Love Was Her Sentence

The night was dark and heavy. On the king-sized bed, two bodies tangled together.

Isabella stared wide-eyed, trying hard to push the man off her. HDesmond, please… don't," she begged.

But the sharp, familiar pain still came anyway.

Desmond Marson gently cupped her face, his voice hoarse and mumbled. "Nora, I love you… I love you…"

They should've been close in that moment, but it felt more like a battlefield.

Isabella bit her lip to stop any sound from escaping. Tears welled up in her eyes—she hurt, inside and out. Her voice trembled as she asked, "Desmond, do you always have to treat me like I'm my sister?"

The stink of alcohol clung to Desmond. It made her head spin, and her heart ache even more.

Since marrying him half a year ago, the nights had all looked the same.

Whenever he touched her, he was always drunk.

Because only when he was wasted could he stare at her face—so much like her sister's—and pretend she was Nora Bennett.

He didn't react to her words, like he hadn't heard a thing.

A twisted man—that's all he was. Her heart throbbed painfully. He was so gentle, yet none of it was ever meant for her.

Suddenly, she grabbed his arm and bit down hard. When the sting brought a flash of clarity to his face, she looked at him steadily, eyes bright with pain.

"Tomorrow's Nora's death anniversary. And here you are, pretending I'm her. If she's watching, I wonder how hurt she must be."

Her words hit him like cold water, extinguishing every trace of passion in his eyes. He shoved her off and stood up sharply, pulling on his clothes without a word.

In an instant, the man who'd just acted like a beast had turned back into the poised, elegant Desmond—untouchable, aloof.

He looked at her coldly. "You're not worthy of even mentioning her name."

Isabella slowly sat up, wrapping the blanket around herself, though it couldn't hide the marks and mess covering her body.

Desmond stared at her and gave a half-smile—the kind that cut deeper than cruelty. He reached out, pinched her chin, and sighed. "You really do have a beautiful face."

She froze for a second.

"But that face is only good enough to warm a bed." His fingers dug in harder, and she winced in pain.

Yeah, that was probably going to bruise.

Not that it mattered. Isabella was used to finding new bruises in the morning.

She was used to the insults too.

And that word—"used to"—was terrifying.

Still, she managed to force a smile at the man in front of her. "Don't forget… you had something to do with Nora's death too."

Normally, she wouldn't dare bring up Nora after Desmond had warned her not to. But with her sister's anniversary approaching, she couldn't help it. Everything hurt more today.

And just like that, she crossed a line.

His eyes narrowed. That hand that had gripped her chin now slid to her throat—tightening, tightening.

Isabella gasped, hands flailing helplessly, trying to pry him off. But he was too strong—she couldn't fight him.

Her vision darkened. His face was just a blur now, that fierce expression fading into nothing.

Her body felt heavy. Her arms went limp.

Was this it?

Was she really going to die?

It didn't sound so bad. Maybe she could finally find Nora, finally ask her why she had to leave like that.

But then—her body was slammed aside.

She hit the edge of the bed and rolled over onto the thick Persian rug. It helped break the fall, but her head still hit the ground hard.

The dizziness came rushing in again.