The house was unusually quiet when Isabella returned home that evening. She had been out running errands for Alex, her thoughts filled with the usual storm of confusion and frustration that had been plaguing her lately. It wasn't uncommon for Alex to stay late at work, and though she often dreaded the silence in their vast home, tonight it seemed especially thick—almost ominous.
As she walked through the grand hallway, her heels clicking softly against the marble floors, she noticed something that made her pause: laughter. A soft, feminine sound, drifting from the living room. Isabella's heart sank. That voice—it wasn't hers.
She quickened her pace, her pulse quickening in tandem. As she rounded the corner, her worst fear materialized before her eyes. There, sitting casually on the plush sofa with a glass of wine in her hand, was Sophie. The woman who had been chosen for Alex, the one his mother desperately wanted him to marry. Sophie, with her perfect hair, her graceful posture, and that cold, poised smile that made Isabella feel like she was intruding in her own home.
Alex was standing across from her, his posture relaxed, his expression unreadable. They were deep in conversation, and Sophie's presence in the room felt too intimate, too familiar.
Jealousy flared in Isabella's chest like a match struck too close to dry wood. It was irrational—she knew it. After all, wasn't this the life Alex's family had planned for him? Sophie was supposed to be in this house, sitting in that living room, sharing wine with Alex. She was the one his mother had chosen. Isabella had always known that their marriage was a farce, that she was nothing more than a stand-in. And yet, seeing Sophie here, so comfortable, so at ease in the place Isabella had begun to call home, made her stomach twist painfully.
Before she could stop herself, she strode into the room, her voice sharper than she intended. "What's going on here?"
Alex looked up, his expression hardening as soon as he saw her. Sophie raised an eyebrow, a small, amused smile tugging at her lips as if she was enjoying Isabella's discomfort.
"Isabella," Alex said, his voice cool, detached. "I didn't expect you back so soon."
Isabella ignored the subtle dismissal in his tone, her gaze fixed on Sophie. "What is she doing here?"
Sophie leaned back, crossing her legs elegantly. "I was just visiting an old friend. Is that such a crime?"
The ease with which she spoke sent another wave of jealousy through Isabella. "Visiting an old friend in his home?" she asked, her voice rising with each word.
Alex's expression darkened. "That's enough, Isabella."
"No, it's not enough!" she snapped, the hurt and frustration that had been building for weeks finally boiling over. "She's sitting here like she owns this place, like she belongs here. What am I supposed to think, Alex?"
Sophie watched the exchange with growing amusement, clearly enjoying the drama unfolding before her. But Alex, on the other hand, was far from entertained.
"Mind your business," Alex growled, his voice dropping low with warning. "This is between me and Sophie. It has nothing to do with you."
His words were like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of her. Nothing to do with her? Wasn't she his wife, at least on paper? Hadn't she been the one standing by his side, enduring the coldness, the distance, the insults? And now, to hear him say that her concerns were irrelevant—nothing?
Her throat tightened, and she blinked back the sting of tears that were threatening to fall. "Of course," she said bitterly, her voice trembling. "I forgot my place. This isn't my home, is it? It's hers."
Sophie smiled again, the victory evident in her eyes, and Isabella couldn't stand to be in the room a moment longer. She turned sharply on her heel and rushed upstairs to her room, the weight of humiliation pressing heavily on her chest.
Once inside, she slammed the door shut, her breaths coming in ragged, uneven gasps. She leaned against the door, letting out a sob that she had been holding back all evening. The house that had once felt cold but bearable now felt like a cage closing in on her, trapping her with emotions she didn't want to acknowledge.
She wiped her tears angrily, scolding herself for being so foolish. She had always known this day would come, hadn't she? Sophie was the woman meant to sit beside Alex. She was the true heiress to his name, his wealth, his family's approval. Isabella was nothing more than an imposter, a temporary placeholder in a life that wasn't hers to keep.
She couldn't stay here anymore. Not after this. Not after seeing Sophie so effortlessly step into the role Isabella had only been borrowing. There was no point in pretending any longer.
She threw open her closet, pulling out a suitcase. The clothes she had brought with her, the few things she had claimed as her own, were packed hastily. Her hands moved mechanically as she folded her clothes, each movement pulling her further from the life she had mistakenly started to believe in.
When the suitcase was filled, she grabbed her phone and called the only person she could think of.
"Ava?" she whispered when her friend picked up. "Can I come over?"
Ava's voice softened with concern. "Of course, Isabella. What happened?"
"I'll explain later," Isabella said, her voice cracking. "I just… I need to leave."
"Come over whenever you're ready. You can stay as long as you need."
Isabella hung up and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her tear-streaked face looked back at her, reminding her of all the nights she had cried herself to sleep since marrying Alex. All the nights she had warned herself not to get attached, not to let herself feel anything more than indifference. She had failed, of course. She had let herself believe—just for a moment—that there was more to her relationship with Alex than a cold business arrangement. But tonight had shattered that illusion.
This was Sophie's home. Sophie's place. And Isabella didn't belong here.
With her suitcase in hand, Isabella made her way down the stairs. Alex didn't even bother to come after her, and the silence was as damning as any words he could have spoken.
She was leaving. For good this time.
And maybe, just maybe, that was for the best.