Chapter 10 Isabella
Isabella
The woman I used to be would never have done this. Would never have let a man like Matteo Rosetti see her lose control, see the cracks in the perfect facade she spent years building.
But that woman died somewhere between the champagne and Chase's gala, and whoever I'm becoming doesn't know how to pretend anymore.
She died when Senator Reynolds looked through me like I was furniture.
When Tanya Morrison touched Matteo's arm and I felt something violent and possessive claw up my throat.
When every conversation about my parents felt like walking through a minefield, each carefully worded condolence another weight pressing down on my chest.
The woman I used to be would have smiled through it all. Would have made polite conversation and graceful exits and never let anyone see the storm building inside her.
But I'm not her anymore.
Now I sit in the backseat of Matteo's car, watching the city disappear behind rain-streaked windows, and I can feel what's left of my control crumbling with each mile.
His jacket is heavy across my shoulders, the scent of his cologne wrapping around me like a reminder of everything that happened tonight.
Every smile I wore, every lie I told, every moment I pretended this was my choice.
Rain starts pattering against the windows, soft droplets that create a rhythm against the glass. The sound echoes the nervous flutter in my chest.
Matteo sits beside me in comfortable silence, his presence both reassuring and suffocating. I can feel him watching me in the dim light from the dashboard, cataloguing every detail like he always does. Reading me like one of his business deals.
But my mind keeps circling back to the gala.
The way people kept bringing up my parents tonight.
"Such a tragedy, losing them so young." "Your parents would be so proud.
" "The foundation has thrived since their passing.
" Each comment felt like a needle under my skin, building tension I couldn't release.
There was something about the way people talked about them that never sat right with me. Too careful, maybe. Too polished. Like everyone had rehearsed the same script about the "tragic accident" that took them when I was nine.
The worst part is how little I remember about that night. Fragments, mostly. The sound of shattering glass. Red spreading across white kitchen tile. Screaming that seemed to echo forever. But the details are missing, like someone took scissors to my memory and cut out all the important parts.
The streetlights blur past the rain-streaked window, and I press my hand to my chest where anxiety builds.
Something about tonight triggered it worse than usual.
Maybe it was being paraded around as Chase's perfect niece while knowing I was really Matteo's captive.
Maybe it was the careful way people avoided looking me in the eye when they mentioned my parents.
Or maybe it's just the growing feeling that everyone knows something I don't.
By the time we pull into the long driveway leading to the safehouse, my breathing has gone shallow and my hands are trembling in my lap.
The rain comes down harder now, drumming against the roof.
The moment we step inside, shadows pool in corners that felt welcoming this morning, and I can't shake the feeling that something is about to break open.
Matteo reaches for the light switch, but I stop him. "Don't. Please."
He studies my face in the dim light filtering in from outside. "Okay. Whatever you need."
The kindness in his voice cracks something open in my chest, but before I can process it, my phone buzzes in my purse. The sound cuts through the quiet like a blade.
I pull it out with shaking fingers, and the words on the screen make my blood turn to ice.
**Interesting choice tonight, Isabella. Your parents always said the Rosettis couldn't be trusted. Ironic how history repeats itself. We need to talk. Tomorrow.—C**
The phone slips from my numb fingers, clattering to the hardwood floor.
The message echoes in my head like a taunt.
My parents always said... but they died when I was nine.
How does Chase remember specific conversations from that long ago?
Why would my parents have been talking about the Rosettis at all?
The room tilts sideways, and suddenly I can't breathe. The air feels too thick, too heavy, pressing down on my lungs. My vision blurs at the edges, and there's a ringing in my ears that sounds familiar and wrong.
"I can't breathe." The words come out strangled, desperate. My chest feels crushed, like there's a weight sitting on my ribs.
Strong hands guide me to the couch in the living room, and Matteo crouches in front of me. "Look at me, Isabella. Just look at me."
I try, but everything keeps spinning. The room, my thoughts, the fragments of memory that won't stay still long enough for me to understand them.
