The front doors hissed open, releasing Isabelle into the opulent emptiness of Liam’s penthouse. The air hung heavy with the scent of jasmine and the faint residue of his cologne, a scent that recently used to comfort her, now stirred a nauseating wave of guilt.
Penelope stood by the grand entrance with a look of quiet concern etched on her face. “Welcome home, Miss Isabelle,” she said with her voice a hushed whisper in the vastness of the apartment.
Isabelle forced a smile. “Thank you, Penelope.” Her voice felt foreign, even to her ears.
“Is Mr. Callahan okay?” Penelope asked with her brow furrowed. “You left for the hospital not too long ago. What happened?” She asked.
Isabelle’s throat tightened. Her eyes darted away, unable to meet Penelope’s worried gaze. “Nothing,” she muttered absent-mindedly with her voice barely audible. “It was nothing.” She said.
Penelope didn’t buy it. “But you seemed so troubled when you came back. And Mr. Callahan… was he in an accident? Is he alright?” She pressed.
Isabelle’s heart pounded in her chest. It was like a dam had broken inside her, releasing a torrent of shame and self-loathing. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to speak. “Liam is fine. Everything is fine.”
“Fine?” Penelope pressed, her voice laced with doubt. “But you were so pale. And you looked so… lost. Miss Isabelle, something is wrong. Please, tell me what happened.” She demanded.
The words hung heavy in the air, demanding an answer. But Isabelle couldn’t utter them. The memory of Max’s touch, his whispered promises, and the betrayal that had stained her soul rose in a suffocating wave.
“It’s… it’s nothing.” she stammered, her voice trembling. “Just a little… tired.”
Penelope’s gaze narrowed, her intuition screaming at her. “Miss Isabelle, you’re not fooling anyone. Please, be honest with me. What happened at the hospital?” She asked.
Isabelle’s lips pressed into a thin line. She knew she couldn’t lie to Penelope, not anymore. Her conscience wouldn’t allow it.
“Liam is okay.” she finally admitted with her voice a hollow whisper. “He was never in an accident.”
Penelope’s eyes widened. “But you said… you were at the hospital.”
Isabelle swallowed with her throat dry. The lie had unraveled, leaving her exposed and vulnerable. “I… I got a call. A wrong number.” she mumbled with her voice barely a breath.
Penelope’s face shifted from concern to suspicion. “A wrong number,” she repeated slowly. “Is that what you call it?”
Isabelle couldn’t meet Penelope’s gaze. She turned away, her heart a leaden weight in her chest. “I’m going to my room,” she muttered with her voice strained.
She walked towards the grand staircase with each step a testament to her betrayal, each breath a reminder of the shameful secret she carried within her.
Penelope watched her go, her eyes filled with a mixture of pity and disapproval. “Miss Isabelle…” she called, but Isabelle didn’t turn back.
The bedroom door slammed shut behind Isabelle, sealing her into a prison of her own making.
The weight of her secret pressed down on her, suffocating her. It was a monster she had birthed, a monster that now threatened to consume her entire being. She wanted to scream, to cry out her pain, but the words died in her throat, choked by the sheer enormity of her guilt.
Panic surged through her. She had to escape the suffocating confines of her mind. She had to drown the images, the sensations, and the voices that whispered accusations in her ear. The bathroom, with its cold, sterile tiles and the promise of a cleansing deluge, seemed the only sanctuary she could find.
She rushed into the bathroom, ignoring the faint scent of Liam’s cologne clinging to the air, a reminder of the life she was betraying. She slammed the door shut, locking it with a desperate click. The sound echoed in the silent apartment, a final act of isolation.
She turned on the tap with the water cascading down into the bathtub, its sound a welcome distraction to the chaos within. She didn’t bother taking off her clothes or shoes. She simply stepped into the steaming water, letting it engulf her, the icy touch of the porcelain a stark contrast to the fire raging within her.
She sank into the bathtub, allowing the warm water to envelop her. Her clothes clung to her, a wet, heavy reminder of her actions. She closed her eyes, letting the sobs wrack her body, tears streaming down her face, a silent testament to the depths of her despair.
She wanted to rip at her hair, to claw at her skin, to punish herself for the sin that clung to her soul. But all she could do was lie there, a prisoner of her own self-loathing.
**
Liam’s car pulled into the garage with the familiar rumble of its engine a jarring intrusion into her silent despair. He emerged with a bouquet of lilies in his hand and a smile playing on his lips. The flowers were a gesture of reconciliation and a sign that their contract marriage was blossoming into something more.
“Penelope,” he called out with his voice a cheerful echo in the silence. “I’m home!”
His voice broke through her self-imposed isolation, reminding her of the life she was betraying. She wanted to hide, to disappear, to escape the judgment in his eyes.
Penelope appeared from the kitchen with a concerned furrow on her brow. “Thank God you’re home,” she said, her voice filled with relief. “Miss Isabelle… she’s…”
Liam’s smile faltered with the cheery facade crumbling like a sandcastle in the tide. “Where is Isabelle?” he asked, his voice laced with a hint of alarm.
Penelope’s voice was barely a whisper. “She got a call…said you were in an accident. She went to the hospital and came back looking…devastated. Now she’s locked herself in the bathroom.” She explained.
Liam’s heart dropped into his stomach. His eyes widened with his intuition screaming at him. “An accident?” he repeated, his voice tight. “What accident?”
“She said you were in an accident,” Penelope repeated with her voice laced with confusion. “But she wouldn’t tell me anything else.”