11. CHAPTER 10—ISABELLA
CHAPTER 10—ISABELLA
M y palms are clammier than on Giselle’s opening night and my father’s eyes are lasers drilling into me with a simple message. “Don’t fuck this up. Don’t disappoint me. Don’t disappoint your family. And what the fuck did you do with your hair?”
I shrug and slow my pace, pretending I have to readjust my stilettos. A tiny rebellion that won’t change anything, but as my fingers touch the leather, I force myself to inhale deeply, the overpowering scent of flowers grounding me and making me want to gag.
After seeing Antonio with Paola (if that’s really her name) in the bathroom, thrusting into her like she’s the air he needed to breathe, there’s an undercurrent of pure anger and despair rushing through me.
Because deep within, I wanted to believe in some sort of messed-up fairytale, where Antonio would be my Beast, the one to save me. He would win the auction and the tournament and on our wedding night?
I could picture it—him, powerful muscles tensed, covered in tattoos that tell a thousand stories, that deep and sinfully smooth voice of his confessing how much he’s been missing me, wanting me, craving me.
That he’s forgiven me.
Even though he doesn’t know everything. The things that keep me up at night.
Maybe he’ll tell me he found his mother. Well, and alive. My father looked for her, told me she died, but maybe he was wrong.
It’s stupid, but even before I knew about this auction, those fantasies of him made chemo-induced nightmares more bearable.
Now, I’m on the edge. Standing in front of the deep chestnut mahogany door. On the precipice of the biggest performance of my life. One that will define a “before” and “after”.
“Come on,” my father seethes, and the icy hands of his men push me forward. I want to whirl around and rush away, but on my unsteady feet? I won’t make it far. And it would be even more humiliating to be hauled back inside that room, kicking and screaming. They might enjoy it more. He might enjoy it more.
Straightening my spine, I muster the grace of the prima ballerina I once was and lock the image of Antonio … now the Beast, into a vault deep inside. And while I don’t force a smile onto my face, I school my features to not show how panicked and disgusted I am.
I run my hands on the tutu-like skirt, hoping that the texture and memories will give me strength as the corset seems to dig even more into my skin.
Don’t stumble. Don’t falter. They’re all watching. They’re all waiting.
The lights are blinding. But not blinding enough. Because my eyes seem to be teetered to him.
And he’s staring.
His dark eyes roam over me, searing through the thin fabric of my dress, as though he's touching me with just his eyes.
And that heat spreading like wildfire across my skin? It screams danger.
He continues staring with a half-grin.
Staring like he’s peeling back layers. Like he knows me. His smirk grates more than it should. Because he’s wrong. He doesn’t know me.
He’s oblivious to my unsteady breaths, to the many scars hidden under this caked-on foundation that Paola (ugh) put on me, that makes me want to rip my skin, to my heart leaping and crashing against my ribcage.
Everything blurs around me: the loud, boisterous laughter of the men who have decided what my life should be, that my opinion doesn’t matter, that this is my role to play.
Henrik is there. Whistling at me. And did I hear someone saying that I have changed?
My father seems to be guiding me to a table in the middle. But he does it so slowly that it’s taking forever.
So, they can all stare at me as they bid? What is that even achieving?
Each step towards the table feels heavier than the last. The dizzying effects of dehydration, a side effect of too many treatments, threaten to make me stumble. My heart races, an erratic dance that my beta-blockers usually tame.
Not now, I silently plead, clenching my hands into fists.
The stench of cigars mingles with the too-rich scent of expensive cologne, the combination enough to make my stomach churn. I swallow back the nausea, focusing on placing one foot in front of the other.
My father's grip on my arm tightens, lending me a necessary support, even if its intent is more control than care.
Antonio's gaze finds mine again, and for a fleeting moment, there's an unmistakable flash of concern. Perhaps he notices the subtle pallor on my cheeks or the way I blink rapidly, trying to fend off the dizziness. Or the almost imperceptible pause in my stride as I navigate this treacherous auction floor.
Deep down, I want to reach for the crystal pitcher of water gleaming on a side table, but I'm steered resolutely forward.
Forcing myself to concentrate, I shift my attention to the dancers in the room's dark corners. Their rhythmic movements become a focal point, grounding me in this surreal setting. And when my father's voice booms, introducing me to the crowd, it's the discipline ingrained from years of ballet that keeps me standing tall, despite the thirst, the rapid heartbeat, and the shadows that threaten my vision.
“Gentlemen,” my father’s voice booms, grabbing attention as I finally sit and down a glass of cold water sitting on the table. “My Isabella is the key to an invaluable alliance. The fortunate man who marries her secures unparalleled power. She’s more than a prize; she’s an advantage. She comes with not only access to more routes thanks to centuries of hard work from our family. She also comes with business ties that will be invaluable. And… she comes with the allegiance of many.” He clears his throat. “She’s also the key to a contract. One forged in blood by her grandmother. My mother.”
I frown. What is he talking about? I remember my grandmother. Her kind words to me. Telling to always remember my worth. Is that what she meant? Some kind of contract that makes me a prized possession, a thing?
But I can’t ask questions. Not now.
My father leans down, his lips near my ear, voice pitched for me alone. "Look at those girls on the stage, Isabella," my father murmurs, his grip on my shoulder tightening just enough to make me wince. "They'll be sold to whoever has the highest bid, treated like party favors until they break." His voice drops lower, silky and insidious. "But you? You’ll belong to a powerful man, one who understands the value of keeping something precious alive." His lips curve into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. "That's the difference between being my daughter and being... nothing."
