Isabella POV

The quiet, carpeted hallway of the Rowland Estate felt less like a home and more like a beautifully curated museum of stifling tradition. Oil portraits of my Rowland ancestors lined the walls, their cold, painted eyes seeming to judge every step I took. I didn't let my gaze drop. I kept my chin high as I approached the heavy oak doors of the formal parlor.

I didn't reach for the brass handle immediately. Instead, I paused, letting the suffocating silence of the corridor wrap around me.

Through the slight crack in the heavy doors, the muffled voices of my brothers bled into the hallway. They were arguing.

"Clara needs a match that solidifies our standing," Sean, my eldest brother, said. His voice was stiff, always calculating the political arithmetic of our lives. "A state senator's son, perhaps. Someone with a clean name but deep pockets."

"She needs to be far away from Chicago's filth," Liam countered, his tone laced with his usual self-righteousness. "A grand tour in Europe. We aren't selling her to the highest bidder, Sean."

I rolled my eyes. It was the same tired debate. They guarded Clara like a fragile porcelain doll, while I had always been the sacrificial lamb. I was about to push the door open and interrupt their hypocrisy when my brother, Connor, spoke.

"I don't care if he's a Rockefeller or a nobody," Connor said, his voice dropping into a harsh, bitter sneer that froze my hand inches from the door. "If he doesn't have a shred of decency, he's not good enough for her. We won't make that mistake again."

The words hit me like a physical blow.

*We won't make that mistake again.*

My breath hitched. In my past life, Connor had been the loudest advocate for Harrison Davies. He had practically pushed me down the aisle toward that ambitious monster, blinded by the promise of Washington power. Why the sudden shift? What "mistake" was he referring to? My forced engagement to Damien, or did he somehow know about the rot hiding behind Harrison's golden-boy facade?

I took a slow, silent breath, burying the shock beneath a mask of absolute indifference. I pushed the heavy oak doors open.

The hinges groaned, and the conversation inside died instantly.

The formal parlor was designed to display wealth and demand submission. Dark mahogany paneling absorbed the dim light filtering through the heavy velvet curtains. The air was thick with the scent of stale cigars, old books, and sharp lemon polish. It felt like a lavish mausoleum.

Sean, Liam, and Connor stood near the center of the room. They looked perfectly at home in their gilded cage, shifting uncomfortably only when their eyes met mine.

When their eyes landed on me, there was no pity. Only raw, unfiltered disgust. They blamed me for our mother's death in childbirth, a sin I could never wash away. They had come here on Catherine's orders to inspect the damage, expecting to find me weeping and broken by my fate.

I didn't give them the satisfaction. I stood tall in my impeccably tailored dark silk dress, looking every bit the future mistress of a dark empire.

Connor stared at me for a long second. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. Without a single word of greeting, he picked up his crystal glass of whiskey from a side table, turned his back to me, and walked to the far end of the room. It was a deliberate, theatrical display of absolute alienation.

Sean and Liam remained silent, their hostility a palpable wall between us.

Once, their silent cruelty would have shattered me. I would have desperately tried to bridge the gap, begging for a scrap of familial love. But as I looked at them now, I felt absolutely nothing. The blood tying us together had dried up and turned to dust.

They were not my family. They were the first stepping stones on my path to ruin Catherine.

I walked past them, the silk of my dress whispering against the rug, and took a seat on an empty velvet armchair near the unlit fireplace. I crossed my legs, resting my hands in my lap, and let the heavy gold of Damien's engagement ring catch the dim light.

I looked at the three men standing in parlor, waiting for them to speak.

Isabella POV

I looked at the three men standing in the parlor, waiting for them to speak. But the suffocating silence was broken by the heavy oak doors groaning open once more.

My father, Arthur Rowland, strode in. Behind him trailed my stepmother, Catherine, her posture rigid with aristocratic pretense, and my stepsister, Clara, looking perfectly demure in pastel pink. The real reason they had summoned me downstairs had finally made its entrance.

Catherine didn't bother with pleasantries. She took the velvet seat opposite me, meticulously smoothing her skirt. "Isabella," she began, her voice dripping with a saccharine sweetness that made my stomach turn. "Your engagement to Damien Franco is a delicate matter. To ensure the Rowland family maintains its leverage and doesn't appear weak before the *Cosa Nostra*, we must consolidate our strength."

She paused, her eyes gleaming with barely concealed greed. "Your late mother's trust fund and the deeds to her properties need to be transferred to your father's name. It will serve as a unified family asset—a proper dowry to secure your standing."

"A dowry?" Liam exploded, his face flushing a violent red. He slammed his whiskey glass onto a side table, the crystal ringing sharply. "This isn't an alliance! It's a shakedown! We are legitimate businessmen, not their *Associates*!" He whirled on me, his eyes blazing with contempt. "You're dragging our name into the gutter with these thugs, Izzy. You're a stain on this family."

I didn't flinch. I just stared at him, cataloging his hypocrisy.

"Liam, please," Catherine sighed, playing the weary matriarch. "This is a sacrifice Isabella must make. It is for her own protection in this... environment."

"She's selling us out!" Liam shot back, turning to our father. "Tell them, Father. Tell them we won't be bled dry by the mafia."

Before Arthur could speak, Clara stepped forward. She placed a gentle, restraining hand on Liam's arm, her doe eyes wide with manufactured distress. "Liam, don't be so harsh. You're hurting her." She looked at me, her expression a perfect mask of pity. "Izzy knows she has to do this. She has to think of the greater good of the family, not just herself."

It was a masterful performance. In two sentences, Clara had isolated me, painting my stolen inheritance as a moral obligation.

Arthur finally spoke. His voice was the crack of a whip, cold and absolute. "The papers are already drawn up. You will sign them today, Isabella. And you will show some gratitude for Catherine's tireless efforts to manage this mess."

