“Discipline?”
Isabella waved a hand. “Don’t tell me you’re taking her side over me. I’m your fiancée! I have standards.”
“And I have boundaries,” Lucas replied, his eyes unwavering.
He crouched beside Mrs. Carmichael, lifting her chin with a trembling hand. Her eyes were red from years of devotion—years Isabella had trampled in minutes.
“You don’t answer to her,” Lucas whispered. “You never will.”
Tears spilled down Mrs. Carmichael’s face.
“You’re overreacting,” Isabella scoffed. “She’s just staff.”
“She’s family,” Lucas said simply.
The room fell silent. Isabella’s face paled.
“She raised me from the age of four. She held me when my father died. She kept this home running when we had nothing. And you—” he gestured toward the rag in her hand “—made her scrub my floors like a servant.”
“She’s a servant,” Isabella shot back.
Lucas’s expression froze.
Mrs. Carmichael murmured, “Lucas… I didn’t want trouble…”
“You didn’t,” he said softly. “She did.”
“Are we really arguing over a housekeeper?” Isabella demanded.
“No,” Lucas said firmly. “We’re talking about the woman who means more to me than anyone else. And you insulted her.”
“Important? She’s just—” Isabella began.