Charles Knight was momentarily stunned by the way Margaret Blake was glaring at him, her eyes practically shooting daggers.
What the hell was wrong with this woman now?
Had she completely lost it?
He quickly snapped out of it, shoved Margaret aside, and snarled, “Have you lost your mind?
Is menopause frying your brain?
The marriage to Alexander Barron—wasn’t Isabella already out of the picture?
Summer went as the substitute bride.
So obviously, the one on the island now is Summer.”
Margaret knew all that.
But… she had personally put Summer on that black-market ship headed straight for hell in the Capital.
A sick feeling twisted her guts, her head pounding under the pressure.
She couldn’t take it anymore.
She rummaged frantically through her bag for her phone and dialed the traffickers.
No answer.
No matter how many times she called—every line was dead.
Her face turned as pale as the marble floor beneath her—shock-stricken, bloodless.
Then—it hit her.
She remembered how strange that sack had felt.
The desperate, feeble thrashing inside when she’d stabbed it with a needle.
The same odd reaction when “Isabella” got into the car for the island without even saying goodbye.
Everything was screaming one terrible truth: the girl she’d handed over to those monsters… might have been Isabella.
And she—she had been the one to stab her own daughter, again and again, breaking her skin, drawing blood.
She’d even given the order to have her “ruined” right there on the boat.
She had delivered her own child into the abyss with her own hands.
She didn’t deserve to be called a mother.
The realization punched through her like a physical blow.
She collapsed to the floor, utterly broken, sobbing uncontrollably.
“Ahhhhhh!!
My poor, poor Isabella!
It’s all my fault!
I’m so sorry!
So, so sorry!”
Charles had no idea what to make of the scene—Margaret suddenly crumpled on the floor, wailing like the world had ended.
His head was already spinning, and her ear-splitting cries were shredding his last nerve.
“Goddamn it, woman, you’ve officially lost it.
He turned and bellowed up the stairs, “Isabella!
Get down here and drag your mother out of my sight before I really lose it!”
But no matter how loud he yelled, Isabella never came.
Charles’s temples throbbed.
“Perfect!
You two just love living under my roof, spending my money, and finding new ways to ruin my life.
Useless—both of you!
At least Summer landed a decent marriage!
She’s better than the lot of you!”
“I’m going back to the island to see her—anything’s better than staying here with you lunatics!”
He stormed off, intent on grabbing his prized antiques from upstairs and rushing to Alexander Barron to beg for help saving the Knight Group.
But after just a few steps, Margaret clung to his leg with all her strength, her voice cracking with sobs.
“Charles, I’m begging you!
Please… please save Isabella!”
A full day and night had passed.
Her daughter—the one she’d coddled like fine porcelain, her precious girl who’d never known suffering—was now trapped in some hellhole in the Capital.
She couldn’t bear to imagine what Isabella was enduring.
And all of it—every bit—was her fault.
But Charles Knight kicked her away in a rage.
“That damn Isabella—who knows where she’s fooling around.
She can drop dead for all I care!
Useless thing!
Can’t even speak properly!”
“Or did you forget how she offended Old Mr.
Barron at the party?
Nearly got our whole family destroyed!”
Just remembering the party made Charles’s anger flare anew.
“No, it’s not like that!
Isabella… she’s trapped in a brothel in the Capital!
She’s suffering!” Margaret cried, her voice reaching a desperate pitch.
Charles was her last hope.
“What did you just say?
Why the hell would she be in a place like that?” Charles froze, turned back, and glared at her, eyes blazing.
Seeing his shift in tone, Margaret hurriedly crawled to him and spilled everything in a rushed, panicked confession.
But the moment Charles heard it, he exploded.
His glare could have burned through walls.
He slapped her hard across the face.
“Margaret, are you insane?
You did this behind my back?”
“Charles, it’s all my fault—Isabella is innocent!
Please, I beg you, save her!
She’s just a child—how can she survive that kind of place?”
“Then let her rot there!” Charles snapped.
As long as it didn’t affect his own interests, he didn’t care—not even about his own flesh and blood.
Margaret was stunned by his coldness.
Rage twisted her features.
She shot to her feet, eyes bloodshot.
“Fine!
If you won’t save her, I will!
And I’ll make that idiot Summer pay with her life for what she did to Isabella!”
In that moment, Margaret had completely snapped.
Hatred consumed her.
Her only thought was revenge for her daughter.
But she hadn’t taken a single step before Charles snatched her wrist and slammed her brutally to the ground.
“Margaret, have you lost your mind?
Summer’s a fool—you think she could pull off a switch like this?
Impossible.
This has Alexander Barron’s fingerprints all over it!”
“You don’t touch the Barron family’s bride unless you have a death wish!
Cross them, and we’re all finished!
If this blows up, don’t expect me to save you.
When disaster hits, everyone’s on their own!”
There was no way Charles believed Summer could mastermind such a scheme.
In his mind, it had to be Alexander’s doing.
The mere thought made his legs go weak—he didn’t even dare return to the island now, terrified of Alexander’s wrath.
Meanwhile, Margaret was shattered by his words, completely disillusioned.
All she could think of was Isabella suffering in that hellhole, all because of that foolish Summer—and she was powerless to help.
The pain wrecked her from the inside, as if every organ had been twisted into knots.
She suddenly coughed up a mouthful of blood, gasped for air, and passed out cold, her eyes rolling back.
…
By the time Alexander Barron was updated on the situation, it was already late afternoon.
The setting sun bathed the private island in a deep gold, setting the reeds ablaze with a vivid, burning red.
The sea and sky melted together in the distance—a view so stunning it felt surreal.
He sat in his study.
Ethan Hart stood before him, posture respectful, delivering the report.
But besides the news concerning the Knights, Ethan had brought another piece of intel—something even more troubling.