Isabella’s POV

The glass cup shattered against the wooden floor, spilling dark blood between the cracks of the polished floor.

I stared at it, unable to move. My breathing came too quickly, each breath catching in my chest as I pressed one hand against the dressing table to keep myself upright. I had barely taken two sips, the metallic taste still on my tongue.

I swallowed, hoping the feeling would pass, but it only became worse. I stumbled away from the table and barely reached the side of the room before I bent over and threw up the blood I had just drunk. It splattered onto the floor, and I squeezed my eyes shut, one hand gripping the front of my dress while the other pressed against my stomach. Tears gathered in my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I hated crying over this. I hated how helpless it made me feel.

It had happened many times before, ever since the year my mother died. The sickness never came often enough for me to know when to expect it, but it happened enough that I had learned what to do whenever it returned. Still, knowing how to handle it didn’t make it easier. Each time my body rejected blood, fear found its way into my chest.

I lifted my head toward the tall mirror beside my wardrobe. My reflection looked almost unfamiliar. My dark red eyes flickered from red to black before slowly returning to their usual color. Another pain hit me, and I reached for the nearest chair.

“What is wrong with me?” I whispered.

I had asked myself that question too many times. No one in the Laurentis household knew the answer, not even the physicians my father had brought to examine me over the years. Being half vampire was strange enough, but my eyes were supposed to remain red, and my body was supposed to crave blood rather than reject it as though I had swallowed poison.

I drew in a shaky breath and tried to steady myself. I had already dressed in a pale blue gown, my hair brushed and pinned neatly. I had only wanted a drink before going downstairs, yet the morning had turned into this.

A soft knock came at the door, and before I could answer, it opened.

“Miss Isabella?”

Rosalie’s voice made calm down.

She hurried into the room, her eyes immediately finding me. “Oh, my days.”

“I’m fine,” I said quickly.

Rosalie ignored me. She had worked in the Laurentis household since I was nine and had seen me sick countless times, yet she had never treated my condition as shameful. She crouched beside me and placed a hand against my back.

“Fine people do not look like they are about to faint.”

“I am not going to faint.”

She helped me toward the chair, and I lowered myself onto it while she reached for a clean cloth from the washstand. After gently wiping the corner of my mouth, she looked at me again.

“You should have called me.”

“I only wanted a drink.”

“And instead you drank something your stomach clearly does not want.”

“I know.”

There was no accusation in her voice, only worry, and somehow that made it worse.

“I am tired of this, Rosalie.”

She paused, and rested her hand on my shoulder. “I know, Isa.”

I took another slow breath, then another, until the pounding in my chest eased. My hands stopped trembling, and the the pain felt lighter. When I looked into the mirror again, my eyes were red, looking as normal as they ever could.

“I can manage now,” I said.

Rosalie studied me before reluctantly nodding. “You are still pale.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You had better be.” She stood and looked at the broken glass before carefully gathering the pieces. “Don’t worry about this. I’ll take care of it.”

“I can help.”

“You can do nothing of the sort.”

“You sound like my mother.”

Rosalie smiled faintly. “Someone has to.”

The warmth in her expression made my chest hurt. After losing my mother, Rosalie had become the closest thing I had to someone who cared for me without expecting anything in return.

She placed the broken pieces on a tray before turning toward me. “Your father sent me to tell you that he wants you in the dining room.”

I frowned. “Now?”

“He said you should come downstairs as soon as you were ready.”

I glanced at the clock. It was earlier than usual.

“Did he say why?”

Rosalie shook her head. “No. Only that he expects you there.”

That was unusual. My father called for me from time to time, but there was normally a reason and enough warning to prepare myself. This morning, there had been none.

“Thank you, Rosalie.” I said before closing the door behind me.

The corridor was quiet, the thick carpets softening my footsteps toward the staircase. Morning light spilled through the tall windows and fell across the dark wooden walls and portraits of generations of my family .

I descended the stairs slowly, one hand resting against the handrail. I wondered if Father had heard. I hoped not. I did not want another physician examining me while he pretended not to be worried.

At the bottom of the stairs, two maids carrying folded clothes greeted me with a polite “Good morning,” and I smiled at them before heading towards the dining room. My thoughts returned to what had always made me feel different from the rest of the Laurentis family.

It was not because everyone treated me badly. My father had never made me feel unwanted, and Seraphina treated me as her sister. But I had been born from a relationship that should have never happened. My mother had been a human maid, while my father was a duke, and that difference had made my place here complicated from the beginning.

I had been raised under the Laurentis name, surrounded by wealth, yet there was always a quiet line between me and the rest of them. Beatrice never needed to be openly cruel, she simply made sure I knew I was different.

And perhaps I was.

My father loved me. I knew that much. He had provided for me and, when I was younger, spent long evenings beside my bed whenever I was ill. But there had always been something missing. He loved me privately, yet I had never been certain he knew how to choose me publicly.

My thoughts went to Seraphina, and I smiled faintly. Despite being my half-sister, she had never allowed our different mothers to become a reason for treating me differently. When we were younger, she often came into my room simply to talk, even when Beatrice disapproved. We had grown busier, but she never stopped treating me like her sister.

As I reached the long corridor, I wondered what my life might have been like if my mother had been a vampire noblewoman, if I had not inherited the blood that made me different, if I had belonged here without wondering whether I did.

I had almost reached the dining room when I heard voices behind the closed doors.

My father’s voice came first.

Then Beatrice’s.

A moment later, I heard Seraphina laugh.

I slowed my steps.

All three of them were already there, which only made my uneasiness grow. I could not remember Father calling for me so early.

I stopped in front of the closed doors, wondering what could be so important that he needed me there so early. Whatever he wanted to discuss, I had a feeling this was not going to be a normal breakfast.