Isabella stood up.
Her body was tense, but her steps were firm and resolute.
Zoe watched her go from her seat.
A sly, satisfied smile played on her lips as she sipped her coffee.
Her hands would remain clean this time.
She had masterfully turned Isabella into a weapon against their shared rival, Sophia.
If Isabella succeeded, it was a bonus.
If she failed, Zoe lost nothing.
She had orchestrated everything from the shadows, simply nudging Isabella in the right direction.
She placed her cup down.
Her smile grew wider.
In the downtown hospital.
A soft knock broke the quiet of Eleanor’s room.
Isabella stirred, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the low light.
“Come in.”
The door opened smoothly.
The Blackwood family butler entered, carrying a thermos with a warm smile.
“Miss Scott, Mr. Blackwood asked our chef to prepare this broth. He insisted it would aid your recovery.”
He set the thermos on the bedside table.
A rich, savory aroma immediately filled the space.
Isabella looked at the soup, her emotions conflicted.
She felt gratitude, but also a deep unease.
“Please thank Mr. Blackwood for me,” she said, offering a polite but distant smile.
“Of course, Miss Scott. Mr. Blackwood also wished me to remind you that if you or Mrs. Vance require anything at all, we are at your service,” the butler replied.
He opened the container and poured a bowl of the steaming broth for her.
Isabella eyed it warily.
Ethan’s persistent attention made her uncomfortable.
She did not want to be in his debt.
“Really, that’s unnecessary. I am feeling much better now.”
“Please, Miss Scott. It is a gesture of goodwill from Mr. Blackwood,” the butler urged kindly. “And Mrs. Vance could benefit from the nourishment as well.”
Finally, Isabella relented under his earnest persuasion.
“Thank you.”
He smiled and left the room.
She held the warm bowl but couldn't bring herself to eat.
Ethan’s concern felt overwhelming, a reminder of the complicated ties binding her, Liam, and him.
A soft cough came from the bed.
Isabella’s gaze snapped to her grandmother.
Eleanor’s eyelids fluttered, a sign she was waking.
“Grandmother!” Isabella cried, abandoning the bowl to grasp her grandmother’s hand. “You’re awake!”
Eleanor’s eyes opened slowly, her gaze hazy and unfocused.
“Is that you, Isabella?”
“Yes, Grandmother. It’s me. It’s really me,” Isabella responded, her voice choked with emotion as tears streamed down her face.
Seeing Eleanor conscious washed away a wave of her earlier anxiety.
She immediately pressed the call button by the bed.
A doctor arrived shortly to conduct a thorough examination.