Isabella is hunched over a metal sink, sleeves rolled up, hands red and raw as she scrubs pans that clearly weren’t hers to dirty. Her hair is tied back with a cheap elastic. The dress I bought her last year is stained at the hem like she’s been kneeling. She doesn’t look like my wife.

She looks diminished. Worn down.

A tower of pots sits beside her like punishment. There’s a plastic chair nearby, empty, as if even rest is a privilege she’s not allowed. Her shoulders tense at every scrape, like she’s bracing for something that might come.

“Isinha!” a voice calls sharply from the doorway.

Vanessa. My sister. The one I trusted to “help” because she insisted Isabella was “too naive” to handle money. Vanessa stands there in a sleek dress, lipstick perfect, expression bored.

“Don’t forget the serving trays,” she says coolly. “And clean the patio after. There’s grease everywhere.”

Isabella nods without turning. “Okay,” she murmurs.

My stomach twists. My hands clench.

Vanessa sees me a second later. Her smile freezes. Color drains from her face.

“R-Ryan?” she stammers.

Isabella slowly turns toward me. When she sees me, her eyes widen — not with relief. With fear.

“Ryan?” she whispers, unsure.

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.”