Chapter 3 Walking on Glass

Isabella slipped her phone into her pocket and left the kitchen.

She had promised herself she would meet Rachael that afternoon. Now she had to figure out how to leave the house without Sebastian asking where she was going.

She was still thinking about it when he called from the dining room.

"Isabella."

She walked back.

"Yes?"

"Where is my breakfast? Where's the coffee?"

"I'll bring it now."

In the kitchen, her hands were still trembling from their argument. She arranged his food on a silver tray, steadied herself, and carried it into the dining room.

"Here," she said quietly.

She set the tray down and lifted the cup and plate onto the table. He didn't look up. He kept scrolling through his phone, typing, eating, as though she weren't standing beside him.

"You can go," he said, eyes still on the screen. "Get ready. The designer is coming at twelve with your dress for tonight."

"Okay."

She turned and left before he could add anything else.

---

Upstairs, she closed the door of her dressing room and leaned her back against it. Her legs gave out slowly, and she slid down until she was sitting on the floor.

The room was quiet. A soft breeze moved through the open window. Outside, birds crossed the sky, indifferent to everything happening below them.

She bent her head over her knees.

"This wasn't the life I planned for myself."She whispered it, barely loud enough to hear.

After a while, she stood and walked to the vanity mirror. She pulled down the collar of her shirt.

The marks had darkened. Faint purple now, the shape of fingers.

She touched them. They ached.

She looked into her own eyes and felt two things at once, anger, and something worse. A quiet, creeping doubt.

Sebastian had spent the whole morning acting as though nothing had happened. As though she had imagined the ballroom, the drive home, the hand at her throat.

A knock at the door.

Isabella pulled her collar up and turned.

"Come in."

One of the maids stepped inside, head bowed.

"Mr. Sebastian asked what's keeping you."

Isabella looked at the clock. 11:28.

Her stomach dropped.

"Tell him I'll be down in a few minutes."

Her hands were shaking. She tried to steady them and failed.

"Wait." She reached out. "Please. Tell him I was in the bathroom. Tell him I was finished and just handling something personal. You understand?"

The maid looked at her hands. Then at her face. Then at her collar, where the marks sat just below the fabric.

Something passed across the maid's expression not pity exactly. Recognition.

"Don't worry, ma'am. I'll tell him."

"Thank you."

The maid left, closing the door softly.

Isabella turned to her closet and pulled out a silk blouse with a high neckline. She put on a matching skirt and brushed her hair without looking in the mirror, because she didn't want to see her own face. The brush slipped from her fingers. She picked it up and tried again.

---

When she came down the long hallway of the penthouse, the silence made her uneasy.

She reached the top of the staircase and looked down.

Sebastian stood by the window with his hands in his pockets, watching the city. He looked calm.

She knew how quickly that could change.

Her heels clicked against the marble as she descended. He turned.

He didn't look angry. A smile spread across his face handsome, easy, the smile from their wedding photograph as if he hadn't gripped her chin that morning and accused her of having a poor memory.

He walked to the bottom of the stairs and stopped on the last step. He extended his hand to help her down.

Isabella froze one step above him.

She looked at his open palm.

This was the same hand. The same fingers. She could still feel them.

She took it.

Because she had to. Because the designer was coming at two, and dinner at Derrick's was tonight, and she was still the wife of Sebastian Vance.

His fingers closed around hers, gentle now, and he guided her down the last step. Then he let go and checked his watch.

"The designer will be here in ten minutes," he said. "Be ready."

He walked away.

Isabella stood at the bottom of the stairs and breathed.

In few minutes, The front door opened. Two maids entered, followed by a tall woman dressed in a black blazer. Behind them, two assistants pushed a clothing rack covered with garment bags.

The designer had arrived.

"Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Sebastian," she greeted them. "I've brought the gowns you requested for tonight's dinner."

"Excellent." Sebastian turned towards the living room without releasing Isabella's hand. "My wife needs something flawless. Let's see what you've brought."

They moved into the living room, where the assistants positioned the clothing rack beside the sofa.

The designer unzipped the first garment bag and removed a red silk dress.

