Vengeful Rebirth: The Heiress in Her Rival's Fiancée

“Your wife’s turning into a real problem, Marcus.”

The voice slid under the study door, smooth, expensive, venomous. Isabella froze in the hallway, fingers numb around the glass of water she’d brought up for him. Her knock died before it started.

It was Serena. Of course it was Serena. Again.

Marcus gave that familiar tired chuckle, the one that used to feel comforting and now just sounded hollow. He sucked in a slow breath. “Easy, Ser. She’s not well. You know that. That should be enough.”

“Not well is one thing. Suspicious is another.” Serena’s tone sharpened like a knife. “The way she watches me, like she already knows every damn thing.”

“She doesn’t know anything.” Marcus’s voice went firm, almost angry, as if the thought of Isabella figuring it out offended him. “And she won’t. All the doctors agree: severe stress manifesting physically. Case closed.”

He’d been dancing around the truth for months, throwing out medical jargon she couldn’t pin down. But that wasn’t the part that gutted her. The part that gutted her was him in there with Serena, the woman who walked through their house like she was already measuring the curtains.

Isabella could picture Serena’s move: that babyish head tilt, lips in a perfect pout. “I just hate seeing you trapped like this, playing nurse in this freezing tomb of a house. You deserve so much more. I can’t wait for it all to be over so I can finally have you to myself.”

“I know, sweetheart,” Marcus murmured, voice dropping low and private, the way it used to sound only for Isabella. The words sliced straight through her chest.

The door swung open before she could retreat. Water splashed cold over her wrist. Marcus stood there, surprise flickering into quick irritation. Serena lingered right behind him in a cream silk blouse and slim trousers, that smug curve of her mouth vanishing into fake concern the instant their eyes met.

“Isabella, darling. How long have you been standing there?” Marcus asked.

She swallowed the scream rising in her throat and pasted on the bright, adoring smile she’d perfected just for him. “I brought you water. Thought you might be thirsty.” Her voice came out thin; she pushed the glass toward him.

He took it without a glance. “That’s… thoughtful. Serena and I were just finishing some foundation paperwork.”

Isabella’s gaze slid to the other woman. The smile faltered. “On a Saturday night?”

Serena stepped forward before Marcus could answer, resting a light, claiming hand on his arm. “Charity deadlines don’t pause for weekends, unfortunately.” Her voice was sugar laced with glass. “We should let your wife rest, Marcus. She looks utterly drained.”

She started toward the hall, then paused and turned back with a smile that felt like a slap. “Actually, Isabella—could I bother you for a glass of water too? My throat’s parched from all the talking.”

Isabella looked at Marcus. He gave the smallest nod, barely noticeable, but clear enough. Do it.

She turned without speaking and walked to the kitchen, Serena’s heels tapping a mocking rhythm behind her.

“Your husband’s remarkable, you know,” Serena said, leaning against the island like she belonged there. “So patient. So strong.”

Isabella stayed quiet, filling the glass under the tap.

“It must be exhausting for him,” Serena continued, voice dropping to a velvet purr. “A man like that… chained to someone who can barely get out of bed. Someone who won’t be around much longer.”

Isabella’s fingers clamped around the glass. She set it down with a sharp clink and spun. “Get out.”

Serena’s smile widened. She pushed off the counter and stepped closer. “Or what? What exactly are you going to do, Isabella? You can hardly stand.” Her eyes dragged over Isabella’s thin frame, the robe hanging loose. “You’re a weight. A sick, draining weight. And he’s tired of carrying you. Can’t you see it?” She gave a soft, pitying laugh. “Or maybe you can’t. You’ve worshipped him since the day you met, like he’s some kind of saint. Blind or just stupid, I can’t decide.”

Isabella’s lip trembled; rage shook her hand. “You vicious”

“He’s mine,” Serena hissed, mask finally slipping. “In every way that matters. And soon he’ll be mine completely. He just needs you gone. Out of the way. Free of your curse and your weakness.”

Red flashed across Isabella’s vision. She lunged, arm swinging, but it was feeble, barely a graze across Serena’s cheek.

Serena’s eyes flew wide. She let out a shrill, theatrical cry and threw herself backward, hip slamming the granite. She collapsed to the floor in a dramatic heap, hand pressed to her face.

The kitchen door burst open. Marcus stormed in. “What the hell is going on?”

His gaze snapped from Isabella furious—Shaking, breathing hard—to Serena on the tile, tears already shining on her cheeks.

“Marcus!” Serena sobbed, voice trembling. “I just asked for water… I told her she should take better care of your headaches and she..she shoved me!”

Marcus crossed the room in two strides and knelt beside her. “Are you hurt?”

“My wrist,” she whimpered, cradling her arm. “I think I landed on it wrong.”

His head jerked up. The look he gave Isabella was pure disgustment, disappointment, contempt. “Isabella. What did you do?”

The floor dropped out from under her. “She was saying terrible things! She said she was going to take you”

“She’s lying!” Serena cut in, fresh tears spilling. “I’d never! I feel awful for her, Marcus. I only said she should worry more about your health, especially with the migraines getting worse.”

“Apologize.”

Isabella stared at him, stunned. “You’re… taking her side?”

“I’m asking you to act like the woman I married instead of some jealous child. Apologize. Now.”

Tears stung hot behind her eyes. She felt empty, hollowed out. The man she’d loved her whole life was looking at her like trash. She dropped her gaze to the cold floor.

“I’m… sorry,” she whispered.

“To her. Look at her and say it.”

Isabella forced her head up. Serena watched over Marcus’s shoulder, triumph barely hidden behind the tears. “I’m sorry, Serena.”

“It’s okay,” Serena sniffed. “It’s the illness, Marcus. She can’t help herself.”

He helped Serena up, hands gentle and careful. “Let’s ice that. I’ll drive you home.” His voice was all softness as he guided her out.

Isabella stood alone in the kitchen, chest tight, fighting the sob clawing up her throat. She shuffled to the counter, hands shaking as she popped her pills and swallowed them dry. Then she grabbed a pot, turned on the burner.

She drifted back to the foyer, picked up her phone, and started searching for homemade soup recipes, something supposed to ease migraines. She carried it back to the kitchen like it still mattered.

Like any of it still mattered.