Isabella's consciousness returned like a shattered mirror piecing itself back together. Two days of oblivion weighed heavy on her bones, but when her eyes fluttered open, the world she awoke to was no mercy—it was a nightmare in flesh.
There he sat. Theodore. Poised like a monarch of madness, legs crossed, arms folded with an air of unholy calm, as though he had been sculpted into the chair itself. His gaze, sharp and unyielding, fixed upon her with the precision of a predator savoring the tremble of its prey.
A slow, poisonous smile curled on his lips.
"Oh… my precious princess awakens," he drawled, each word laced with venomous delight. "How fragile you are, how delicate—two days of sleep, and yet you rise again, only to see me."
He leaned forward, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement.
"Shall I remind you?" His voice dropped into a chilling whisper. "Shall I remind you how your little lover gasped… how he crumbled before your very eyes? Ah, no, forgive me. 'Ex-lover' won't do, will it? Not when the river now cradles his corpse. No, my darling—he is not your lover, nor your ex-lover. He is your dead lover."
A low, jagged laugh tore from him—maniacal, echoing in the silence of the chamber. Isabella's body shuddered. Tears welled, burned, and spilled, tracing rivers down her cheeks. She covered her face, but her sobs betrayed her, filling the room with the sound of a heart breaking into dust.
Theodore rose. His steps were deliberate, the cadence of a man who knew he owned the ground he walked upon. He reached her bedside, crouched, and with sickening tenderness, brushed his lips against her damp forehead, then her cheek. His fingers, cold and unyielding, caught her tears and smeared them away.
"Don't cry, my dear," he murmured, tone dripping with mockery disguised as affection. "What is grief but a reminder of love's foolishness? Consider it a gift, hm? You watched him die. Had you not, your soul would still linger on him, haunted by his ghost. But I… I freed you. I severed the cord. Be grateful, darling—for only I can rid you of illusions."
Isabella's sobs wracked her body. She stumbled out of the bed, her bare feet trembling against the cold marble floor, and fled toward the washroom. Her reflection in the mirror blurred through the film of her tears; her face was pale, broken, yet still captive to his cruel theatre.
Behind her, his voice chased like a phantom.
"Wash yourself, Isabella. Cleanse that pretty face. Your grandmother shall be here soon, and I have been kind enough not to tell her of your pitiful dramas—the little plays you staged with your lover. Oh, forgive me again—your dead lover."
His laugh rang once more, a jagged hymn of insanity, before he turned away. Moments later, the door creaked open. A bundle of garments—black silk, embroidered with threads that shone like a serpent's scales—was left for her. His voice followed, calm yet commanding, "Wear them. You are mine to present."
The door shut, sealing her in with grief. Isabella sank to the floor of the washroom, clutching herself as sobs wrung her dry. She knew now, without doubt—Dante was gone, swept into the abyss of the river, claimed by death. And she, too, was a prisoner, chained not by walls, but by the grip of a wolf-king whose cruelty masqueraded as love.