13. CHAPTER 12—ISABELLA
CHAPTER 12—ISABELLA
I thought I could escape right after the auction.
I was wrong. This would be the title of my autobiography.
The broken doll in the middle of the ballroom has to sit up and look pretty while deals are made in dark corners and women are passed around like party favors.
The Colombian mafioso lounges at his table like nothing happened, like two of his men weren't just dragged out bleeding. The woman with red hair—the one he calls Ruby—perches on his lap now, laughing at whatever he's whispering in her ear. But her eyes—they're stage lights after final bow. Dead. Empty.
Another reminder of what happens to defiant girls in this world. Is that my future? Being draped over some monster while he plays king?
The Russian still commands his corner like a general at war, his men clustered around him like armed shadows. The Irish mafioso's disappeared with his blonde, but his guards linger, watching everything. And over there, Antonio sits with the French matriarch, all calculated moves and predator's grace while her son drowns his fears in another whiskey.
Henrik's words keep slicing through my thoughts: "I'll make you dance for me, little ballerina. But not on stage. Not like before. This time you'll dance on your knees. Maybe I’ll shatter them so you can stay there as I fuck your pretty little mouth. I’ll come all over your face, marking you. Because you’re going to be mine." The memory makes bile rise in my throat, makes my hands shake as they grip my water glass. Makes me understand why Ruby's eyes look so empty.
When Antonio's gaze collides with mine, he doesn't do the mocking glass raise thing again. No. He stands up like some dark prince from the romance novels hidden under my mattress, and my throat forgets how words work.
"That should be interesting," my father murmurs, his voice carrying the kind of edge that has my shoulders tightening.
Henrik must sense the shift—predators always do—because he stands up again. But between Henrik's promise of broken knees and Antonio... well, at least Antonio’s brand of danger is familiar. Even if that familiarity now includes knowing exactly what he looks like when he's claiming someone.
He's beautiful in that terrifying way that makes my hands want to shake. His crisp navy shirt stretches across shoulders that were bare just hours ago, muscles flexing beneath the fabric as he drove into Paola like she was salvation.
The left side of his face is a jagged map of burned scars, a stark contrast to the chiseled perfection of the other half. Ink snakes up his neck and down his wrists, black lines crawling out like they might strangle him if he lets his guard down. Or maybe they'll strangle me.
While other men play dress-up in their suits, he’s wearing jeans that should be illegal, and his eyes—those storm-dark eyes that watched me through the mirror while he took her—are locked on me now, like I’m the only thing in this room worth seeing.
He doesn’t even glance at my father or the guards clustering around us like nervous pigeons. Doesn’t acknowledge Henrik who’s striding our way.
No, Antonio just reaches for my hand, and when his lips brush my knuckles, it’s so gentle it hurts. Like he’s still the boy who used to play piano for me, not the man who promised to marry me while fucking someone else.
“A dance?” he growls, voice rough as gravel.
Did I nod? Whisper yes? Black out completely? My brain’s too busy short-circuiting, caught between the memory of how his cock disappeared into Paola and the heat of his hand now, pulling me up like I weigh nothing.
Is he taller? More magnetic? Or is it just that I’m trying to convince myself he’s still human, that this dance is a game and not the prelude to something I can’t escape?
My father makes that sharp gesture that usually means someone’s about to have a really bad day. “One dance.” He pauses, eyes cold. “Just with him. One dance. For old times’ sake.”
When Antonio’s scarred, muscular arms close around me, it’s like dancing into the lion’s den thinking the beast won’t bite. The fight drains out of me like air from a balloon, muscles betraying me by softening into his hold when they should be rigid, braced for the onslaught. His tattoos burn against my skin through the thin fabric of my dress, his scent—wine, cologne, and something darker—wrapping around me like a barbwire.
My breath hitches as his hands press into the small of my back, possessive, like he’s already claimed me for later. And my body remembers this too well—the way the simple though of his touch used to ignite me.
But the image of him, shirtless and relentless, fucking Paola against that wall, won’t leave me. Those same burned, brutal hands that made her scream are now cradling me like I’m something precious.
His cheek, half-smooth, half-raw, scrapes against mine. I swear he’s inhaling me, dragging my scent deep into his lungs like it’s his last breath. My pulse skips, tangling with the haunting melody that fills the room, and I don’t know if I want to lean into him or shove him away.
“Isabella,” he rasps, his voice low and dangerous, fingers trailing up my spine, sending jolts through my already frayed nerves.
I need words.
I need air.
I need to remember he’s not my safety anymore.
But all I can focus on is the way those burned arms, so ruthless hours ago, are now wrapped around me like I’m something to be protected.
“Did you miss me?” he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear, more challenge than question.
I want to say no.
I want to lie.
But the truth chokes me, because despite everything, some twisted part of me did.
A shadow falls over us, and my stomach drops. Henrik. His jaw's tight enough to crack teeth, fists clenched like he's imagining all the ways he'll make me dance for him later. The room goes quiet, that horrible silence before everything explodes. I force myself to take a breath, but the air feels like shards of glass.
Then Antonio’s hold tightens—possessive, protective, or just territorial? "Don't stop dancing."
