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"You've got to be kidding," she scoffs, her gaze raking over me with visible disdain. “This...woman?"
The room is thick with tension, and the air is heavy with unspoken accusations. Their eyes are all on me. Each stare is a blow that makes me wince as if I’m not good enough to be in this family. I stand my ground with my heart pounding in my chest as I stare right back at them. I am not the one who should be ashamed. I am not their plaything to be insulted and mocked.
Suddenly, another voice cuts through the tension. "Jackson, what the fuck have you done?"
The voice belongs to a man of imposing stature standing at the entrance of the room. His gaze is as cold as ice, his features hard and unyielding. This must be his brother. The head of the family. I catch his gaze from across the room. There's something unsettlingly captivating about him. It’s a magnetic pull I can't quite explain.
Despite myself, I feel a flicker of something dangerous, an unwanted intrigue that I quickly pushed aside. His eyes are a deep blue, unreadable, yet I feel a shiver run down my spine. Why did his gaze linger? I quickly look away with my heart strangely fluttering.
Jackson turns to face him with a neutral expression. "Damien," he greets, deceptively calm.
"I demand an answer, Jackson," Damien's voice booms through the room, the fury clear in his icy gaze.
His authority is tangible, radiating off him in waves that seem to shake the very foundations of the grand mansion. There's a power about him that's compelling, intimidating, and strangely mesmerizing all at once. His tone is accusing. His piercing blue eyes fix on Jackson with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
Jackson, on the other hand, remains eerily calm. His shining eyes meet Damien's head-on. His voice is smooth, almost nonchalant, but I can sense a tremor of fear beneath the cool façade. It's subtle, almost undetectable, but it's there, like the faintest whisper of a secret trying to break free.
"I didn't think it was necessary to inform you, Damien," he says, his tone light, almost dismissive.
I can see it, though. The tightness around his eyes and the way his hands clench into fists at his sides.
"That's where you're wrong," Damien snaps in a cold, sharp tone. "As the head of this family, every move you make is to be communicated to me. You've crossed the line, brother. What happened that you came home hours after I saw you married?"
Jackson raises his head in defiance. “None of your business, Damien. You may run things, but I have a say in the things I do.”
Damien tilts his head to the side, his eyes narrowing on Jackson. “You’re wrong again.”
"Well, it's done now," Jackson says with a shrug, trying to mask the apprehension in his voice.
I can see him, the real Jackson, hidden beneath the bravado. He's scared of his older brother. The tension is thick, and the air is heavy with the weight of unspoken words and simmering anger. This is a battle of wills, a clash of titans, and I can't help but wonder where I fit into this strange, new world.
"That's not the point, and you know it!" Damien roars, his fists clenched at his sides. "You've disrespected the family. You've disrespected me."
Damien's anger seems more than just about family respect. His eyes occasionally flicker to me, a stormy mix of disapproval and something else, something unreadable, that makes my heart unexpectedly skip. Damien motions his head, a signal that Jackson seems to understand instantly. Without a word, both walk towards a pair of large doors at the end of the room.
Their heated voices can be heard echoing through the hallways until a door slams shut, silencing them abruptly. I’m left standing in the grand room. The tension is replaced by an awkward silence. His mother, a woman of regal stature, steps forward first.
With a forced smile, she introduces herself, "I'm Donna, dear."
The younger woman, who is the spitting image of Jackson, follows. "I'm Aurora," she states in a flat tone.
Before I can even open my mouth to respond, they start bombarding me with questions, each laced with an underlying insult, probing every aspect of my life that they deem unsatisfactory or unfit for their family. Their questions come so fast that I don't have a chance to answer any of them. Not that I wanted to, anyway. I don't know how long this goes on, but suddenly, Damien and Jackson stalk back into the room. My attention instantly goes to Damien.
"So, you whored yourself out to the highest bidder? It’s no surprise that you’d want the status and extravagance that come with being a Blackhart," he says, his words slicing through the tense silence like a knife.
His icy blue eyes are boring into mine, searching for a reaction. I feel a rush of anger surging through me, the heat of it stinging my cheeks.
"Go to hell, asshole," I snap, unable to keep the edge out of my voice. "I didn’t do anything. I don’t want anything to do with your damn brother. All of you can fuck off!"
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I feel Jackson's hand squeeze my arm in a silent warning, but it's too late. The words are out there, hanging in the air like a challenge. I can see the surprise flash in Damien's eyes, but it’s quickly replaced by a cold, calculating look. This is not over, not by a long shot.
As those memories fade, I'm brought back to the cold reality of the present. Since that fateful day, I've learned to play my part all too well. At the dinner table, I laugh gracefully at jokes I don't find funny, my eyes meeting Jackson's with a well-rehearsed glint of admiration. Nobody at the table would guess that behind my smile lies a storm of disdain. In public, I'm the picture-perfect wife, always smiling, always charming, a dutiful spouse by Jackson's side.
I speak only when necessary, creating an illusion of a perfect marriage. Which is a far cry from our reality. At home, it's a different story entirely. I give it Jackson as good as I get, never backing down, never yielding. He may have forced me to share his bed, but he has never possessed my body. No matter how hard he tries to persuade me, I remain steadfast. To satiate his desires, he brings home an endless stream of women, each one more forgettable than the last. I couldn’t care less about his indiscretions, and the fact that I remain unaffected seems to irk him to no end.
"Isabella!" Jackson shouts from downstairs. "Move your ass. I don't want to be late."
"It wouldn't take me so long to get ready if you'd stop leaving bruises in places people can see," I mumble to myself.
