Victor, and he puts his hands up before going to get the next person.
Victor returns, guiding Jackson's butler, Jensen, into the room. I watch as the old man sits across from me, his eyes reflecting a lifetime of servitude. I begin the interrogation, but my mind is elsewhere, simmering with the words of Seraphina Hawthorn.
"Jensen, you were close to Jackson, correct?" I ask, my tone startling him.
The butler nods. He looks older, worn down by the events of the past few days. He clears his throat, his voice a soft echo in the room.
"Yes, sir. I served Mr. Jackson faithfully for years," he replies, his gaze never leaving mine.
"Tell me about Isabella. Tell me about their marriage." I demand, my tone filled with an impatience I can't hide.
Jensen hesitates, his eyes growing distant as he recalls the past. "Their marriage...it was difficult, sir. Miss Isabella often expressed her unhappiness. She...she used to say she wished Mr. Jackson would die and rot in hell." The words hang heavy in the air, a damning indictment of his brother's wife.
"Do you think she did it, Jensen?" I ask, barely a whisper.
"I believe she could have, sir. She said once...that as soon as she found a way out of the marriage, she would take it." His words drop like stones in still water, sending ripples of fury coursing through me.
A cold, bitter rage begins to swirl within me, replacing the shock with a hard, unyielding resolve. Isabella killed him.
A raw, guttural anger pulses through me, a dangerous current of red-hot fury and betrayal. The room around me seems to blur, and my vision taints with a deadly shade of red. My breathing becomes harsh, and each exhale sounds like a growl in the silent room.
I grab the glass on my desk and fling it across the room. “Where is she?”
“I know she never returned to Jackson’s house after the funeral,” Victor says.
“Search her childhood home,” I growl, barely able to contain my anger. “I bet that’s where she is. Find her and bring her to me.”
Pushing myself off the desk, I stride towards the glass doors leading to the balcony of my office. The chill of the night air hits me as I step onto the cold, stone surface. My hands rest on the cool metal of the railing, fingers gripping it tightly as I gaze out into the inky darkness. The silent night is a stark contrast to the turmoil churning within me. Isabella. That name seems to reverberate in my mind like a bitter echo that stokes the fire of my anger.
I can feel the promise of retribution. Every beat, every pulse echoing a single, resounding thought. She will pay. I imagine her fear when she realizes she’s been found, the shock in her eyes, the tremors of her hands. It fuels me, this image of her suffering, of her realizing the consequences of her actions. As I stand in the solitude of the night, I make a solemn vow under the silent, watchful stars. Isabella will suffer for what she’s done. I will ensure it.
10
CHAPTER 10
