22. CHAPTER 21—ISABELLA
CHAPTER 21—ISABELLA
" D on't make a scene," my father warns, his words slicing through me like pre-surgery prep. But it's Naomi's silence that hurts worse—my best friend stands beside me with her eyes fixed on her shoes like a prisoner awaiting sentence.
I force myself to nod, swallowing back words that taste like bile. Like that time the doctors said "good news" and "cancer" in the same breath. Because if I speak now, every ounce of rage and betrayal will pour out, and we'll both pay the price.
Antonio strides toward us, and the air changes—thickens like when storms roll in, when monitors start beeping warnings. People part around him like he's gravity incarnate, a force of nature wearing designer jeans and deadly grace. His scar stands out stark against his olive skin, a reminder of how badly things can burn when my father feels crossed.
But it's not the scar that catches my breath—it's the thunder in his eyes, the way they lock onto Naomi like he remembers her too. Remembers the girl who used to make him laugh, who taught him to swear while I practiced arabesques. There's something else there too, something that looks dangerously like concern.
My father's men move with practiced precision, a human wall between us and Antonio. Through the gaps between their shoulders, I see Connor following him, speaking in low, urgent tones. Whatever he's saying makes Antonio's jaw clench. His hands curl into fists at his sides, and for a moment, he looks ready to tear through everyone between us.
One wrong move, one spark of defiance, and this powder keg of a room will explode. Again.
I shift sideways just enough to meet Antonio's gaze, and for a heartbeat, I'm that girl again—the one who believed in dark princes and happily-ever-afters. The one who thought he might save me, might be different from all the other monsters wearing Armani suits and blood-money smiles. Connor's hand lands on his shoulder, restraining or steadying, I'm not sure which. But Antonio's eyes never leave mine until they stride away.
And I clench my haw. I don’t need a knight. Or a prince.
I know better now. Survival isn't about being saved—it's about saving yourself. And right now, that means saving Naomi too.
My father's chuckle cuts through the tension, the sound hollow as hospital halls at midnight. Something twists in my chest—hatred, maybe, or the final death of hope. I've spent years fighting this feeling, making excuses, telling myself he must have reasons for everything. The auction. The tournament. The way he watched me struggle through treatment without ever really seeing me.
Trying to understand. Trying to make myself believe that he was really doing this out of need of survival.
Trying to convince myself when Antonio’s mother disappeared that he did look for her. That the whispers about her death were just that. Whispers.
He promised me he wouldn’t hurt her.
Even if I know she left never to return because of me.
Around us, life goes on like this is normal. Like my best friend isn't being offered up as a consolation prize. Crystal glasses clink like wind chimes made of threats, while the rich aroma of pasta and wine wafts from the far corner where caterers scramble to transform this battlefield back into a ballroom. The shattered chandelier from last night's chaos has already been replaced, computers whisked away to make room for crisp tablecloths and crystal stemware.
The show must go on, after all.
Even if we're all just dancing on broken glass.
My father's voice booms. "We have an hour before the next event. Food is waiting for you all. Congratulations to the ones who are going to enter the next round." And he leaves us at the table with Georgio. Who’s watching us. We can’t talk. We can’t say anything with him here.
The crowd goes toward the catering, eating and laughing like none of this really affects them. The scent of expensive food mingles with cologne and gunpowder, making my stomach turn. They're celebrating like they're at a corporate merger, not bidding on human lives.
Yes, they get entertainment out of this. Some more business for some. And a wife. A wife who might cement their positions and of course, if she doesn't shut up and sit pretty, they have ways to make sure she does. Henrik's bite mark throbs on my cheek, a reminder of exactly how they handle disobedience.
Who cares, right? As long as they get what they want.
But seeing Naomi, with tears carving paths on her cheeks, used as yet another bargaining chip? It sets my blood boiling. My father gestures for his men to drag us into the room where I had the not-so-wonderful pleasure to talk with the ones who had won the auction. I guess he thinks a little bit of privacy and less tears might be better for this masquerade.
Connor's voice carries across the room - "Antonio, think this through" - but Antonio's already moving back toward us again, ignoring everyone this time around, that predator's grace making everyone else look clumsy in comparison. His eyes burn with something darker than rage, something that makes my pulse skip-flutter.
"I want to check in quickly on her cheek." His voice is arctic, but his eyes tell a different story. They flick to Naomi, then back to me, carrying messages I'm afraid to decode. "You know what they say about buying broken goods, you can't really replace them that easily. And if I'm to go on with this tournament, I want to make sure I get what I paid for."
The words are cruel, but his hand, when it reaches for my face, is gentle. For a moment, I'm back in that room, his lips on mine. But that was before Naomi became another chess piece in my father's game. Before I realized no one's coming to save us.
"You can see her from here," Georgio snarls.
I'm tempted to tell them off. I'm tempted to remind them that I'm a person, not some painting they can appraise from a distance. But my father's words echo in my head like hospital monitors beeping warnings. I can't cause a scene. I can't do that to Naomi.
So, I stand taller, channeling every ounce of steel that got me through treatments and pain.
“Let him see,” I tell Georgio, who leans back in his chair.
