Isabelle

Behave? Ha!

He took my things like they were his. Like I'm his to punish. I shiver, imagining what "behaving" for him will even look like.

But if it gets me my stuff back, maybe—

No. I won't do more than the daily chores he assigns me. That will have to be enough to deserve my things back.

Deserve? You didn't do anything wrong.

I groan, clenching my teeth and holding my stomach. As if Adam's mental torture wasn't enough, my own body has decided to join in my punishment. I clutch my stomach tighter as it growls its fury for the fiftieth time, furious at my decision to refuse Adam's dinner invitation.

Note to self: grab bread, then refuse outrageous demands.

I should have it tattooed on my wrist on the off chance I find myself in such a ridiculous situation again. Maybe with a hashtag: #NeverForget. God, I wish I'd taken one of Louis's sandwiches or at least made my stand after stealing a few dinner rolls. I'm sure a fancy man like Adam Marsters would serve dinner rolls.

The buttery kind, and he'd have endless amounts like they serve at those high-end restaurants. That's how they get you. Fill you up on rolls, and then by the time your meal comes, you're too stuffed to eat—but you still have to pay for it even though they don't offer doggie bags. The servers probably laugh in the back while they feast on the untouched plates. My belly grumbles, beseeching me to stop thinking about food, but the more it growls, the more I think about those damn rolls.

I drag myself into a sitting position on the bed and stare at the door. Adam couldn't have been serious when he said I could starve if I didn't eat with him, could he? I was sure he'd make me sweat for a while before sending one of his servants to bring me food, but it's been hours.

At least, I think it's been hours. There's no clock in the room, and my phone's dead, but I watched the sun set and the moon rise, and that was a while ago. My stomach grumbles again, and I groan from the pain. It feels like it's consuming itself.

"Shit," I mumble, realizing no one's coming to feed me. If I'm going to eat tonight, I'll have to find food myself. I stand up slowly, trying not to let my already hammering head make me dizzy. Then, once I'm sure I have my balance, I crack the door open just enough to poke my head out, checking to make sure that the psychotic man hasn't posted guards outside.

There's no one there, but I notice a small camera focused on my room. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I stare into the lens, like when you sense someone watching you but don't know where from. Unfortunately, I'm not afforded the luxury of not knowing. The only question I have is whether or not he's watching me at this very moment. If he is, I don't have long before he catches me.

Now or never.

I steel my nerves and force my feet to move out of the room. I hurry past the camera, racing down the hallway in search of food before the logical part of my brain has a chance to talk me out of it. But to be honest, the logical part of my brain hasn't really been swinging home runs today. It sure did choose a lousy time to take a vacation.

I'm not even sure I'm going in the right direction because this place is more of a maze than a house. It took me forever just to find the main floor, but a smile spreads across my face—and maybe a bit of drool—when I catch whiffs of chicken, vegetables, and... ROLLS. Before I realize it, my nose has led me to a gigantic kitchen—clearly built for throwing lavish parties or something.

I all but plummet to the floor in near tears as I look around. It's completely empty—not one pot on a burner, nothing heating in the ovens, not even a can of soup hovering over a candle. I know that last one's a stretch, but I'd take it if I saw it. I don't understand. I've only been in captivity for a few hours, and I'm already losing my mind. I must be. Because despite what my eyes are telling me, I still smell food. I sigh, searching the darkened room in vain.

I shake my head when laughter fills my ears, which is the wrong move because I immediately become lightheaded. I force my eyes to focus, scanning the space again. As if shaking my head resets the room, I now see a light illuminating from a crack beneath a door at the far end of the room. I inch closer to the light, partly to avoid making too much noise and partly because my head can't handle moving any faster.

The mouthwatering aroma of food overwhelms me as I approach the door, and I start drooling even harder. My hand shoots to the knob, and I start to turn it, intent on annihilating whatever food lies behind the door. Laughter booms through the wood, causing me to hesitate.

