Evening light slanted through the dining room windows as I made my way to the table. This would be my last dinner in this house—my prison for so many years—and I intended to make it count.
I paused at the head of the table, where my mother once sat. Her chair remained there, a silent memorial to the woman I barely remembered. Without hesitation, I pulled it out and took my place.
Jasper, our elderly butler, appeared at my side almost immediately, his weathered face creased with concern.
"Miss Isabella," he whispered urgently, "perhaps another seat would be more... appropriate."
I settled more firmly in the chair. "This is exactly where I want to sit, Jasper."
He glanced nervously toward the doorway. "Lady Beatrix won't approve."
"Lady Beatrix hasn't approved of my existence for years," I replied, smoothing the napkin across my lap. "Her opinion matters little to me now."
