Chapter 2: The Mask of Isabella
Emma burst out from behind the painting just as the distant sound of heavy metal clicking echoed from the depths below. She shoved the frame flush against the exposed brick wall, snatched up her tray of dirty champagne flutes, and sprinted down the hall.
She rounded the corner just as Thomas, the head butler, stepped out from the kitchen.
"Torres!" Thomas barked, adjusting his pristine bowtie. "Where have you been? The caviar station in the west wing is practically overrun. Move!"
"Yes, Mr. Thomas. Right away," Emma said, keeping her head down so he wouldn't see the terror swimming in her eyes or the dust smudged across her cheek.
She pushed through the swinging double doors and stepped back into the dazzling, intoxicating world of the grand ballroom. The contrast was physically nauseating. Just feet beneath these polished marble floors, a child was locked in a concrete cell, while his father toasted to a new beginning.
Emma’s eyes frantically scanned the room. She found them.
William Sterling was holding court near the ice sculpture, laughing robustly at a joke made by a senator. He looked happy. Blissfully, aggressively ignorant. But Emma’s gaze shifted to the woman beside him.
Isabella Sterling.
She was a vision in ivory satin, her dark hair pinned back in an intricate twist, her lips painted a severe, flawless crimson. Isabella smiled at the guests, but it never reached her eyes. Her gaze was flat, calculating, and predatory.
She knows, Emma realized with a sickening jolt. Isabella put him down there.
Isabella had arrived in William’s life just six months after the tragic, sudden passing of his first wife. She was his grief counselor. The transition from therapist to fiancée had been scandalously fast, but William defended her fiercely. Isabella had immediately taken over the household, firing older staff members, changing the security codes, and subtly isolating William from his old friends.
And now, Ethan. The sole heir to the Sterling empire. A boy who never liked Isabella. A boy who had begged his father not to marry her.
"Emma."
The cold voice sliced through the noise. Emma froze. Isabella had stepped away from William and was standing directly in front of her, a half-empty champagne flute in her hand.
"You look flushed, Emma," Isabella said smoothly, her eyes dropping to the faint smear of dust on Emma’s crisp white apron. "Are you feeling quite well?"
"I'm fine, Mrs. Sterling," Emma said, keeping her voice steady through sheer willpower. "Just... working hard."
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"Good," Isabella whispered, stepping so close that Emma could smell the overwhelming scent of her jasmine perfume. Isabella leaned in, her voice dropping to a deadly, quiet hiss. "Because I'd hate for you to get distracted. In a house this big, it is so very easy for people who wander off to simply... disappear."
Isabella placed her empty glass on Emma’s tray, gave a tight, chilling smile, and glided back to her husband.
