I noticed Pearl's eyes following me across the kitchen, her gaze lingering on my midsection with narrowed suspicion. The morning sickness had become worse, and despite my loose uniform, the slight swell of my belly was becoming harder to hide.

"Isabella," Pearl called out, her voice honey-sweet with poison underneath. "I need the windows cleaned today. All of them."

I turned from the sink, wiping my hands on my apron. "The windows?"

"Yes, every single one." She smiled, revealing perfect white teeth. "The outside ones too. We're having guests tonight, and I want everything sparkling."

My heart sank. The mansion had three stories of tall windows, many with delicate stained glass panels. Cleaning them would take hours.

"Here." Pearl thrust a bucket of soapy water and a long-handled brush into my arms. "You can start with the east wing. Oh, and be careful—we wouldn't want any... accidents."

The way she said "accidents" made my skin crawl.

An hour later, I balanced precariously on a ladder outside the second-floor library windows. The wind whipped around me, threatening to knock me off balance. My arms ached from reaching up to clean the highest panes.

"Careful now," Pearl called from below, watching me with undisguised anticipation. "We wouldn't want you to slip."

I pressed my free hand against my stomach, steadying myself. The ladder wobbled slightly on the uneven ground.

"You know," Pearl continued, "Stephen mentioned how clumsy you've become lately. Almost like you're... distracted by something."

My blood ran cold. She knew. Or at least suspected.

I reached for the highest window pane, stretching my arm to its limit. The ladder shifted suddenly, one leg sinking into the soft earth. I gasped, grabbing the window frame as the ladder tilted dangerously.

For a terrifying moment, I hung suspended, my feet barely touching the rungs. Pearl's face appeared below, not concerned but disappointed.

"Such a shame," she murmured. "Though perhaps it would solve our little problem."

With a desperate surge of strength, I pulled myself back onto the ladder and climbed down, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure she could hear it.

---

The kitchen was hot and steamy when Stephen's mother burst through the door like a winter storm.

"There you are," she hissed, cornering me against the stove. "I've been looking for you."

I set down the pot I'd been scrubbing. "Mrs. Richards."

"Don't pretend you don't know why I'm here." Her eyes were bloodshot, her hands trembling slightly. "You think you can just waltz back into our lives?"

"I'm just working here," I said quietly. "That's all."

She laughed, a harsh sound like breaking glass. "Working? Is that what you call it?" She stepped closer, the smell of cheap whiskey on her breath. "Do you have any idea what you've done to my son?"

Before I could respond, her hand cracked across my face, the force of it snapping my head to the side.

"My son had a future," she continued, her voice rising. "A real future with Pearl. And then you had to come crawling back."

"I never asked Stephen to—" I began, but she cut me off.

"You never asked for anything!" she spat. "You took everything! With your money and your privilege! And now look at you—worthless."

I touched my stinging cheek, tasting blood where my lip had cut against my teeth.

"Stephen belongs to Pearl now," she warned, leaning in until I could see the broken veins in her eyes. "If you know what's good for you, you'll disappear before you cause any more damage."

---

The dinner party was in full swing when Pearl called me into the dining room.

"Isabella," she announced to the assembled guests, "I have a special task for you tonight."

The room fell silent. All eyes turned to me as Pearl held up a familiar midnight blue gown—one I'd worn to last year's winter gala.

"Your old dress," Pearl said with a smile. "I've had it altered. Put it on."

My stomach twisted as she thrust the garment into my hands. I recognized her plan immediately.

"Now," she insisted when I hesitated.

In the hallway, I slipped into the dress. As expected, it was too tight, the seams straining across my chest and hips, the hemline rising indecently high. The neckline plunged far lower than it should have.

When I returned to the dining room, titters of laughter rippled through the guests.

"Oh dear," Pearl said loudly. "It seems to fit rather... snugly."

I stood frozen as Pearl circled me like a predator.

"You know," she announced to the room, "I have all of Isabella's old things now. Her jewelry, her clothes, even her family heirlooms."

She fingered a diamond necklace at her throat—my mother's favorite piece.

"They belong to me now," Pearl continued, her eyes gleaming with triumph. "Just like everything else that was once hers."

The laughter grew louder as I stood there, humiliated in my too-tight dress, surrounded by people who had once been my equals.