What if he's in there?

The thought almost paralyzes me, but my stomach's more persuasive than my fear, and I push the door open. My eyes nearly pop from their sockets. The massive kitchen has a baby kitchen inside it.

God, this man has too much money for anyone, let alone one crazed person.

The smaller kitchen has a few cupboards, a sink, and a stove with soup simmering on top—right next to a tray of freshly baked rolls. My eyes are so obsessed with the food that I scarcely register the dinette set in the corner—or the people sitting around it.

"Are you lost, Miss Shepherd?" Claud's harsh voice snaps me from my dreams of guzzling the entire pot of soup.

I swirl to the table, which my head warns me not to do again, and see Ms. Pottsworth, Louis, and Claud gawking at me like I've strolled into the room nude.

"What? Um no...I was just... you see...." My stomach grumbles, saving me from my babbling gibberish.

"Poor dear, you're hungry," Ms. Pottsworth says, finishing my sentence for me.

"Famished," I reply.

"Well, I suppose you should have accepted Mr. Marsters' dinner invitation," Claud sniffs, lifting his high and mighty nose in the air.

"For once in your life, Claud, do everyone a favor and stuff your gullet," Ms. Pottsworth says, standing from her seat. She wraps her arm around my shoulders and leads me to the table.

"Don't you mind him. The old fart wasn't born with a heart," Louis says, flashing me a wink and a crooked grin. I assume it's his signature move concerning women. "Only the heartless could see such a fine woman in need of help and refuse her."

On a different day, his move would've worked.

"Louis is right. Claud's a twat. Now sit, and we'll run that hunger off," Ms. Pottsworth says, pushing me into an empty chair. She hurries to place a huge bowl of soup and a basket of rolls in front of me.

My mouth starts watering again, and I feel like one of those damn bell dogs.

"I can't. This is your food," I say, hoping they see through my polite but false refusal. "I mean, won't you get in trouble with Mr. Marsters?"

"Excellent point. At least someone other than me has signs of intelligence," Claud says, almost gleeful. "Not that it can be much, though, seeing how you were resolved to starve rather than accept a simple dinner invitation."

"That's easy to say when you're not the one being forced to stay in a stranger's house—someone with a blatant disregard for personal boundaries and decency," I retort, too livid to start eating. This man knows nothing about me, yet has the audacity to judge my choices—which aren't exactly crazy, by the way. "He struts around like he's never been told the world doesn't belong to him."

"Here, it does," Claud replies.

"That might be true about you, but not me," I shoot back, my anger simmering hotter than the soup on the stove.

"On the contrary. Your fate was determined the moment you agreed to stay in lieu of your father's imprisonment," Claud says, bits of spit wetting the table as his anger rises too. "Like it or not, you lost your opinion on matters the moment you agreed to work for him. If you're feeling remorseful about your decision, tuff titties. I, for one, won't be part of going against Marsters' rules."

"Oh, have a roll," Ms. Pottsworth says, stuffing bread into Claud's mouth before sitting beside me. "There's plenty of soup to go around, and don't you worry 'bout Adam. We've been dealing with his tantrums for decades now."

"You're sure?" I ask, not wanting to get them in trouble because I'm hungry.

"Be our guest," Louis says, turning off the stove and pushing the bread closer to me as he returns to his seat.  

Author's Note:

Hey, lovely readers! ❤️ Things are really heating up with Isabelle's defiance here, and I'd love to know what you think! How do you feel about Isabelle's choices so far? Did you enjoy her banter with Claud, Ms. Pottsworth, and Louis? They all have quite the personalities. Claud's biting remarks, Ms. Pottsworth's nurturing warmth, and Louis's playful humor add a mix of tension and lightheartedness to the scene. I hope you love them as much as I do. 

I'd absolutely love to read your opinions, favorite moments, and any theories you have about where things might be headed. Your support, comments, and votes truly mean the world and keep the story thriving! Thank you for joining in on this adventure!