"This is one of our latest designs," she explained. "It has a turtle neck and an open back. The cut is elegant, and I believe it would suit Mrs. Sebastian perfectly."

Isabella stared at the dress. Finally a dress that wouldn't expose the purple marks on her neck, leaving little room for her to hide what Sebastian had done.

She glanced at him, hoping he wouldn't choose something else, but he examined the gown with interest.

"It's beautiful," he said. Then he looked at her. "Go try it on, Isabella."

"Okay"

The designer looked between them.

She took the dress into the fitting room and changed.

The designer smiled when Isabella stepped into the living room.

"Beautiful. The dress fits you perfectly."

Sebastian rose from the sofa.

---

The designer came and left. The dress was red ,Sebastian's choice, not hers and she wore it without comment. By the time the car pulled out of the garage, the afternoon had thinned into evening.

She had one thing left to do, and she did it in the back seat, while Sebastian answered emails on his phone.

She opened Rachael's messages and typed:

I can't meet today. Tomorrow. Same place. 10 a.m.

She sent it and locked the phone before he could glance over.

Tomorrow she would find a way.

---

The next morning - At Café Lumen

Rachael was already at a corner table when Isabella walked in, and she stood up the moment she saw her.

"You came."

"I said I would."

They sat. Rachael ordered for both of them a cappuccino for herself, a chai for Isabella, because she remembered. Then she folded her hands on the table and looked at Isabella properly.

"It's been four months."

"I know."

"Four months, Isabella. I've invited you out twelve times."

"I know."

Rachael's mouth tightened. She reached across and took Isabella's wrist.

"What's going on?"

Isabella looked at the table.

She had rehearsed this. She had practiced the sentence in the mirror that morning while Sebastian was in the shower. She had thought, if she could just say the first line, the rest would follow.

She couldn't say the first line.

"I've been busy," she said.

Rachael let go of her wrist and sat back.

"Okay."

"It's true."

"I didn't say it wasn't."

The chai arrived. Isabella wrapped both hands around the cup and held it, because her hands were cold and because it gave her something to do.

Rachael watched her.

"You look thin."

"I'm fine."

"You're wearing a scarf in June."

Isabella's fingers tightened around the cup.

Rachael's voice dropped.

"Isabella. Take off the scarf."

"I'm cold."

"You're not cold."

Isabella didn't move.

Rachael leaned forward and gently, slowly, reached across and touched the edge of the silk at Isabella's throat. She didn't pull it down. She didn't need to. She had already seen the small purple edge peeking above the fabric.

She sat back.

Neither of them spoke.

Then Rachael said, very quietly, "How long?"

Isabella opened her mouth. Closed it.

"How long?" Rachael asked again.

"It isn't -"

"Don't."

Isabella stopped.

Rachael's eyes were wet but her voice was steady.

"Don't tell me it isn't anything. Don't tell me you walked into a door. Don't tell me you're clumsy. I've known you since we were nineteen, and I know what a bruise looks like and I know what that looks like. So please. Don't."

Isabella's chin began to tremble. She looked away, towards the window, towards the street where a man in a grey coat was walking past with a dog and a coffee, living a life she couldn't imagine.

"Four years," she said.

Rachael didn't flinch.

"Four years?"

"It wasn't always like this. In the beginning -"

"I don't care about the beginning."

Isabella looked back at her.

"I don't know when it started," she said. "I don't know how to explain it. It happened slowly. First he was just particular. About who I talked to. About where I went. Then he started checking my phone. Then the money got complicated. Then he started telling me I remembered things wrong."

She paused.

Rachael stared at her."The bruises are his fault."

"Yes."Isabella muttered.

"The marks on your neck are his fault."

"Yes."

"Say it."

Isabella's voice cracked. "They're his fault."

Rachael reached across the table and took her hand. She held it.

"Okay," she said. "Here's what we're going to do."

"Rachael -"

"First, you're not going back tonight."

"I have to go back."

"No."

"You don't understand. If I don't go back -"

"Then he comes looking. I know." Rachael's jaw tightened "But if you go back, he'll do it again. You know that. He'll do it again, and next time it might be worse, and I'm not going to sit here and drink chai with you while you pretend you have time."

Isabella's eyes got filled with tears.