I step closer, careful, because she looks fragile. I take in her cracked knuckles, the split skin. My throat tightens.
“Why are you back here?” I ask quietly.
Vanessa laughs too fast. “Surprise! Isabella likes helping. She insisted.”
I turn to her slowly. “You sent my wife to wash pans,” I say, my voice low. “In my house.”
“It’s just dishes,” she shrugs. “We’re hosting a party. She’s family.”
“Family doesn’t talk like that,” I say. “Family doesn’t call her ‘Isinha’ like she’s a servant.”
Isabella flinches at my tone. That hurts more than anything.
I soften. “Isabella,” I say gently. “Did you choose this?”
She hesitates. Her eyes flick to Vanessa instinctively.
That’s answer enough.
Vanessa jumps in. “Don’t be dramatic. Mom said it was better this way. Isabella doesn’t understand high society. We’re protecting your image.”
I glance around the small kitchen. There’s a thin mattress rolled in a corner. A cheap apron hanging on a hook.
My mansion has a uniform for my wife.
Something in me goes cold.
“Isabella,” I say steadily, “pack a bag.”
Her eyes widen. “What?”
“Excuse me?” Vanessa snaps.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” I reply.
Vanessa blocks the doorway. “You’re embarrassing us. Everyone’s upstairs.”