16. CHAPTER 15 - ISABELLA
CHAPTER 15 - ISABELLA
I ’d like to know what else my grandmother put in this contract. And why? Couldn’t she have written that I could make my own decisions? That I didn’t need to go through this.
That if anyone touched me, they’d pay the price with those shadowed security forces no one heard of. Maybe that contract doesn’t even exist. My father is a master manipulator after all.
I sigh. I'd also like my heart to stop fluttering. But like so many other things, it's not paying attention to me.
My father is punishing me for last night. It started with making me wear this silky dress—and being pissed off about Paola not showing up. They don't know Paola is linked to Antonio, and I'm not going to open my mouth. My silence feels like the only power I have left.
Antonio.
He's a few feet away, and I want to claw last night's dreams from my mind. Because in those dreams, he promised to honor and cherish me... when in reality, he basically told me he's a beast in all senses of the word. And why didn't that scare me as much as it should have? What is wrong with me?
My father doesn't spare me a glance, and it shouldn't twist another dagger inside my gut, but it does.
Five minutes. I can hold my own for five minutes with each of these men. Including my former stepbrother.
No big deal. Right.
My father leans in toward me. "Your actions have repercussions. You should know that by now."
And the shiver running down my spine? It has tentacles and tries to suffocate me like that time the chemo burned through my veins. But at least then, the nurses cared if I was in pain.
"Naomi is in more trouble than you can think. Plotting an escape? What is wrong with you two?"
"I... I wanted to breathe. That's all." Just like those nights in the hospital when the walls closed in and the monitors wouldn't stop beeping. But at least then I had Naomi sneaking in past visiting hours, the nurses letting her go through those double doors, the ones protecting us because we had the immune system of a newborn. That one night she made me laugh until my chest hurt for better reasons.
Sleeping on the chair in my room.
Holding my hand.
He shakes his head and it's no longer disappointment in his face—it's disgust. It's in the frown of his mouth and the cold in his eyes, the same look he wore when the doctors said I might never dance again. "I thought I raised you better than this. You've always had a role to play. Don't forget it. You're still a Moretti."
"Well, not for long apparently." And I should have bitten my tongue because his laughter is dry enough to crack skin.
"Those bodyguards don't have to come at your first scream, you know." His fingers trail down my cheek, and I fight the urge to flinch. "Don't mess this up. I told you what hangs in the balance. I thought you had learned to listen."
My heart doesn't flutter. It doesn't hammer. It's going up and down like that one time I was on that one-day cruise, right before they diagnosed me.
Because what did he mean about Naomi? If I messed it up for her, I'll never forgive myself. She can't pay for my weakness.
My father stands up and gestures for Georgio to show me to a small room in the back. Great, I'm going to spend five minutes with men I want nothing to do with, and one thinks I'm going to call him husband soon. At least in the hospital, I had some say in who touched me.
Plus, let’s face it: Georgio might not come to my help if I need it.
A rusty barbwire tightens around my throat. But I follow Georgio, and before closing the door behind me, he steps forward. "You have no idea how much your father is still protecting you."
I can’t help the nervous laughter that bubbles through my throat. “Hmm-hmm. Yep. I can tell.”
Georgio snarls, “You think it’s bad. Imagine if they didn’t have any use for you. Imagine what they’d do.” He pauses. “What I’d do. You’d have no reason to laugh, to smile, to fucking hope.”
“Hope?”
“I’ve watched you, Bellarina. I’ve watched you with him. ” He spits out the word like it’s toxic. “Trust me, if your father wasn’t here organizing all of this, if he wasn’t following on your grandmother’s contract and on everything he needs to do to make sure your family comes out on top, you’d be begging for mercy right here, right now. And everyone you ever loved would be dead.”
And he shuts the door.
Maybe, he’s right.
After all, if my father fell from his throne, who knows what would happen to all of us? He might be a monster, but he's our monster. The one who kept me alive through treatments that cost more than most people make in a lifetime. The one who made sure I had the best doctors, even if he couldn't bear to look at what they did to me.
