Chapter 7 As Long as You Live, You Can't Escape His Palm
"Hayden," Olivia protested, her voice strained. "Bianca is so delicate. Her constitution is weak, and that room gets the best sunlight…"
Isabella cut her off with a bitter laugh. "Oh, and I'm the picture of health, am I? After years in the mountains? Why can't I have a little comfort for once?"
Gabriel couldn't stand it. "You can't compare yourself to Bianca! Her health is the priority!"
Isabella’s gaze sharpened on him. "Who can't compare to whom? Dad just confirmed I'm the biological daughter. She's an imposter. Why should I be compared to her at all?" She pivoted back to Hayden. "Right, Dad?"
Hayden’s face was grim. He knew if he didn't settle this now, Isabella would never let it go.
"It's decided," he declared with a final wave of his hand. "Bianca moves. The room goes to Isabella."
Bianca’s face crumpled, tears streaming down her cheeks. Why is it always her? she thought, a cold resentment building beneath her sorrow. Why does she have to take everything that matters to me?
Seeing Bianca’s anguish, Olivia’s heart ached. "Bianca, my dear, don't cry," she soothed. "You can have any other room you want. I'll hire the world's best designer to make it even more beautiful than your old one."
Bianca took a shaky breath, wiping her tears away. "It's okay, Mom. I don't mind. As long as Isabella is happy, I'm willing to give it to her."
Watching Bianca’s composed response, Olivia felt a surge of pride, tinged with pain at how mature her daughter had become.
"Then why the performance?" Isabella’s voice, loud and cutting, sliced through the moment. "Waiting for an audience to applaud your sacrifice?"
Olivia froze, pointing a trembling finger at Isabella’s retreating back as she stormed off. "You—"
The slam of a door echoed through the house.
"She's actually throwing a tantrum?" Gabriel muttered, his fists clenching. The Isabella he knew was gone, replaced by a complete stranger.
That evening, Isabella sat on her small bed, a book resting unread in her lap. She had just changed the bandage on an old wound, a stark reminder of the life she’d left behind.
She was done trying to please anyone.
Today proved Hayden still had a sliver of a conscience, or perhaps just guilt over her recent return. But her past life had taught her the truth. She remembered how, in the years to come, the Taylor family’s fortunes would crumble. She remembered Olivia’s spiraling vanity and greed, and the cold, transactional look in Hayden’s eyes when he’d been willing to sell his own daughter for profit.
In this house, respect wasn't given; it was earned. And she would earn it by proving her value.
As she was organizing her thoughts, her phone vibrated on the nightstand.
She glanced at the screen. A familiar number. Her pupils contracted as she recognized the last four digits.
A memory, sharp and chilling, pierced through her. The night before her death in her past life. A man’s tense voice on the phone: “Don’t go to the banquet tomorrow. They’re planning to marry you off to Michael. Marry me instead.”
Isabella shot upright in bed.
William?
But that wasn't supposed to happen. In her previous life, that call never came. She hadn't even met him yet.
Swallowing hard, she answered. "Hello?"
Only an eerie silence responded.
"Hello? Who is this?" she asked again, her voice tight.
Meanwhile, in a skyscraper downtown, William stood before a floor-to-ceiling window, his knuckles white around his phone. He heard her voice—soft, clear, and alive.
“Hello? Who is this?”
A wave of relief so profound it almost buckled his knees washed over him. The regret and pain in his eyes softened for a fleeting moment, then vanished, replaced by a chilling possessiveness.
He ended the call.
She was alive. And that meant she was still his to find.
The next morning, Isabella sat casually in a chair, legs crossed, watching the servants move Bianca’s belongings into the empty room across the hall.
"You're heartless!" Gabriel snarled, glaring at her. "Bianca treats you like a sister, and all you do is bully her!"
"Gabriel, don't say that," Bianca said, forcing a sad smile. "These things were Isabella's to begin with."
The sight of Bianca’s pained expression only fueled Gabriel’s hatred for Isabella. He snatched a box and stormed out, refusing to even look at her.
As Bianca packed, she suddenly approached Isabella with a bright smile, holding out a box. "Isabella, I packed these for you. I hope you can use them."
Isabella didn't need to look inside. Used cosmetics, ill-fitting clothes, outdated jewelry—a box of pity.
She stared at Bianca, her expression unreadable. "All used by you?" she asked, her voice flat.
Bianca’s heart skipped a beat. "They were gifts from Mom and my brothers," she explained quickly. "I didn't want them to go to waste."
Gifts filled with love, she implied.
"I don't want them," Isabella said coolly, turning her head in disdain. "I'm back now. Anything I want, I can get myself. Why would I want your cast-offs?"
Bianca's face stiffened at the condescending term. "Fine," she said, her voice tight, and turned to leave.
As she passed Isabella, a cold glint flashed in her eyes. The next second, her foot "slipped."
But Isabella saw it coming—the deliberate shift of weight, the flicker of calculation. On pure instinct, she shot out a hand and grabbed Bianca's waist, steadying her. The box, however, flew from Bianca's grasp, its contents scattering across the floor.
"What happened?" Gabriel shouted, rushing in at the sound of the crash.
His eyes took in the scene: the mess on the floor, and Bianca, pale and trembling, clutched in Isabella’s arms. From his angle, it looked less like a rescue and more like an assault.
"What… what are you doing to her?" he stammered, his mind reeling in shock and fury.
