The silence in the house was deafening. Isabelle, in her emerald green silk dress that clung to her like a second skin felt the emptiness pressing down on her. Penelope, their usually ever-present maid had gone to visit her family, Liam having granted her permission with a rare wave of his hand.
Isabelle was alone in the sprawling mansion, a gilded cage that felt more like a prison with each passing day. The afternoon light filtered through the expansive windows, casting long, shimmering shadows on the polished marble floors. She was surrounded by luxury, yet she felt utterly unmoored, adrift in a sea of gold and velvet that couldn’t mask the lack of warmth.
She wandered into the kitchen, the polished marble countertops cold under her touch. She’d decided to cook dinner, something simple, a break from the monotony that had settled into her life like a thick layer of dust. The clinking of pots and the hiss of the stove filled the silence, a meager solace.
The front door opened with a flourish, and Liam entered, his tall figure radiating an energy that Isabelle couldn’t understand. His tailored suit, impeccably sharp, was a stark contrast to the languid ease with which he moved.
“Isabelle!” he called out, his voice booming through the house. “You’re making dinner? That’s wonderful!” He came to a halt in the doorway, his eyes lighting up with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Just something simple,” Isabelle replied, her voice flat, devoid of any emotion. She continued stirring the simmering stew, her movements precise and deliberate.
“You know, you don’t have to do all this,” Liam said, his tone a mixture of amusement and concern. “We have a staff for all of this. You could be relaxing.”
“I like to cook,” she mumbled, avoiding his gaze.
“Just because we have this agreement, this… business arrangement.” he hesitated, as if searching for the right words, “doesn’t mean you have to be a slave to this house.”
Isabelle’s fingers tightened on the wooden spoon, the wood digging into her palm. “It’s not like that, Liam.” she finally said, her voice barely a whisper. “I’m fine.”
Liam, oblivious to the tension in her voice, stepped closer, his gaze lingering on her form. “I’m glad to hear that.” he chuckled. “This whole marriage thing is a bit of a whirlwind, isn’t it?”
“It is.” Isabelle agreed, her voice emotionless.
Liam moved to her side, his presence a warm contrast to the cool marble she leaned against. “I was thinking.” he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “we could go out for dinner tonight. Just you and me.”
Isabelle’s breath hitched. “Go out?” she echoed, her voice surprised.
“Yes,” Liam said, his smile widening. “Go out for a real dinner, somewhere nice.”
“But…” Isabelle hesitated, unsure how to express the reluctance that welled up within her.
“No buts,” Liam said his voice firm. “It’s the least I can do, considering all the… compromises you’ve been making.” His eyes, for a fleeting moment, held a flicker of something that resembled regret.
He reached out, his hand resting lightly on her arm. “Come on, Isabelle. It’ll be fun. We can talk.”
Isabelle looked at him, his face a mask of sincerity, and for a fleeting moment, she almost believed him. But then, the weight of the charade, of the carefully orchestrated illusion of their relationship, crashed down on her.
“Fine.” she sighed, her voice weary. “Let’s go.”
****
The restaurant, a haven of soft lighting and hushed whispers, was a world away from the sterile atmosphere of her life. The menu, filled with exotic dishes and tantalizing descriptions, was a testament to the luxury that surrounded her, yet it failed to ignite any spark of excitement within her.
Liam, however, seemed to thrive in this atmosphere. He ordered a bottle of champagne, his eyes twinkling as he poured a glass for her. His conversation, a blend of business anecdotes and light humor, was a welcome distraction from her internal turmoil.
After dinner, Liam insisted on taking her to an ice cream parlor, a quaint little shop tucked away on a cobblestone street. The air was thick with the sweet aroma of vanilla and chocolate, and the laughter of children echoed around them.
Isabelle, trying to maintain her facade of indifference, sat stiffly on a brightly colored bench, her gaze fixed on the passing crowd. Liam, oblivious to her silent struggle, seemed to revel in the moment. He ordered two scoops of pistachio ice cream, a playful smirk on his lips as he presented her with a large, colorful spoon.
“Here, you go. You need to try this,” he said, the light in his eyes making her heart flutter with a strange, unsettling feeling. “It’s amazing.”
He took a bite of his ice cream, the corners of his mouth crinkling with delight. “You know.” he said, his voice softer now, “I’m glad we’re doing this. Getting to know each other, I mean.”
He looked at her, his eyes searching hers, and for a fleeting moment, Isabelle felt a pang of guilt. She was putting on a show, a performance that was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain.
Liam stood abruptly and excused himself from the table to use the washroom, leaving Isabelle momentarily alone.
Suddenly, a shiver ran down Isabelle’s spine. Three men, their faces obscured by shadows, approached their table. They were tall and muscular, and their eyes held a predatory gleam.
“Well, well, well.” one of them grunted, his voice thick with malice. “Look what we have here.”
Isabelle’s blood turned to ice. She recognized the glint of danger in their eyes, the primal urge to dominate.
“Leave me alone,” she said, her voice trembling, trying to hide the fear that gripped her.
One of the men laughed, a harsh, guttural sound that sent chills down her spine. He reached out, his hand closing around her wrist, his grip tight.
“Don’t be so shy,” he said, his voice a low growl. “We just want to have some fun.”
Isabelle pulled back, her heart pounding in her chest. “Get away from me!” she shouted, her voice rising with each syllable.
Another man, the one who had spoken first, took a step closer, his eyes fixated on her with a lustful intensity.
“No need to be so hostile, sweetheart,” he said, his voice laced with a mocking tone. “We’re just trying to show you a good time.”
One of them reached out, his hand brushing against her cheek, his touch a searing brand. Isabelle recoiled, her anger burning hotter than the fear that threatened to consume her.
“Get your dirty hands off me!”
The man chuckled, his hand tightening around her wrist. “Now, now, don’t get dramatic, pretty lady. We’re just having a little fun.”
He reached out, his large hand coming down with a stinging slap across her face. A wave of dizziness washed over her as the world spun around her, the laughter of children now drowned out by the roar in her ears.
Another slap, aimed at her cheek, hovered in the air.
But the hand never reached its target. A figure, a blur of motion, appeared between Isabelle and the thugs.
“Leave her alone.” a voice, deep and laced with fury, boomed…