But what am I supposed to do? I didn't survive my autologous stem cell transplant and heart complications just to let myself be handcuffed to a man I didn't even choose. I didn't fight through years of my body trying to kill itself just to become someone else's property.
Last night, it wasn't just about escape. I also wanted to breathe for a minute alone, without monitors beeping or men calculating my worth. I wanted to prove to myself that I could still be strong. That cancer didn't take everything. I wanted—
"Isabella."
The Russian mobster enters, and he's older than he looked in that picture I'd seen of him. His gaze is icy, assessing me like doctors used to assess my chances. He doesn't sit next to me, and I don't know whether to stand or stay where I am. My legs make that decision for me, trembling slightly from this morning's failed escape attempt.
"Pretty. A bit... heavy, no? Especially for a ballerina." His words are detached, like he's looking at a thing and not a person. Like those specialists who discussed my "case" while I lay there, trying not to cry. And I don't know whether to cuss him out or simply stare away. Both options feel like surrender.
"I see the defiance in your eyes." He invades my personal space, his presence oppressive, the scent of the sea mingling with heavy cologne that makes my stomach turn like chemo used to. He tilts my chin up, his fingers digging into my skin, compelling me to hold my breath. "Once you're mine? That defiance will be gone. Do you hear me?" His hands tighten around my neck, and my entire body trembles. "You'll join my women. You'll be a queen, but not my queen. Do you understand?"
I understand he probably rotates through women and I'll be his wife in name only. Which is fine, actually—better than fine. The thought of his hands anywhere near me makes my skin want to crawl right off my body.
He pauses. A long pause. And I hope he stops talking for four minutes. I glance up at the counter on top of the door. My dad must have had that added before this morning. Maybe he planned this all along.
Four minutes left.
I could talk. I should say something.
"I understand," I say slowly. "Maybe you can tell me something."
His eyebrow raises like he's surprised I actually have a voice. You and me both, Rodomir. You and me both.
But I continue, trying very hard not to glance up at the clock again. "Is it true what they say about you? About what happened to your last wife when she tried to sing?"
I could have asked anything. And I asked that.
He laughs. But it doesn’t reach his eyes. Nope. When this man laughs, he sends an earthquake in my stomach because even the sound of it is icy.
“My last wife? She was asking too many questions.” He leans back. "Do you know your mother was supposed to be married to my uncle?" He tilts his head like a vulture eyeing prey. "Your father is playing a dangerous game with alliances... and he should know that your life with me won't be one you'll dance about." His lips curve into something that might be a smile on a human. "Talking about dancing. Show me your twirl."
The lump in my throat expands until I can barely breathe. If I try to do a pirouette and I fall... they'll know. My legs already feel like they're filled with lead, my heart doing that stupid stutter-step that means trouble. And if they know they're bidding on damaged goods, if I mess this up for my father? He won't just be disappointed—he'll be done with me. And everyone he protects will pay the price.
My mouth tastes like metal. But you know what? Screw it. If I'm going down, I'm not going quietly.
So instead, I whisper, "Why don't you twirl?"
His slap is a blaze of cruelty, sudden and searing. The impact snaps my head sideways, and for a second, all I see are stars—the same kind that used to dance in my vision during bad treatment days.
As the sting spreads across my cheek like wildfire, he mutters something in Russian—dark and guttural, each word dripping with promises that make my skin crawl even more than the handprint he's branded onto my face.
"I'll break you," he says in English, like I'm supposed to be grateful for the translation.
"Five minutes are up." The door opens and I don't even have time to taste the blood in my mouth before Henrik strides in.
He takes one look at the probably swollen bruise on my face and smirks. "I see you're getting used to not being the Princess anymore." His eyes narrow as he takes me in, and unlike the Russian, he brings his chair so close I can smell expensive whiskey and something rotten underneath.
I stand up. The clock says four minutes and fifteen seconds left.
