19. CHAPTER 18—ISABELLA
CHAPTER 18—ISABELLA
T here’s chaos in the ballroom.
The once-pristine ballroom looks like a war zone. Chairs upended, crystal glasses shattered across marble floors that probably cost more than most people's houses. A streak of blood arcs across imported hardwood like modern art gone wrong. The Russian's men form a tight circle in one corner, guns drawn, while Connor's crew edges toward the exits, eyes scanning for threats.
Henrik is nowhere to be seen, thank god, but his absence feels ominous. Mrs. Lefevre's emerald dress flashes as she's rushed through a side door, her face white with rage or fear—maybe both. Someone shouts in French, the words sharp and angry.
My father's nowhere in sight. And Georgio’s grip on my arm is almost painful.
And Antonio... Antonio's already gone, his cold words still ringing in my ears: "I don't want my prize to be broken before I can claim it." And him telling Georgio about my other escapade.
Yet, my body still feels warm from his touch. And his kiss still burns on my lips, making my skin tingle everywhere he touched me. It wasn't the bitter claiming I expected, wasn't drenched in revenge. It was... god, it was passion and possession and something else, something that felt dangerously like tenderness.
His lips drew heat from places I thought chemo had frozen forever, igniting a hunger that terrifies me more than any medical procedure ever did.
The crack of another gunshot snaps me back to reality. Someone screams—probably one of the dancers from last night. They're huddled by the bar, eyes wide with terror. Ruby's flame-red hair draws attention as she edges toward a service door, using the chaos as cover.
I stand alone in the middle of this storm, Georgio now covering himself instead of me. Everyone has someone protecting them, guiding them to safety. Everyone except me.
And it wasn’t always like this.
Once upon a time, Antonio’s mother tried to protect me—and that changed everything.
"Move!" I'm pushed forward, the harshness of the command snapping me back to the present. My heartbeat thuds loudly in my ears, drowning out the din of the room as I scan the faces. Hoping for him to come back to me.
But nope.
Georgio is now joined by three other bodyguards. And they escort me away from the ballroom, back into my lavish prison. This time, escape feels even more elusive than when I tried sneaking through the kitchen. Heavy footsteps echo behind me, a constant reminder of the watchful eyes that never blinked during my treatments but never really saw me either. Their looming presence feels like a weight on my shoulders, heavier than any hospital blanket, tightening the air around me until each breath becomes an effort. It's clear they won't give me an inch of freedom tonight; they'll be watching, guarding, ensuring I remain trapped like some rare butterfly under glass.
A bitter laugh bubbles up in my throat. Fantastic. I survived cancer just to become a different kind of patient.
In the dimly lit suite, my father lounges confidently, a stark contrast to my tension. His position on the plush sofa is that of a king on his throne—the same pose he struck in hospital waiting rooms while never actually waiting with me. The amber liquid in his glass glints, reflecting the low light, almost as if mocking my predicament. His fingers tap against the crystal in that precise rhythm that always means someone's about to disappear.
As I approach, he doesn't move, but his piercing eyes track every step I take, cataloging weaknesses like doctors used to catalog symptoms. I brace myself, preparing for another of his scathing remarks or veiled threats. But when our gazes lock, the icy detachment in his eyes sends a shiver down my spine. It's the same look he wore when he told me dancing might not be an option anymore—like he's already calculated my worth and found me wanting.
"What went down yesterday?" The words are smooth as morphine before it burns, but the underlying danger is unmistakable. "What did Antonio mean? Because it wasn't your stupid attempt at night. He talked about something before the auction."
The casual mention of Antonio's name makes my heart skip a beat, but I refuse to let him see that. My fingers find the silk of my dress, twisting the fabric like I used to twist hospital sheets during bad nights.
Of course, his bodyguards already told him what Antonio said. Nothing remains a secret for long in this world.
"He's not here for you. You know that, right?" His tone is mocking, almost playful, and it stings worse than any needle ever did. I swallow the lump forming in my throat, tasting bile and bitterness. His words, though expected, still carry a pang of betrayal that cuts deeper than Henrik's bite. "He's here because he hates us. Both of us. And that fucking display on camera? It just shows you’re a whore like his mother."
I'm momentarily stunned into silence, but my father isn't done. With a tap on the space beside him, an unspoken command hangs in the air like smoke in a too-small room. After a brief moment of defiance—because some part of me still remembers how to fight—the pressure becomes too much. One of the guards nudges me forward, ensuring I get the message.
Just like old times. Just like when they wheeled me into radiation, into surgery, into rooms where pain waited with sharp teeth and cold hands. Only then, I had Naomi's voice in my ear, telling me I was strong enough to survive.
Now? Now I only have Antonio's kiss burning on my lips and my father's ice in my veins.
Taking a seat beside him, I'm all too aware of the proximity. I can smell the aged whiskey on his breath, the same expensive brand he used to drink.
Unexpectedly, there's a hint of warmth in his voice when he speaks next—the kind of warmth that once promised "the good cancer" wouldn't kill me. "But don't worry. I have plans for him. He won't win."
The reassurance, if it can be called that, fills me with a dread that's hard to shake off. Because I know that tone. It's the same one he used before Antonio's scar, before Luka's death.
When my father makes plans, people don't just disappear—they shatter. And something in my chest shatters too, because despite everything, despite the threats and the kiss and the promises of destruction, I don't want Antonio broken.
Not by my father. Not because of me.
Not again.