She stepped forward with deliberate grace.

Her movement placed her directly between Isabella and Ethan.

It was a silent declaration of territory.

“Isabella, why are you just staring? Don’t stand there doing nothing!” Zoe’s voice cut through the room, louder than necessary. It carried an authority she hadn’t earned. “Ethan is clearly intoxicated. Assist him to his room.”

She moved with the unearned confidence of a hostess addressing staff. In her mind, Isabella was merely a background character, an inconvenience to be managed.

Isabella didn’t move. She remained perfectly still. Her expression was a placid mask, her gaze resting on Zoe with an unsettling serenity. It was the calm of deep, still water, hiding unknown depths. For the first time that evening, Zoe felt a shift. A tiny fissure in her certainty appeared. She pressed on anyway, forcing a sweet, knowing smile onto her lips.

“Isabella, you aren’t upset with Ethan, are you?” Her voice dripped with false concern. “I understand how this must appear, but you really should trust him. He—”

“That’s quite enough from you.”

Isabella’s voice was a quiet storm, slicing through the air and halting Zoe’s speech mid-sentence. Then, softer but infinitely colder, she spoke again. “Miss Tremblay. Please remove yourself from my path.”

Their eyes locked. Isabella’s gaze was steady, unwavering, and held a trace of something Zoe hadn’t anticipated: sheer impatience, as if this entire interaction was testing her very limited tolerance.

Zoe faltered.

She had expected meekness. Hesitation. Quiet, seething resentment. But this? This cool, detached dismissal? It was unnerving.

Her mouth opened, a retort forming on her tongue, but under Isabella’s penetrating stare, the words evaporated before they could be spoken. And just like that, Isabella was finished with her. Without a second glance, she stepped around Zoe, moving toward Ethan with an ease that made it devastatingly clear—Zoe had never been an obstacle to begin with.

Seeing Isabella approach Ethan, Zoe hurried after her. She leaned in, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper meant for Isabella’s ears alone. “Isabella, are you truly blind? Ethan doesn’t love you. Not at all. Do you honestly believe he got drunk without a reason? That he asked me to bring him home without a purpose? Wake up! He’s merely using you to maintain appearances.”

Zoe moved closer, her voice trembling with barely contained excitement. Her breath was warm and intrusive against Isabella’s skin.

“He told me himself—he’s only with you out of a sense of duty. The only woman he has ever truly loved is me. And soon, very soon, he will divorce you and make everything official.”

Zoe’s words slithered through the air, a cruel spell designed to shatter.

She waited, eager for the collapse—the telltale tremble of lips, the sharp gasp, the flicker of utter devastation in Isabella’s eyes. She wanted to witness her crumble, to watch her break piece by piece.

But nothing happened. Isabella didn’t even flinch.

Her expression remained eerily composed, as if Zoe’s poisonous confession was nothing more than insignificant background noise, a faint, passing breeze.

She didn’t look at Zoe. Her focus stayed entirely on Ethan, unwavering.

“Miss Tremblay…” Isabella’s voice was calm, steady, and, to Zoe’s growing unease, held the faintest trace of amusement. “I appreciate you bringing my husband home.”

The words were light, almost cordial. Yet they landed like a sharp, invisible slap.

Zoe’s breath caught. The color drained from her face as she stared, utterly stunned. This was not the reaction she had meticulously planned for. There was no anger. No heartbreak. No desperate attempt to defend her marriage. Just… profound indifference.

Why?

Did Isabella truly not care about Ethan at all? Did she feel nothing?