Page 6 of The Betrothal

“Liz knows this woman. She got into trouble, big trouble. She didn’t comply,” she whispered as if we could be overheard.

I inhaled sharply. She either didn’t marry or wouldn’t give him a child.

“She disappeared, but not in a shallow-grave type of way. She used this service, and she went into hiding. They produced her identity documents, and they moved her across the country. She reappeared somewhere else, with all the evidence of a husband, but one who was conveniently absent.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t a shallow-grave type of way, Soph?” I gripped her hand, discarding the cold alcohol. “These things don’t exist.”

Sophie glared at me.

“She’s heard from her, Izzy. It isn’t a rumour.”

“Holy fuck.” My mind raced, the alcohol not helping with clarity.

Could I? No. Of course I couldn’t. Even if it did exist, my face was well known. My father’s political position made sure of that. And Teddy? He was famous in his own right.

Daughter of a Secretary of State and daughter-in-law to the leader of a political party. I couldn’t simply disappear.

“Soph, even if it existed? I couldn’t, it wouldn’t work.” I shook my head, Sophie giving me another moment to think it over.

“I don’t have time for dreams. I need to accept it. You’re right, you know?” I felt sick saying it. “Five years and seven months, that’s it. And I’m sure I will love being a parent, for the kids, you know?”

“I know?” Sophie smiled sadly, nodding. She uncapped the bottle, taking a swig, and handing it to me. I finished it with a few gulps.

“Yeah, of course,” she muttered, hand gripping my leg. “You got this.”

She stood. “I’ve got to go.” Her hand clapped my shoulder and squeezed, tightly.

“You’ll come to the cabin next weekend, please, Soph, please don’t leave me alone with them.” My words weren’t exactly well enunciated, but Sophie found the urgency clearly and an evil smile crossed her lips.

“Miss an opportunity to offend your banshee of a sister with my very existence? You couldn’t keep me away.”

Landing a loud kiss on my cheek, she grabbed her things and opened the door.

CHAPTER THREE

ISABELLE

Ilooked at myself in the mirror. Even from my rooms on the top floor, I could hear the party in full swing in the main hall downstairs.

Our family home in central London was unnecessarily large. Generational wealth.

Normally I considered it far too large. How the government got away with pretending to be part of the people when they lived as we did was a mystery to me.

Since the grandeur of the house so often offended me, I offended my family in return by utilising the old servants’ quarters in the attic, offering me my version of luxury by having service stairs to move around the property, even a small kitchenette. By anyone’s standards, it was a great flat in central London, but not for my family, and it was another concession Father allowed, to the irritation of Mother.

Today, instead of condemning the outrageous size of the house, I wished it were larger, perhaps a few hundred miles wider, so I could be as far away from the two-faced lies and well-frocked duplicity happening below me.

The dress my mother had made for me was beautiful.

I detested it.

Flowing silver fabric, silk, wrapped and draped around my body, hugging every curve. The undergarments squeezed and compressed me into the desired shape, the shape being ‘slim elegance’. My figure, much to Mother’s dismay, was not ‘slim elegance’. It curved, big hips and a full chest with a smaller waist, but not as small as it ‘needs to be’, Mother’s voice echoed loud in my head.

Ester was tall and slender, graceful, as was the fashion these days. The male gaze led the female beauty standard, and that was slim, composed, beautiful to look at, and likely silent. I was anything but. Ester’s tall grace was a harsh contrast to my curvy five-foot-three. Her long, flowing auburn hair and rich brown eyes emphasised the odd grey tones of my hair, which only made my light hazel eyes stand out further. We looked nothing alike. Father minimised the naturally grey hair I inherited from him, he argued this to be the cause of the notable differences in our appearances. Something I heard from his colleagues and political allies on an endless basis.

Perhaps most infuriatingly of all, my sister conformed, and I did not. Where she sought to fit in, to be praised for representing everything a woman should be, I, well, I just couldn’t.

For years I tried, chastising every thought I had which went against the grain, starving myself to try to fit in, dyeing my hair. Anything to feel better, to feel less like I was an anomaly, somehow always half a beat behind the dance that was life.