He growls. “Playing hard to get? I love the chase, you know.” Maybe if I get him to talk. To say something. Anything.
“You didn’t seem to love the chase at the gala a few years back.” I pause, trying so hard to sound innocent but probably projecting my hatred. “Antonio seemed to have gotten under your skin then. That must be hard for the tournament.”
“What?”
“To feel like he’s going to best you again.”
How is that making him talk? It’s making him angry. What is wrong with me?
He corners me. “The Beast?” He chuckles. “The Beast is a Dead-Man walking. Even though I’d love for him to be there for our wedding. Part of me wonders if I should just take you right after our vows. Like the bitch that you are.”
I can’t help the shiver creeping up my spine, but I continue, “I heard your house is in trouble. You’re losing men left and right.”
I haven’t heard shit, but maybe that will get him to talk more.
He doesn’t. Instead, his hand trails down my arm, fingers catching on my silk dress, and then under my skirt. My skin crawls where he touches me, each inch feeling contaminated. “You heard that? That’s where you come in.” His lips are close. Too close to me. Panic swells inside me—not the familiar flutter of SVT, but something darker, more primal.
I spit on him.
He doesn't hit me. That would be too simple, too merciful. Instead, he grabs my wrist and tugs it toward him, forcing me to wipe my own spit off his face.
Then he kisses me, brutal and invasive, his tongue forcing its way into my mouth like he's claiming territory. He tastes like cigarette and evil, and I gag, bile rising in my throat just like those mornings after treatment.
His laughter is cruel, echoing in my ears like hospital monitors gone wrong. "That mouth of yours needs training. Don't worry—I'll put it to better use than spitting. Make you choke on more than your pride until you learn your place." His fingers dig into my thigh, and I fight the urge to scream. "The only reason I'm not taking you right here is because daddy dearest had a few rules. He says you're pure and have to stay pure for the winner. Shit, I'd have bid 10 million for being the first one to claim you properly."
He leans in close enough that his lips brush my ear. "Every time I want you, you'll be right here, just like this. And you'll have to do everything I say. That pretty mouth will learn to beg, to please, to take whatever I give it. Otherwise?" His hand slides higher, and I squeeze my eyes shut. "I won't just beat you. I'll isolate you. Lock you away until the only voice you hear is mine, until you're grateful for any attention—even this."
His lips trail down my face, and then his teeth sink into my cheek, right where the Russian's handprint still burns. It's more than pain—it's ownership, degradation, a burning reminder of who holds the power here.
The taste of blood is in my mouth, metallic and familiar—like a repeat of my life on loop. My cheeks burn hot with shame and disgust and fear.
I've known helplessness before. I've felt it clutching at my throat when I couldn't lift my own body post-transplant, when nurses had to turn me like a broken doll. I've felt it when sepsis turned my own blood against me, burning through my veins like liquid fire. I've felt it when my heart raced so far out of control they prepped the defibrillator, its ominous presence promising pain in the name of survival.
But this... his mocking gaze, the invasion of his kiss, the claiming bite—it's a whole new level of degradation that cuts deeper than any surgical blade. At least during procedures, I knew the pain had purpose. This? This is just cruelty wearing expensive cologne. His touch makes the traumas of my body seem like mere whispers against the roaring storm of humiliation that is his parting smirk.
"I'll see you soon, Isabella," he vows, and my skin tries to crawl right off my bones. His words paint a vivid picture of my ruined dignity, of all the ways he'll use that mouth he violated. And in this moment, I feel more exposed than in any hospital gown, more violated than during any invasive exam.
Tears burn my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I survived cancer trying to eat me alive. I survived my heart trying to dance without rhythm. I survived guilt that’s been rotting me from the inside out.
I won't let this man's touch break me.
Two more men to go, and then Antonio will be in front of me. I won't lose it now. I won't lose it then.
I've already danced with death in more ways than one—these men don't know what kind of survivor they're dealing with.