The ride home was suffocating.
Isabella sat pressed against the leather seat of the car, her hands clenched tightly in her lap. The city lights flashed past the tinted windows, blurred streaks of gold and silver, but she barely saw them. Her chest ached, her breath shallow.
She was engaged. Engaged to Damian Moretti.
The words echoed endlessly in her head, each repetition a hammer blow.
Her father sat beside her in silence, calm as stone. To him, this was nothing but business. A deal sealed. A problem solved. He didn't even glance at her trembling hands or the tears brimming in her eyes.
When they reached the estate, Isabella stumbled from the car, clutching her dress as she hurried up the steps. She wanted to scream, to claw her way free from this nightmare, but her throat was tight with unspoken terror.
In the safety of her room, she finally broke. She collapsed onto her bed, pressing her face into the pillows to muffle her sobs. Hot tears soaked the linen as she curled into herself, a small figure dwarfed by the heavy curtains and gilded furniture of her cage.
Why her? Why this man? She had dreamed of love gentle, kind, perhaps even foolishly romantic. Not a union with a man whose gaze had sliced her open, whose words had promised nothing but control.
The door creaked open.
Isabella sat up quickly, wiping her eyes with trembling hands. Her father stood in the doorway, his face cast in shadow.
"Compose yourself," Antonio said coldly. "Crying changes nothing."
"Papa, please," Isabella whispered. "Don't make me do this. I don't want to marry him. I don't even know him…"
"This is not about what you want," Antonio snapped. His voice was sharp, final. "This marriage secures our future. Our survival. You will be Damian Moretti's wife, and you will be grateful for the honor."
"Honor?" Her voice cracked. "He doesn't see me as a wife. He sees me as property."
Antonio's expression didn't flicker. "Then learn to be the kind of property that cannot be discarded."
The words struck like a whip. Before she could speak again, he turned and left, the door closing with a decisive click.
Isabella sank back onto the bed, her chest heaving with silent sobs. She felt trapped, cornered, like a bird with its wings clipped.
The next morning dawned gray and heavy. Isabella hadn't slept. She sat by her window, her hair unpinned, staring out at the mist rolling over the gardens. Her engagement. Her future. All chosen for her.
A knock sounded at the door.
She rose, expecting perhaps Sophia, desperate for comfort. But when the door opened, her heart stopped.
It wasn't Sophia.
Damian Moretti stood in the doorway.
He filled the frame with his tall, broad form, his dark suit immaculate despite the early hour. His eyes swept over her, lingering briefly on her rumpled nightgown and tangled hair. A faint smirk ghosted across his lips.
"You didn't expect me, did you?" His voice was low, smooth, carrying a weight that made her knees weak.
Isabella's fingers clutched the fabric of her gown. "Wh-what are you doing here?"
He stepped inside without waiting for permission, his presence overwhelming the space. He smelled faintly of smoke and leather, of danger wrapped in silk.
"Your father invited me," Damian said casually, though the gleam in his eyes told her it was more than that. "I don't wait for things that belong to me, Isabella."
Her breath hitched. "I don't belong to you."
He moved closer, closing the distance between them until she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. His hand lifted slowly, deliberately, brushing a stray curl from her cheek. His touch was surprisingly gentle, but it burned like fire against her skin.
"You will," he murmured.
Her heart thundered so loudly she thought he must hear it. She wanted to shove him away, to scream, but her body betrayed her, frozen in the intensity of his stare.
Damian leaned down, his lips brushing just near her ear. "Get used to me, bella. I intend to make sure you remember that you're mine."
Before she could respond, the door opened again.
Antonio stood there, his gaze flicking between them.
"Good," Antonio said simply, as though Damian's presence in his daughter's bedroom was entirely acceptable. "You two should spend time together. The wedding will not be delayed."
Isabella's stomach twisted violently. The room spun, her world shrinking to Damian's smirk and her father's cold indifference.
And in that moment, she realized there would be no escape.
The door clicked shut, and Isabella pressed her palm against it, her heart thundering. The lock slid into place with a metallic finality that rang louder than the silence of the room.
She wasn't in a bedroom. She was in a gilded prison.
Her eyes darted around the crystal chandeliers, velvet curtains, a bed so large it dwarfed her, everything gleaming with quiet wealth. But to Isabella, it all screamed trap.
She rushed to the window. Heavy drapes fell open under her hands, revealing tall panes of glass. Beyond them, the sprawling estate stretched into the night, fences topped with barbed wire glittering under floodlights. Guards stood at intervals like statues.
Her breath came in short, sharp gasps. No way out. No one to hear me.
The door creaked suddenly. She spun around, pressing herself against the wall. But it wasn't Damian. A maid slipped inside, head bowed. She carried a tray containingwater, a delicate plate of fruit, and folded clothes.
"Signore said you might need these," the maid whispered, avoiding Isabella's eyes.
"I don't belong here," Isabella blurted, voice breaking. "Please …you have to help me. My father will…"
The maid's shoulders stiffened. "Your father knows." Her words dropped like stones. "Good night, Miss."
And then she was gone, leaving only the faint scent of lavender.
Isabella sank to the edge of the bed, numbness sweeping through her. My father knows. He allowed this. The truth sank deep, cold and sharp. She wasn't just caught in Damian's world. She had been delivered to it.
Minutes dragged. Her thoughts spun until exhaustion tugged her under. She lay back, eyes closing reluctantly.
A sound woke her. The soft click of the lock. Her lashes fluttered open, and there he was. Damian.
He filled the doorway, broad shoulders framed in shadows, his presence stealing the air. He didn't speak as he stepped inside, his eyes fixed on her like she was both his captive and his salvation.
"Still awake?" His voice was low, dangerous, threaded with something she couldn't name.
Isabella sat up, clutching the blanket to her chest. "Why am I here? What do you want from me?"
He walked closer, slow and deliberate, until the space between them was charged, electric. He leaned down, his face inches from hers.
"What do I want?" His lips curved, not quite a smile. "Everything."
Her breath caught, trembling under the weight of his words. His hand reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek, lingering too long. She should have pulled away. She should have screamed.
But she couldn't move.
"You're mine now, Isabella," he murmured. "And this" he gestured to the room, the mansion, the walls that held her in "is your cage. No key. No escape."
Her chest rose and fell in uneven bursts. For the first time, she realized she wasn't staring at a man. She was staring at a storm.
And she was already caught in its eye.