I pressed myself against the wall, my heart hammering as Stephen's voice drifted through the partially open door of his study.

"Of course I don't regret leaving her," he was saying, his tone clipped and businesslike. "It was a mistake from the beginning."

I froze, my hand halfway to the door I'd been about to clean. The business partner on the other end of the line murmured something I couldn't hear.

"Isabella? She was just a rich girl playing at love," Stephen continued, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "I'm grateful to have escaped poverty through Pearl. She's the one who actually understands what it means to build something from nothing."

The words sliced through me like a blade. I must have made a sound because Stephen suddenly paused.

"Someone's there," he said to his caller. "I'll have to call you back."

I stepped into the doorway, unable to stop myself. Our eyes met across the room—his widening slightly before narrowing into cold slits.

For a moment, something flickered across his face—guilt, perhaps, or regret. My heart stuttered hopefully, foolishly. But then his expression hardened again, that mask of indifference sliding back into place.

"Isabella," he acknowledged flatly. Then, deliberately, he turned away from me, dismissing my pain as if it were nothing more than an inconvenience.

---

The rain pounded against the windows like angry fists, lightning illuminating the flooded basement in harsh flashes. Water sloshed around my ankles as I pushed the mop across the concrete floor.

"Faster!" Pearl's voice echoed from the top of the stairs. "The water's rising!"

I glanced up at her silhouette in the doorway, then back at the endless expanse of water. My back ached, my legs trembled with exhaustion. The nausea that had become my constant companion surged again.

"Stephen and I are having dinner in an hour," Pearl called down. "I expect this mess to be cleaned up by then."

Another crash of thunder shook the house. Through the storm's fury, I could hear the soft strains of music drifting from upstairs—Pearl's favorite waltz playing on the phonograph.

My knees buckled suddenly, the mop slipping from my grasp. I clutched at the wall, trying to steady myself, but darkness crept in at the edges of my vision.

"Help," I called weakly, my voice swallowed by another roll of thunder. "Please..."

No response came from above. Instead, the music grew louder—Pearl had turned it up deliberately.

I sank to my knees in the cold water, one hand pressed against my stomach. The baby. I had to think of the baby.

"Help," I tried again, but the word barely left my lips before consciousness slipped away.

---

I don't know how long I lay there before strong arms lifted me from the water. Through half-open eyes, I glimpsed Stephen's face above mine, panic etched across his features.

"Isabella!" His voice seemed distant, underwater. "What happened?"

I couldn't answer. My body felt impossibly heavy as he carried me up the stairs, away from the flood.

For a moment, his mask slipped completely. His eyes softened with something that looked almost like... care? His fingers brushed a strand of wet hair from my forehead.

"Stay with me," he whispered.

Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the tenderness vanished. His jaw tightened, his grip on me becoming impersonal, clinical.

"Where should I put her?" he called over his shoulder to Pearl.

"Anywhere but our bedroom," Pearl replied coldly. "She's probably faking anyway."

---

I woke to the sound of retching—my own. The servants' bathroom was dimly lit, my reflection in the mirror ghostly pale.

The door burst open behind me. Pearl stood there, her eyes narrowing as she took in the scene.

"Interesting," she said, her voice dripping with venom. "Very interesting."

I straightened slowly, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "I'm not feeling well."

"No," Pearl agreed, stepping closer. "You're not." Her gaze dropped to my midsection, then back to my face. "How far along are you?"

My blood ran cold. "What?"

"Don't play stupid." Her smile was vicious. "I know the signs. Stephen's child?"

I said nothing, but my silence was answer enough.

Pearl's laugh was brittle. "Oh, this is rich. The great Isabella Nelson, pregnant and scrubbing my floors." She leaned in close, her breath hot against my ear. "This changes nothing. In fact, it makes things much more... interesting."

From that day forward, my life became a living hell. Longer hours, less food, heavier tasks—all designed to break me down completely.

When Pearl told Stephen about the pregnancy, I watched his face carefully. Shock registered first, followed by something that might have been horror.

"Is it true?" he demanded, his voice strained.

Before I could answer, Pearl stepped between us. "She's lying," she said firmly. "It's just another manipulation attempt. You know how she is."

Something in Stephen's expression shifted—doubt giving way to cold certainty. He looked at me with new disgust.

"Get back to work," he ordered, turning away from me once more.