Betrayed Heiress: My Husband's Deadly Mistake

Izzy POV

The temperature didn't just drop; it plunged.

I could feel it instantly, a biting chill that clamped its jaws around my exposed skin. I wrapped my arms around my belly, trying to shield my unborn son from the cold, but the dress offered no sanctuary.

Austen signaled to two men standing in the shadows. They were Enforcers, hulking figures with dead eyes who had once sworn loyalty to my father but were now following the scent of new money. They hauled open the heavy door of the freezer and stepped inside.

"Please," I begged, backing away until my spine hit the freezing glass. "Do not do this."

Austen's voice crackled over the intercom, distorted by static. "She still thinks she is royalty. Show her she is nothing."

The men lunged at me. Their hands were rough, bruising my arms as they seized control. One of them grabbed the neckline of my silver gown and yanked. The fabric gave way with a sickening rip.

They stripped the dress from my body in violent tears, leaving me in nothing but my lingerie.

I screamed, trying to cover myself, trying to cover the baby. The humiliation burned hotter than the cold. I was the Vancini Princess, and now I was on display like a piece of meat in a butcher shop.

Outside, the crowd cheered. I saw a man I had known since childhood, a banker, raise his glass and laugh as if this were sport.

"Bring the ice," Austen commanded.

A soldier entered with a large plastic bucket. He didn't hesitate. He upended it onto the metal floor at my feet. Ice cubes and freezing water splashed over my legs.

"Kneel," one of the Enforcers barked.

I shook my head. "No. Please."

He kicked the back of my knees. My legs buckled, and I fell hard onto the ice. The cold seared my skin like fire. I gasped, the air driven from my lungs. The sharp edges of the ice dug into my knees, cutting the skin.

"Austen!" I screamed his name, looking through the glass. My teeth were chattering uncontrollably. "Think about your son!"

For a second, just a fraction of a second, I saw his mask slip. He looked at my belly, round and vulnerable, and his hand twitched at his side.

Deb saw it too. She stepped in front of him, blocking his view of me. She stumbled slightly, grabbing his arm.

"Ow!" she cried out.

Austen turned to her, his concern immediate and genuine. "What is it?"

Deb held up her hand. A small trickle of blood ran down her palm. She had a hairpin clutched in her fingers, hidden from his view. She had stabbed herself.

She looked at me through the glass, her eyes filled with hate. "She threw that ice at me yesterday," she lied, her voice trembling with practiced fear. "When she attacked me in the office. I think I have internal bleeding, Austen. The stress... she is trying to kill us."

It was a lie so absurd, so transparent, but Austen swallowed it whole because he wanted to. He needed a reason to be the monster.

"You witch," he snarled at me, his face twisting into pure rage. "You are poison, Isolde. Everything you touch dies."

He turned to the soldier inside the freezer.

"Do not just put it on the floor," he ordered. "Put it on her. Cool her off."

A woman in the crowd, a socialite wearing pearls, stepped forward. "Austen, she is pregnant. That could kill the child."

Deb turned to the woman. "Oh, stop it. She is fine. She is just being dramatic. Look at her."

Austen ignored the woman. He looked at me, his eyes empty of anything human.

"Do it," he said.