He looked at me not as a daughter, but as a bad investment he was finally liquidating.

Liam opened his mouth, ready to launch into another self-righteous tirade, but Connor suddenly moved. He grabbed Liam by the shoulder, his grip tight enough to make our brother wince, and yanked him back.

"Enough, Liam," Connor muttered, his tone dark and final. "The decision is made."

As Connor turned his head away from Liam, the dim light of the parlor caught his profile. For a fraction of a second, a smile curved his lips—a sharp, secretive, and deeply satisfied smirk.

My breath caught in my throat.

Connor wasn't just a bystander. He was actively facilitating this robbery. Why? What did he gain from Catherine stripping me of my mother's wealth? The anomaly of his behavior regarding Harrison Davies and his actions now collided in my mind, forming a terrifyingly clear picture. Connor was playing his own game, and he had just become the most dangerous person in this room.

Sean, who had remained a silent, calculating observer by the window, finally stepped forward. He looked down at me, his pragmatic eyes searching for any sign of rebellion. He was waiting to see if I would fight, if I would make this difficult.

I slowly uncrossed my legs and folded my hands neatly in my lap. I looked at my father, then at Catherine, burying my hatred beneath a flawless veneer of submission.

"Whatever father and mother decide," I said, my voice hollow and compliant.

Sean gave a curt nod, satisfied. The tension in the room evaporated, replaced by the smug relief of thieves who had just gotten away with the heist.

They thought they had broken my wings. They didn't realize they had just severed the last frayed thread of loyalty I had left for the Rowland name.

Isabella POV

The heavy oak doors of the parlor closed, sealing my fate—or so they thought. I retreated to my bedroom on the second floor of the Rowland Estate. It was a sprawling, gilded cage overlooking the manicured, lifeless gardens. There was nothing of mine in this room that felt truly mine anymore; the French antique furniture and heavy silk drapes felt alien and suffocating.

Standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, the memory of my past life bled into the present. I remembered Catherine meticulously preparing my "dowry" for my marriage to Harrison: twenty heavy mahogany trunks. It wasn't until much later I discovered that at least half of them were stuffed with old newspapers and bricks. She had saved face for Washington society while hoarding the real wealth for herself, and my father, Arthur, had watched in silent, complicit approval. The overlap of the two lifetimes extinguished any lingering flicker of mercy I held for them. They weren't family; they were a rot that needed to be excised.

A frantic knock broke my reverie. Sofia, my loyal maid, slipped into the room, her face pale and her hands wringing her apron.

"Ma'am," she breathed, her voice trembling. "The staff... the whole house is talking." She hesitated, then spilled the poison Connor had so carefully planted. Last night, Damien Franco had been at *The Green Mill* jazz club. He had dropped ten thousand dollars on a brand-new Duesenberg for his mistress, a singer named Carmela.

Sofia expected tears or outrage. She thought this was the ultimate humiliation for a new fiancée. But I only felt a cold, terrifying clarity. Connor had conveniently let this slip to Liam, knowing Liam's temper would ensure the rumor reached me. Connor was a master of psychological warfare, testing my breaking point.

But the name *Carmela* struck a entirely different chord in my memory. In my previous life, my eldest brother Sean had been beaten to death in the alley behind *The Green Mill*, fighting over that exact woman. A pawn, a symbol, a catalyst for tragedy. I wouldn't let history repeat itself blindly.

After dismissing a bewildered Sofia, I sat at my vanity, staring at my reflection. My brothers were vultures circling a carcass. Sean, the cold pragmatist, didn't care about my humiliation as long as the Franco alliance held. Liam, the hypocrite, reveled in it because it validated his disdain for the mafia. And Connor... Connor had actively handed them the knife. The blood tie was dead.

The next morning, the true depth of their betrayal arrived in the form of Mrs. Eleanor Reid. My mother's most trusted confidante and my financial advisor laid the ledgers on my bed.

"They've rigged the real estate division, Isabella," she said, her voice tight with suppressed rage. She pointed to the bottom of the list. "They transferred two dilapidated warehouses in the West Loop to your name. They are burdened with exorbitant back taxes and tied to undocumented gang debts. It's a financial trap designed to bankrupt you within months."

I traced the ink on the page. A trap to them, perhaps. But in the heart of Chicago, on what would soon be my husband's territory, toxic assets tied to the underworld weren't just liabilities. They were leverage.

"We must contact your mother's family in Boston," Mrs. Reid pleaded, touching my hand gently. "They have the wealth and power to offer you sanctuary. You cannot survive this alone."

I pulled my hand away. "No, Eleanor. We won't contact them."

I couldn't tell her the truth. I didn't deserve their sanctuary. In my past life, desperate to secure Harrison Davies's political career, I had anonymously leaked shipping intel that bankrupted my maternal grandfather's fleet. I had destroyed the only people who truly loved me to please a family that ultimately threw me to the wolves.

In this life, that betrayal hadn't happened yet. To them, I was still their beloved granddaughter. But the phantom blood on my hands made the thought of facing them unbearable. More importantly, fleeing to Boston now would only drag innocent people into a mafia war. Damien Franco wouldn't let his engaged "property" walk away; he would slaughter my grandfather's legitimate enterprise just to make a point.

I had ruined them once for the Rowlands. I refused to be the architect of their destruction a second time.

I was entirely alone in a world ruled by violent men. If I wanted to survive, if I wanted to tear the Rowlands down to their foundations, I couldn't rely on a husband who flaunted his whore, or a family that robbed me. I had to become my own Don.

I looked back out at the impassive garden. The naive girl who craved her father's approval had died in the wreckage of my past life. The woman standing here now would burn this estate to the ground before letting them win.