"Bell’scenda,” Antonio whispers like he’s trying to remind me of the past again. My cheeks warm under his gaze as the word ricochets through me like an echo of who we used to be. His mouth lifts into that infuriatingly sexy half-grin that makes my heart forget its rhythm. And as he leans closer, his elbow kicks the coffee pot still on the table, sending it clattering toward Georgio who jumps up and curses right as Antonio whispers, "Some numbers never change."
And without another word, he strides away, leaving me to decode his message while trying to ignore how his voice saying my name still affects me.
Some numbers never change.
Does he mean his number? He can't still have his American number, can he? The burner phone? Is he trying to tell me we should communicate?
Georgio's voice cuts through my spinning thoughts. "Don’t come back here.” He shouts toward Antonio. “And get the girls out of here. Back to the room.”
The bodyguards nod and force us up and push us forward, but my mind is already racing with possibilities - and dangers. Because trusting Antonio might be just as risky as defying my father.
"What happened?" I prompt Naomi as soon as our food is shoved in front of us and the door locks behind our captors. The sound of that lock clicking feels too familiar - like hospital rooms during endless isolation periods.
Naomi's voice trembles. "My father... he..." She starts, but the weight of reality threatens to silence her. And I don't want to push her. I don't want to add to the anguish etched on her face - this girl who spent hours reading me her latest romance manuscripts when I couldn't sleep, who documented every step of my recovery through her camera lens, turning even the worst moments into something beautiful.
She takes a deep breath, leaning back, fingers absent-mindedly toying with her sweatshirt's hem. Her usually styled hair cascades over her shoulders in natural waves. Readjusting her oversized glasses, she appears younger, vulnerable. This isn't the Naomi who could spin any situation into a compelling story, who saw art in everything, even hospital corridors at midnight.
"I heard him yelling on the phone. I heard him telling them that he won't let them take me." Her voice breaks. "That it's ridiculous." She hiccups again and my chest squeezes. The way she blinks tells me she's trying so hard not to lose it again. I reach out to her, holding her hand as I clench my jaw to prevent myself from crying, too.
"My aunt said we could run. That they would never find us. But he cried with her. He said he owed your father for his life. That he owed the family everything. And that they were getting their payback."
"I'm so sorry," I tell her and she nods. The words feel hollow, inadequate - like the half-finished story she started writing about a girl who escaped her fate. Only this isn't fiction, and there's no guaranteed happy ending.
"I know. It's not your fault we were born into this shit." Her voice rises slightly and she shakes her head again, as if to calm herself down. "I... I didn't even get to say goodbye to Bear."
And saying the name of her dog has her tearing up again - the final crack in her usual confident demeanor. Bear, who she rescued from the street three years ago, who sat with us through movie marathons when I was too weak to go out.
“My aunt will take good care of him. I know she will… but he’s my baby Bear. My Beary, Boo.”
For the next twenty minutes, I hold her, gently stroking her hair, and encouraging her to eat. My mind races with possibilities. My father has hinted that if I don't complicate things for him, he might reconsider. I can help her. And I will. I'll pretend to play the role my father wants me to. For now.
But I need to find a way to warn Antonio—because even if he hates me, I don't want to believe he'll let Naomi suffer, too. I have to find a way to call or text his old number.
The silence stretches in the room as I run different possibilities through my mind: maybe I could gesture to Ms. Lefevre, pretend to have a talk with her in the bathroom... but she could and might tell my father. After all, she's indirectly involved in all of this, too. How about one of the caterers?
The gears must be turning in Naomi's head too. Her eyes search my face and her fingers play with the hem of her shirt again.
Finally, she speaks with her voice barely above a whisper. "You can use my phone."
Surprise must be all over my face because Naomi takes a shaky breath. "My dad gave me a burner phone. They didn't find it," she admits with a mix of pride and fear. She pulls the device out, revealing it from a hidden pocket inside her shirt. "I managed to keep it after the security check. My father was there with me, right until we boarded the plane. He made sure of it."
With trembling fingers, I take the phone and slide down to the floor, positioning myself against the door. This way, if anyone tries to enter, I'll have enough time to conceal the phone. Every footstep in the hallway makes my pulse jump, but I can't let fear stop me now.
I can recall Antonio's old number with ease. I vividly remember the day he shared it with me, that half-grin playing on his lips and his voice sending a flutter of butterflies through my stomach.
Hey Maestro.
Three dots appear immediately. My pulse skips - he still has the same number.
Prove it's you.
I close my eyes for a moment, memories flooding back. You kissed me for the first time after I danced to your music. You said I built the intensity like a crescendo.
The dots appear and disappear twice before his response comes: What do you want, Bell’scenda ?
I help you. You help Naomi. Remember those pictures she took of your mother? How she spent hours getting the lighting just right, wanting to capture her smile perfectly? She gave them to you after...
My fingers shake as I wait. Those photos meant everything to him after his mother disappeared, right before my father disowned him. Naomi had insisted on taking them, saying everyone deserved to have their joy preserved.
Keep talking.
That's not a yes. I need your word. Naomi doesn't deserve this. She's innocent.
Seconds stretch like hours before his reply comes: Yes. Now tell me.
Your car has been tampered with. There's going to be sabotage on the road—they're planning to kill you.
And with my heart in my throat, I wait for his answer.