Rebirth Of The Mistress

Isabella POV

1923. Chicago smelled of rain, expensive cigars, and the metallic tang of blood hidden beneath the floorboards of speakeasies. On my nineteenth birthday, Jaret Frazier—my cousin, my fiancé, and the man I thought was my North Star—held my hands in his father’s study.

"The Kanes are dangerous, Izzy," he whispered, his eyes wide with a practiced, desperate sincerity. Jaret was the heir to the Frazier name, a minor branch of the Outfit, but he had the ambition of a Caesar. "My meetings with Alexandria Kane are a necessary alliance. It’s business, purely to keep your father’s fortune safe from the bigger sharks. Trust me."

I was a Wilder, raised in silk and shielded from the grime of the streets. I believed him. I didn't see the hunger in his gaze—not for me, but for the crown the Kane daughter could provide.

1924. The wedding of the decade took place at the cathedral, but I wasn't the one in the white veil. Jaret married Alexandria Kane, securing his seat at the high table. That same night, he dragged me to a secluded apartment overlooking the grey skyline.

"You are mine, Isabella," he snarled, the mask of the gentleman finally shattered. "The engagement is dead, but you aren't going anywhere. You will be my mistress. If you leave, if you tell a soul, your father’s business burns. He’s already drowning in Frazier debt."

The apartment was a masterpiece of Art Deco—velvet chairs, crystal carafes, and reinforced locks on every window. It was a gilded cage, and I was the bird whose wings he had personally clipped.

1925. The year the world turned red.