“I can’t marry someone who doesn’t even know I exist,” Serena had said earlier, tears clinging delicately to her lashes as she leaned into my stepmother’s shoulder. “What if he never wakes up? I’ll be trapped in a marriage with a ghost.”
My father hadn’t argued. He didn’t need to. The room had slowly, inexorably turned toward me.
Because there was always a second daughter.
There was always a contingency.
Now he was looking at me again with the same cold assessment he used when deciding which branch of a business to amputate to save the rest.
“You understand what you’re offering,” he said slowly. “This will not be a real marriage.”
“I understand perfectly.”
“You will not be loved.”
“That isn’t a requirement.”
“You will not be consulted.”
“I’m used to that.”
“He may never recover,” he pressed.
I met his gaze. “Then nothing changes.”
Serena stared at me like I’d lost my mind.
“Isabella,” she whispered, “you don’t have to—”
“Yes, I do,” I interrupted gently. “Because you won’t.”
My stepmother’s mouth tightened.
This was not about generosity. It never had been.
This was about cost.
And in this family, I was always the cheapest thing on the table.