His fingers dig into my skin. "And remember—your nurses at the hospital? Your old ballet friends? Mrs. Romano? Their safety depends on our power. On this alliance. On you not fighting this." The threat slides between my ribs like a blade. Mrs. Romano told me to only thing about myself. That there was more at stake. That I was more powerful than I thought. But… what does that mean? "The man who wins you will need to keep you alive. It's part of the deal. Part of my mother’s contract for you."
I scan the room, really seeing these men for the first time. Henrik's cold smile. The Russian's dead eyes. The Irish man's calculating gaze. Even Antonio's burning stare. Suddenly "keeping me alive" sounds less like a reassurance and more like another threat. How many ways can you keep someone alive while breaking them?
His voice softens, and that scares me more than his threats. "You're more precious than you realize, Isabella. Your bloodline... it’s my bloodline. My mother was feared and your mother's bloodline... it's bigger than you know. For that, I'm grateful to them. To you." The words feel like another collar around my throat, another chain to bind me.
And yet... as I look at those girls on stage, their smiles plastic and eyes empty, I realize I might be luckier than I want to admit. At least I'll be one man's prize, not a toy passed around until I break. At least there's a chance—slim as it might be— that whoever wins me won't be a complete monster. That maybe, just maybe, I might find a way to survive this with some part of myself intact.
For a second, I almost thank him for this twisted kindness—and isn't that the most fucked up part?
"Without further ado, let the bidding begin."
"For five hundred thousand dollars," Antonio's voice slices through the heavy air, filled with a nonchalance that makes my stomach clench. Like he's bidding on a race horse instead of his former stepsister.
A chuckle emerges from the corner, drawing my gaze to the Irish mafioso, his green eyes dancing with amusement. "A mere half mil? You insult the lady," he teases, drawing laughter from the room. "One million."
"Where are the Greeks?" my father asks suddenly, his disappointment barely masked. The question makes my skin prickle—there's history there, something important.
The Russian's laugh is cold vodka and sharp edges. "Too busy with their civil war, I hear. Brother against brother. Though rumor has it Alexander..." He trails off at my father's sharp look, and I file that reaction away like I used to file away corrections from my ballet instructors. Every detail matters when you're dancing for your life.
"Two million," Henrik counters, not even flinching. His eyes never leave my face, like he's already imagining ways to break me.
The Colombian lounges in his chair like it's a throne, running a finger along the rim of his glass. "Two point five." His gaze slides from me to the stage where the dancers perform. "Might as well make it worth the trip from Colombia. A wife and a pet to take home." He winks at the redhead on stage, whose hair catches the light like fresh blood. "The defiant ones are always more fun to train."
My chest tightens, and it's not just the corset. The way he talks about us—like we're dolls he can collect and break at his leisure. The dancer's shoulders stiffen slightly, but her movements don't falter. I wonder if that's what survival looks like in this world: perfect performance even when you're screaming inside.
The French mother's fan snaps shut. "Three million," she announces, studying me like I'm a painting that might not match her furniture. "Though she'll need proper... refinement... to be worthy of my son."
The bids keep rising, numbers that sound like monopoly money to my chemo-fried brain. Each sum makes my father's smile wider, prouder. When did I become his most valuable asset? Probably around the time I stopped being able to do fouettés without my heart trying to stage a rebellion.
"Four million," the Russian declares, his accent thick as fur. "In my country, we know the value of beautiful things. And how to keep them."
I fight the urge to touch my neck where my pulse races beneath my skin. Do they see how my hands shake? Can they tell that every breath is a negotiation with this corset and my treacherous body?
Then Antonio stands, and everything else fades like stage lights dimming. His gaze drops to my lips, and stupid, traitorous me—I part them. For a moment, I'm back in that practice room, his eyes following my every move, his hands on the piano keys making music I could float to. But that was before. Before the fire. Before betrayal. Before cancer made me into someone even I don't recognize.
“Five million,” he drawls, his lips curving into a smirk. “A small price to make sure no one else gets delusions of grandeur—or hands they can’t keep to themselves.”
Connor chokes on his drink, laughter spilling out despite the tension. “Goddamn, Antonio. Only you could make five million sound like a down payment on a threat.” He leans in, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “But you still have to win the tournament, mate. Careful, or that bravado might bite you in the ass.”
Antonio's smirk widens, a dark promise in his eyes. “Let it try,” he replies. “I’m already planning the ass-kicking.”
The Colombian, his eyes already shifting between me and the redhead like he's planning his collection sighs. “Shit. I guess it’s just you, Red Hair, today.”
“Anyone else?” My dad’s voice is icy.
One by one, four others match it.
Henrik, with his cold smile. The Russian, voice heavy with promise. The French mother, her fan a weapon of refinement. And the Irish.
The room is in an uproar. Men argue, tempers flare.
Antonio doesn't move at first. He sits there, staring at me. Then, ever so slightly, he lifts his glass towards me in a silent toast, the crimson liquid catching the light like fresh blood.
"Very well," my father finally speaks, relishing the attention and the spiraling numbers. "Tomorrow will be the tournament. May the best man win."
Tomorrow could be the first day of my new life or the sealing of a twisted, dark fate. As the spotlight fades, the magnitude of what's just happened begins to set in.
Five men, five million dollars, one tournament.
Five chances for a future I didn't choose but have to face. Five different ways to cage a bird.