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Ninety-two days. For ninety-two consecutive days, I had knelt in this chapel, my knees pressed against the cold marble floor until they were raw and bleeding. The Blackwood family's private sanctuary had become my prison, my place of penance for a crime I never committed. I shifted slightly, wincing as the fabric of my dress caught on the open wounds. Three months of this daily ritual had left permanent calluses, but today the skin had split again, tiny crimson droplets staining the pristine white marble beneath me. "Still not finished?" Mason's voice cut through the silence like a blade. I didn't turn to look at him. I couldn't bear to see the hatred in his eyes—those same eyes that once looked at me with such love that I thought I would drown in their depths. "I'm sorry," I whispered, the words automatic now, emptied of meaning through endless repetition. "I'll finish soon." "See that you do." His footsteps echoed against the chapel walls as he approached. "Isabella needs her medication in twenty minutes. Don't make her wait because of your... performance." Performance. As if my pain was merely an act. As if the tears I'd shed for his parents weren't real. As if I hadn't loved them too. "Yes, Mason," I replied, my voice hollow. He paused behind me, and for one breathless moment, I imagined he might offer some small comfort—a hand on my shoulder, perhaps. Some tiny acknowledgment of our shared history. Instead, he turned and walked away, the heavy chapel door closing behind him with a sound of finality. Only when I was alone again did I allow myself to look up at the stained glass window above the altar. Mary cradled her son, her face serene with love and sorrow. Once, I had knelt here in joy, praying for a blessed future with the man I loved. Now, I knelt in shame, praying only for the strength to survive another day. I finished my prayers, rose on trembling legs, and made my way to Isabella's guest chamber. The grand hallway of the Blackwood mansion seemed to stretch endlessly before me, lined with portraits of stern-faced ancestors who all seemed to judge me with the same cold eyes as their descendant. Outside Isabella's door, I paused to compose myself. I knocked softly. "Enter," came her delicate voice, the voice that had convinced everyone of her fragility, her innocence. I pushed open the door, keeping my eyes downcast as I approached her medicine tray. "I've come to bring your evening medication, Isabella." "You're late," she observed, though I wasn't. "Mason won't be pleased." "I'm sorry." Another meaningless apology added to the thousands I'd offered since that terrible day. I busied myself with the arrangement of pills, my back to her as I reached for a glass of water on her nightstand. The movement brought me face to face with the ornate gilded mirror that hung on the wall—a mirror that reflected not just my haggard face, but the entire room behind me. Including Isabella's empty wheelchair. My hands froze on the glass. In the mirror's reflection, I watched as Isabella rose from her bed—the bed she supposedly couldn't leave without assistance—and walked, perfectly steady, toward her private bathroom. The glass slipped from my fingers, but I caught it before it could shatter against the floor. My heart wasn't so easily controlled; it pounded against my ribs like a wild thing seeking escape. She could walk. All this time, all these months of bathing her, dressing her, enduring her complaints about her "useless legs"—it had been a lie. A performance far more calculated than any prayer I'd ever offered in that chapel. I set down the water with a trembling hand and turned, but Isabella had already disappeared into the bathroom. The wheelchair sat empty, a prop in her elaborate deception. That night, I paced my tiny servant's quarters, my mind racing with the implications of what I'd seen. The truth burned inside me like a flame, both terrifying and illuminating. I had to tell Mason. Despite everything, despite how he'd treated me, he deserved to know he was being manipulated. The following evening, I gathered my courage and sought him out in the drawing room. He sat alone, nursing a glass of whiskey, his father's favorite chair now his throne of misery. "Mason," I began, my voice stronger than it had been in months. "I need to speak with you about Isabella." He didn't look up. "What about her?" "She's lying to you." The words tumbled out before I could lose my nerve. "Her paralysis—it's not real. I saw her walking yesterday when she thought no one was watching." Slowly, he raised his eyes to mine. I expected shock, confusion, perhaps even a glimmer of the man who once loved me. Instead, his face contorted with rage. "Lies," he snarled, rising from his chair. "Is there no depth to which you won't sink? First my parents, now this?" "Mason, please—" "Enough!" He slammed his glass down, amber liquid sloshing onto priceless wood. "You will never speak of this again. And since you can't be trusted, you will spend your nights at Isabella's bedside. Perhaps witnessing her suffering will finally teach you some humanity." What he couldn't know was that the punishment he devised would become my greatest torment. For three nights later, as I sat silent in the corner of Isabella's darkened room, the door opened to admit Mason himself. And there, before my eyes, the man I had once pledged to love forever took my sister in his arms, her supposedly paralyzed legs wrapping around his waist as they lost themselves in each other. I sat frozen, unable to look away, forced to witness the final death of everything I had once believed in. And in that moment, as Mason's passion-filled whispers reached my ears, something inside me shattered completely.

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