Chapter 78: Respect is earned

Chapter 78: Chapter 78: Respect is earned Isabella’s fingers curled around the clay bowl in her hands, her grip tightening as the rhythmic sound of approaching footsteps filled the air. She didn’t need to look up to know who it was. The already simmering irritation in her chest threatened to boil over when she caught sight of him. Kian. And that thing hanging off his arm like a parasite. Zara. Oh, now she was mad. Isabella had been gone for an entire day, missing in action, probably presumed dead—yet not a single message from him. No acknowledgment. Not even a damn nod when she returned. But now, here he was, waltzing in with Zara clinging to him like a desperate vine using her "illness" as an excuse. Was he serious? Shelia, already moving forward, greeted her brother with a respectful dip of her head. "Brother." Kian gave a slight nod in return. Before he could say a single word— "Oh, Isabella!" Zara’s voice rang out, syrupy sweet and sickeningly fake. Isabella didn’t even have to look at her to know she had perfected the art of appearing fragile—her fingers clutching at Kian’s arm, her wide, watery eyes brimming with forced sincerity. "I was so worried about you! When I heard you were back, I just had to come see you." Zara placed a delicate hand over her chest, her expression the picture of tragic concern. "Are you well? You must have suffered so much. It breaks my heart to think of what you’ve been through." Ophelia, ever the soft one, seemed momentarily moved. Shelia, on the other hand, looked like she wanted to gag. Luca kept his head down, wisely choosing to remain quiet. Isabella, however, just smiled. A slow, knowing, dangerous smile. Ah, so Zara thought she could fool her? Cute. Anyone else might have fallen for Zara’s theatrics. But not Isabella. She had been a modern girl in her past life. Not just any modern girl—a rich one. A woman who had spent years navigating the cutthroat world of high society, dealing with backstabbing socialites, manipulative businessmen, and award-winning liars. And Zara? Zara was nothing compared to the people she had crushed under her stilettos. "Oh, Zara," Isabella said, her voice smooth, casual. Too casual. Then, with the sweetest smile she could muster, she spoke words that sent an electric shock through the air. "You don’t look sick. You look... poisoned." A pin-drop silence fell. Zara visibly stiffened. For the briefest moment—just a fraction of a second—the remaining color drained from her face. And Isabella saw it. Ah. Interesting. So she was right. The only reason Isabella even suspected Zara had poisoned herself was because of her own past experiences with dangerous tasks. She wasn’t about to say it out loud, though. Some things were better left unsaid. Zara recovered quickly, letting out a soft, forced laugh. "Poisoned? Oh, Isabella, you always say the funniest things." She leaned into Kian, her fingers tightening around his fur. "I’ve been very sick. When I heard you were back, I only wanted to see you. That’s all." Isabella’s gaze flickered to Zara’s hand, then back up to Kian. For the first time since she arrived in this world, she met his eyes. His expression was unreadable—cold, distant. But she had dealt with men like him before. She knew how to read between the lines. He wasn’t unaffected. And neither was she. Jealousy flickered in her chest before she could crush it. Ugh. No. She was not about to act like some lovesick fool over a man who didn’t even bother to send a damn message when she was gone. Zara, sensing the weight of the silence, pouted oh-so-innocently. "I swear, I didn’t mean any harm." And that’s when Shelia struck. "Lies." Zara turned, blinking. "What?" Shelia folded her arms, tilting her head in mock confusion. "I gave you the news of her return hours ago. You were perfectly fine when I saw you. And now, all of a sudden, you’re acting sick?" She dragged out the word ’perfectly,’ letting it settle like a dagger between Zara’s ribs. Ophelia gasped softly. Even Luca, still on his knees, looked like he wanted to crawl away from the impending explosion. Zara’s lips parted, her mind clearly scrambling for a retort— But then Kian’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. "Silence." The air shifted. Instantly, everyone shut up. Even Glimora, still perched on Isabella’s shoulder, went still. Luca, who had been on his knees this entire time, suddenly started sweating bullets. Because Kian... Kian was looking directly at him. And then came the question. "What are you doing here?" Luca swallowed hard, keeping his head low. He didn’t dare to answer Kian’s question, not with the weight of the king’s gaze pressing down on him like a blade to his throat. But before he could even open his mouth— "He’s here for me." The words weren’t his. They were Isabella’s. She stepped forward, shoulders squared, chin lifted—unapologetic and completely unafraid. Kian’s blue eyes flicked toward her, slow and deliberate. Icy. Unreadable. "Are you his mouthpiece now?" His voice was calm, yet it cut like the sharp edge of a knife. "Yes," Isabella answered without hesitation. Then, without so much as blinking, she added, "Because I want him. And I will have him." Silence. Complete, utter silence. Zara’s lips parted slightly, her face frozen in disbelief. Shelia’s brows shot up so high they nearly disappeared into her hairline. Even Luca, who had been sweating bullets moments ago, forgot how to breathe. Did she just— Did Isabella just declare her intent to take one of Kian’s best men right to his face? To his face? The king? A man who could have her executed with a single word? Yet, despite how tiny she looked standing before him, there wasn’t a trace of fear in her expression. Because why should there be? She had spoken up to the president of her country in her past life—a man far more dangerous, far more powerful than Kian. So who was he? A mere king of a small village trying to intimidate her? Kian’s gaze stayed locked on hers, unflinching, assessing. Something flickered in his expression. Something unreadable. But he showed nothing. Not a single crack in his cold exterior. He exhaled slowly through his nose, as if her boldness was nothing more than an inconvenience. "He belongs to the Palace. He is one of my best men." Isabella folded her arms across her chest, cocking her head slightly. "And?" Kian’s jaw tightened. "And you think I should just let you take him?" "I think," she said smoothly, "that I will bring new and good things to this village." There was no arrogance in her tone—only certainty. She gestured vaguely. "Or did you expect me to craft and carry everything myself? Do you not want improvement? Progress?" Kian took a slow step forward. Deliberate. Measured. "And what exactly do you think you can bring?" Isabella didn’t move back. She didn’t flinch. She only held his gaze. "More than you." The words were soft, yet they rang out like a declaration of war. A muscle ticked in Kian’s jaw. For a moment, the tension in the air was so thick, so suffocating that no one dared to move. Everyone could see it now—this wasn’t about Luca. Not really. They were arguing about something else entirely. Something unspoken. Something dangerous. "You think you know everything, don’t you?" Kian’s voice was quieter now, but no less lethal. Isabella smiled. "No. But I know enough." His eyes burned. Then— "I am your king!" The words erupted from him like thunder crashing through the room. Everyone flinched. Everyone—except Isabella. She held her ground, her pulse steady, her expression unchanged. It was obvious what Kian meant. And then, she laughed. Soft. Low. Amused. Then she said— "Respect is earned, Kian. If you want my respect, then fucking earn it."