Her gaze lands on me.
It sharpens.
Then it fractures.
I’mnot wearing anything dramatic. No silk. No jewels. Just black trousers, a fitted shirt, sleeves rolled back enough to showskin, to show steadiness, to show that I do not need ornament to be dangerous.
The knife rests in my hand openly, present and ominous in a way that makes her breath stutter and crack.
“W-w-what are you going to do with that?” she blurts.
I shrug, slow and rich and endlessly patient. “Depends entirely on you.”
She shakes her head frantically. “I…I don’t know what you’re p-playing at, little girl, but I highly suggest y-you don’t do something you’ll?—”
“Shut the fuck up, Isabella. It’s my turn to talk. And your turn to answer when I give you permission. And oh, I’ll be requiring only words from you. You don’t get to scream,” I tell her calmly. “You don’t get to bargain. And you definitely don’t get to pretend this is a misunderstanding.”
Her chin lifts, pride trying to claw its way back into place. “You think you can scare me,” she says, voice shaking despite her effort. “You think because your husband?—”
I step closer. Close enough that she has to tilt her head back to look at me.
“Say his name again,” I tell her, tone mild. “And I will test how steady your pulse really is.”
Her lips press together.
Good.
I drag the flat of the blade gently along her jaw, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind her how close it is, and she sucks in a sharp breath that betrays her far more than words ever could.
“Please… please don’t cut me,” she whispers, the plea to preserve her vanity and her cold beauty, her only commodity, slipping out before she can stop it.
I pause.
Consider.
Then smile faintly. “Hmm,” I say. “I am sorely tempted, but I do not want to catch something.”
The insult lands cleanly.
Her eyes blaze, fury burning through the fear, and there it is, the real Isabella Bellandi, the one who does not crumble easily, the one who has always believed herself untouchable.
“You fucking bitch,” she hisses. “You dare to insult me?”
I laugh, because the sound costs me nothing and costs her everything.
“Oh, don’t pretend now you are above name-calling,” I reply. “What did you call me last time we met, while you were under my roof, drinking my wine? A Queens whore? You’ve built an entire personality on cruelty dressed up as entitlement. The very unoriginal Mean Girl? I mean, you couldn’t even come up with fresh material, could you?”
She jerks against the chair.
“You think you’re better than me?” she snaps. “You walked into a world you don’t understand and took what was meant to be mine.”
I lean back slightly, tilting my head.
“Ah,” I say. “There it is.”
Her nostrils flare.
“You’re not righteous,” I continue calmly. “You’re not justified. You are not protecting tradition or legacy or anything noble. You are a bully, Isabella, and worse than that, you are the kind of bully who convinces herself that her violence is necessary, when all you are really craving is power and recognition and the sick thrill of watching someone else bleed for your frustration.”
