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The front doors swing open, revealing an interior that leaves me momentarily breathless. The lavishness is almost overwhelming, with tall marble columns supporting a high, ornate ceiling. Crystal chandeliers hang down, their light refracting in a thousand directions to paint the grand foyer with a warm, inviting glow.
I had grown up in a wealthy family, yes. But this? This is Blackhart wealth. It's a level of affluence that's almost obscene in its extravagance. The walls are adorned with exquisite paintings, the floors are covered in plush carpets, and the furniture is made of the finest leather and wood. I can hardly believe this place is now my home. This isn't just wealth. It's another world entirely.Jackson turns to the housekeeper, who has been waiting silently off to the side.
"Mrs. Collins," his voice echoes in the vast entrance hall. "Show Isabella to our bedroom."
I stiffen at his words, and my heart pounds in my chest. "I'm not sharing a room with you, Jackson," I declare, my voice shaky but determined.
He pauses in his steps, turning slowly to look at me. A chilling smile curls up from his lips as he chuckles.
"Fine," he drawls. "I'll give you this one night. You can have a separate bedroom tonight to get used to the idea that you're Mrs. Blackhart now."
"But..." I start to protest, only for him to hold up his hand, cutting me off.
"No time for arguments, Isabella," he warns, glancing at the large grandfather clock that stands imposingly in the corner of the hall. "We have dinner at my brother's place in an hour, and you need to change."
As Jackson strides away, the echoing click of the shutting door grates against my every nerve. I take a deep breath to keep my rising fear at bay. Mrs. Collins, a delicate, older woman with a kind face, gestures for me to follow her.
Upon reaching a spare bedroom, Mrs. Collins ushers me inside. The room is tastefully decorated, but its magnificence does nothing to comfort me. She guides me to the walk-in closet, where racks upon racks of women's clothing hang neatly.
"Madam, perhaps you'd like to pick something to wear for this evening," Mrs. Collins suggests in her soft, pleasant voice.
"Mrs. Collins, you don't have to call me Madam," I reply, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice.
"Very well, Mrs. Blackhart," she nods, her voice respectful.
A shiver runs down my spine at the sound of my married name. "Please, don't ever call me that," I plead, meeting her kind eyes with a desperate gaze.
"I... I understand, Miss Isabella," she replies with a hint of sympathy in her voice.
I hesitantly reach out to touch the clothes hanging in the closet. "Whose clothes are these?" I ask as my fingers brush against the silky fabric of a dress.
"Mr. Blackhart always keeps a selection of women's clothing here," she explains somewhat hesitantly.
Realization washes over me, and I pull my hand back in disgust. He keeps clothes here for the many women who rotate through here, no doubt. Without another word, Mrs. Collins exits the room, leaving me alone with the unwelcome remnants of Jackson's past.
Before I know it, I'm dressed in one of the countless gowns Jackson keeps in the mansion. We're in the car, headed to his brother's house. As we pull up, my eyes widen in disbelief. His brother's house is even grander than his if that's even possible.
"Jackson," I begin, trying to keep my voice steady. "What's your brother's name? Is there anyone I should know?" I’ve heard of him. I’ve never met him, but I know he runs the family.
He doesn't even look at me as he replies. "You don't need to know, Isabella. All you have to do is stand there and look pretty. You're not required to speak unless spoken to. You're to be seen, not heard."
His words sting, but I don't let him see my hurt. "You're a jackass, Jackson. I'm not some shiny object that you pull off the shelf to show off whenever you want,” I snap.
He parks the car suddenly and grabs my chin, turning me to face him. His eyes are cold, and his grip is firm. "That's exactly what you are, Isabella," he says, his voice deadly calm, "And you better get used to it."
We leave the car and walk inside. No sooner do Jackson and I step into the sitting room than everyone turns toward us. An older woman, tall and thin, rolls her eyes.
"Jackson," she chastises, her voice dripping with disdain. "How many times have I told you that family dinners are not for the floozies you hook up with?"
Jackson just laughs and strides over to her. He bends down to give her a hug, leaving me standing there, wallowing in my awkwardness.
"She's not just a floozy, Mom," he counters with a smirk as he walks back over to me. "She's technically my wife."
The room explodes in a flurry of gasps and hushed whispers. Jackson's mother looks like she's been slapped, her face now flushed red as she reels from his announcement. She steps back as her eyes widen in shock.
"Your what?" she splutters, her voice rising in pitch.
At her side, a younger woman, most likely his sister, judging by the uncanny resemblance, stares at me with her lip curled in a sneer.