Antonio's eyes burn with the kind of cold that freezes everything it touches. For a heartbeat that my SVT decides to skip, I'm trapped in his gaze like that time I fell during Swan Lake—knowing the crash is coming but unable to stop it.
There's no trace left of the boy who used to watch me practice. Just passion turned to pain turned to vengeance.
The air between us thickens like fog on a stage, heavy with all the things we'll never say. Like: I'm sorry. Like: I didn't mean to. Like: Why did you make me watch you with her?
The world narrows until it's just us spinning in this deadly pas de deux.
The tension crackles like stage lights about to blow. My father's men move like a well-rehearsed corps de ballet, creating a wall between us and Henrik. Protection or prison? With my father, they're usually the same thing.
Antonio's body against mine feels like every dark romance novel come to life—all heat and hard muscle and promises that probably end in blood.
His hold is firm, every muscle taut, like he’s ready to fight—or to claim. My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out the music.
Each step is a story of what we were (piano music and stolen glances), what we are (his hands on Paola, his eyes on me), and what he wants us to be (broken, maybe, or worse—his).
For one stupid moment, the girl who used to sneak into the ballroom to watch him play wishes things were different. But wishes are for fairy tales, and I gave those up somewhere between chemo and being auctioned off.
Henrik's laugh slices through the moment like a blade. "Dance with her now. While you can."
We ignore him, but his words settle on my skin like bruises waiting to bloom.
"Honeysuckle," Antonio growls, and his inhale against my neck makes my skin prickle. "You still wear the same perfume." Like that means something. Like we're still those people.
"So, we're not going to pretend we're at an auction where I'm another prize to be won?" My voice comes out steadier than my heartbeat, which is a small victory. "And we're definitely not discussing how I watched you f…” I need to say the word to him…
“Fuck,” he whispers.
“Yes… fuck someone else while promising to make our marriage meaningless?"
He guides me across the floor like I'm not damaged goods, like my body isn't a minefield of scars and betrayals. The whispers follow us like shadows, but for a moment—just a moment—muscle memory makes me feel like the dancer I used to be.
"Isabella." The way he says my name is pure sin wrapped in mockery, his breath hot on my neck, his fingers pressing into my skin like he's trying to leave marks. "If you want to talk about Paola, let's talk about why you stayed. Why you watched. Did you touch yourself after, picturing it was you against that wall? Did you imagine what it would feel like to have me inside you while I promised to destroy you?"
His lips ghost over my ear and every part of me tightens like a bow string about to snap. "I...I..."
One more step, one more turn, and my traitor of a right foot—the one that still remembers what chemo feels like—gives out. He catches me, probably pure reflex from years of watching me dance. His hold loosens immediately, like touching me burns.
"You lingered because you pictured it was you." His words slide under my skin. "You against that wall, every part of me claiming you until you forget your own name."
He's not wrong, and that's the worst part. My fingers itch to trace the scar that splits his face like a battle line—the one he wears like armor while I hide mine under layers of foundation. The laugh that rumbles through his chest feels calculated, arctic. Like even his amusement is a weapon.
"Let's get one thing straight, my dearest former stepsister." The endearment drips poison, each word curling around me like a snake tightening its grip. "You're going to watch your world burn the second that ring slides onto your finger. And piccola Bella-rina?" He spits out the nickname my dad used to call me. His finger trails along my cheek, deceptively gentle, the rough calluses leaving a scorching path that sends a confused tremor down my spine—too intimate, too unsettling, too... him.
"This isn’t a threat—it’s a promise." His voice is smooth, dripping with a dark certainty that makes my pulse stutter. "By the time I'm done, you'll wish Henrik had won."
He tells me threats, but he holds me like he cannot let me go. He promises darkness.
He has no idea that darkness and I are old friends, on first-name basis, that I’ve survived nightmares, too. Maybe not the kind of darkness he knows, but I have my own demons—and one of them wears his face.
His voice sends shivers through me that feel too much like want. Like my body hasn't gotten the memo about him being the villain in this story. "You're going to lose it all."
"Or not," I whisper, the words barely breath. His half-smile says he heard me—and thinks I'm living in the same fairy tale where he used to play piano while I danced.
My treacherous foot gives again, and this time he doesn’t catch me. Instead, I need to hold on to him tighter, and something flashes in his eyes—concern? Recognition? It's gone before I can name it, replaced by that cold calculation. He probably thinks I've gotten sloppy with my arabesques, has no idea about the scars that map every victory against death. No idea what kind of survivor he's trying to break.
As the last notes fade, he guides me back to where my father watches like a chess master plotting his next move. But before we reach the table, Antonio pulls me against him one last time.
"They call me The Beast," he growls, his eyes burning into mine with a hunger that promises ruin. "And you'll learn every reason why, Bella-rina. I’ll make sure you never forget."
My eyes widen, and my heart does that stupid flutter-skip thing. I force my face into that perfect mask I perfected in hospital rooms—the one that says I'm fine when I'm anything but.
The dance ends, but his warning clings to me, smoke and shadows, an echo of flames that refuse to die. Running isn’t an option anymore. Not from him, not from this auction, and definitely not from the storm he’s about to unleash.
And oh, it's coming. I can taste it in the air like I used to taste metal before chemo.
The only difference?
This time, the poison wears Armani shirts, jeans and used to play piano while I danced.