Marcia had been fuming the whole ride over, muttering under her breath about how she was going to give Fidelia a stern talking-to the moment she saw her.


    But when Fidelia appeared in front of her, eyes wide with fear and lips trembling with hurt, Marcia''s resolve melted away. All thoughts of scolding her daughter vanished in an instant.


    She knelt down, her voice gentle as she soothed Fidelia. "Sweetheart, where''s Effie? How could she just leave you on your own and let you wander off like this? It''s dangerous-she should''ve known better."


    At the mention of Effie, Fidelia''s expression shifted.


    "No, Mom, it''s not like that," Fidelia blurted out, shaking her head.


    Marcia stared at her in disbelief. "Fidelia, what are you saying?"


    Fidelia bit her lip, hesitating, clearly struggling with her words.


    “What''s going on? I thought you didn''t even like Effie. Why are you sticking up for her?"


    Marcia''s confusion showed inly on her face.


    Fidelia had intended to keep quiet-she still held a grudge against Effie, after all— but after what happened today, she realized maybe Effie wasn''t as bad as she''d always believed. So, swallowing her pride, Fidelia recounted the events that had just unfolded.


    "You mean to say you really saw Isabel there, but she didn''t help you?" Marcia gasped.


    Fidelia nodded, indignant. "That''s right! I even called out to her for help-loud enough for anyone to hear. She just nced back at me and then stood there, watching as that man dragged me away!"


    Marcia''s jaw clenched, her face twisting with anger. "Unbelievable! I can''t believe Isabel would do something like that. But honestly, given where shees from, it''s hardly surprising."


    She hadn''t meant to say something so harsh, but Marcia had never approved of Isabel''s background.


    And she knew she wasn''t the only one. Even Lindy Etheridge, she suspected, felt the same way.


    That''s why, even though Isabel had once been the only woman-besides family- to be close to Lyman Etheridge, Lindy had never tried to matchmake the two of them.


    Isabel was standing a short distance away, but she''d been watching Marcia and Fidelia closely, and heard every word.


    Her hands balled into fists so tightly her nails dug into her palms.


    Yes, her background was a stain she could never wash away.


    She''d always imed to be the Foster family''s daughter, but the truth was, no one


    in the family had ever acknowledged her.


    People only tolerated her because she was close to Lyman. No one dared to


    cross her openly, but behind her back, the whispers never stopped.


    Her mother had been a housekeeper


    for the Fosters a pretty woman, nothing more. One night, after Mr. Foster had too much to drink, things got out of control. Her mother insisted she was innocent, but the gossip was merciless: folks imed she''d seduced him for money, schemed her way into his bed.


    After that night, she''d gotten pregnant—and that''s how Isabel came into the world.


    She''d grown up in the Foster


    mansion, mostly ignored, left to her


    own devices. That wild


    vel


    independence led her to make


    friends with kids from the


    neighborhood-Lyman, Vinson


    Elliott, and others.


    When she first started out, she''d crafted an image for herself-a sophisticated heiress, a refined artist. But deep down, she''d always been painfully aware of her real origins, forever ashamed of where she''de from.


    That shame drove her to work harder than anyone, to be someone who could hold her head high.


    But people always found a way to bring her down. Their words could cut sharper than knives, and they never hesitated to remind her of her past, to tear open old wounds.


    Feeling Marcia''s cold, judgmental re, Isabel took a shaky breath, forced a smile, and walked over to greet her. "Marcia."