Chapter 686

Isabella stood frozen, her throat tight. Harrison's slick words had backed her into a corner with effortless precision.

Henry Lancaster turned to his daughter, his gaze insistent. "Speak up, Isabella."

What could she possibly say? Remaining silent would only deepen Henry's suspicions.

"I had plans with Arabella," she finally admitted, lifting her chin. "We were going dancing at The Velvet Lounge. I just wanted a night out."

"Absolutely not." Henry's voice cut like ice. "It's far too late. You're going straight to bed."

"But Father—"

"Your mother will be returning in a few days."

Isabella's breath hitched. Her eyes widened in disbelief. "Mother? But I thought she was... gone."

"She's very much alive," Henry stated firmly. "And she's coming back to see you."

A cold dread slithered down Isabella's spine. She had spent years believing Isabella Lancaster was dead. Now, suddenly, she was returning?

If Isabella Lancaster walked through those doors, everything would unravel.

Harrison was her mother's true daughter. That bond ran deeper than blood—deeper than any connection Isabella had fabricated with Henry. With Harrison already living at the Lancaster estate, how long before the truth came spilling out?

Harrison tilted her head, studying Isabella's expression. "Your mother is coming home. Shouldn't you look at least a little happy?"

Isabella's nails dug into her palms. She despised Harrison more than anyone.

"I was abandoned in Willowbrook as a child," she spat at Henry, her voice trembling with manufactured hurt. "This is all your fault—and hers!"

Without waiting for a response, she stormed away, leaving the words hanging like poison in the air.

Harrison smirked.

Clever girl. Those words would only amplify Henry's guilt, making him more determined to compensate his "daughter."

Henry watched Isabella disappear, then turned to Harrison. "You've settled in quite comfortably. Even barging into my study now."

Harrison dipped her head in apology. "My mistake. The door was ajar. I knocked, but when I saw you speaking with Isabella, I... overstepped. Forgive me."

Henry studied Harrison's delicate features—the sharp intelligence in her eyes. None of his employees dared to be this bold.

They stepped into the study together.

That was when Harrison noticed it—a painting hanging on the far wall. A portrait of a breathtaking woman in a crimson gown, vibrant as a rose in full bloom. Isabella Lancaster.

Harrison's breath caught. She moved toward it almost unconsciously, her fingers twitching as if drawn by an invisible force.

Henry's voice cracked like a whip. "Don't touch that."

Her hand froze mid-air. She withdrew it slowly. "Apologies."

She hadn't meant to. But something about the painting pulled at her, demanding her attention.

"Is this Mrs. Lancaster?" Harrison asked softly.

Henry gave a single nod.

"Did you paint this yourself?"

Silence.

Harrison suddenly laughed—a light, knowing sound.

Henry arched a brow. "What's so amusing?"

She met his gaze, her lips curving. "You."

"Me?"

"I'm laughing because when Mrs. Lancaster was here, you were too busy chasing your first love to appreciate her. Now that she's gone, you immortalize her in paint. How tragically poetic."