"My parents." I gasp out the words between attempts to breathe. "Something about that message... something's not right."
"Okay," he says quietly, not questioning or dismissing. Just accepting. "Tell me what you're feeling."
"I don't remember them clearly." My voice breaks. "Everyone talks about how they died like it's this settled thing, but my body just... reacts. Like it knows something my mind won't let me see."
Matteo doesn't crowd me or demand explanations. He stays exactly where I can see him, his presence solid and real in a world that feels like it's dissolving around me.
"I'm right here," he says, voice low and steady. "Count your breaths with me. In for four. One, two, three, four."
I try to follow his lead, but my chest keeps hitching. "Chase's message... he talks about them like he remembers conversations from fifteen years ago. Word for word. Who remembers things like that?"
"What else?" he asks gently, not pushing but giving me space to voice what's been building inside me.
"Everyone acts like there's this version of events that I'm supposed to accept. But the pieces don't fit together in my head. They never have." The words tumble out, fifteen years of suppressed doubts finding voice. "And whenever someone brings them up, I feel like I'm drowning."
My breathing gets worse, each inhale feeling like I'm drowning in air that won't reach my lungs. The room spins faster, and black spots dance at the edges of my vision.
"I'm going to pass out," I whisper.
"No, you're not." His voice cuts through the panic, firm but gentle. "I won't let that happen. Keep your eyes on me."
He starts talking, voice steady and hypnotic, grounding me to something outside my own spiraling thoughts. He tells me about the rain outside, about how the firelight flickers on the walls, about how brave I am for asking questions that scare me.
Slowly, my breathing starts to even out. The room stops spinning. The crushing weight on my chest begins to lift.
"There you go," he murmurs. "You're okay. You're safe."
And for the first time in fifteen years, when someone tells me I'm safe, I believe them.
That's when I break.
The sob comes from somewhere deep inside, a sound I've been holding back since I was nine years old and learned that crying made Uncle Chase uncomfortable. My whole body shakes, fifteen years of careful control crumbling all at once.
Matteo moves to the couch beside me, and I collapse against his shoulder without thinking. He wraps his arms around me, solid and warm and steady, letting me fall apart in the safety of his silence.
"I'm scared," I whisper against his shirt. "I'm so scared of the things I can't remember."
"I know." His voice is rough. "But whatever you're afraid of, you won't face it alone."
He doesn't try to fix it or minimize it or offer empty promises. Just holds me while I cry for parents I can barely remember and truths I'm not sure I want to know. His heartbeat is steady under my cheek, mixing with the scent of rain and the warmth of his skin.
For the first time in my adult life, I feel genuinely protected. Not managed or controlled or guided, but safe. The difference is startling.
"You're not broken," he murmurs against my hair when the worst of the crying stops. "You've been surviving. There's a difference."
The words hit something deep inside me, a place that's been cold and empty for too long. This is what I've been missing. Not someone to manage my life or make my decisions, but someone to simply be there when everything falls apart.
I stay in his arms longer than I should, soaking up the unfamiliar comfort of being held without judgment. His fingers trace gentle patterns on my back, and I realize this is the first time a man has touched me with kindness instead of expectation.
But as my breathing steadies and my thoughts clear, reality starts creeping back in. This is Matteo Rosetti. The man who kidnapped me. The man who's holding me prisoner in this beautiful house. The man who, despite this moment of gentleness, still controls every aspect of my existence here.
What am I doing? What am I letting happen?
I pull back slowly, immediately missing the warmth of his arms but needing the distance to think clearly. His amber eyes search my face, and I see the exact moment he recognizes my retreat.
"Thank you," I say quietly, wrapping my arms around myself where his used to be. "I just... I needed that."
Something flickers across his expression. Understanding, maybe. Or disappointment. "Of course."
I stand on unsteady legs, putting space between us even though every cell in my body wants to stay curled against his side. "I should go to bed."
He nods, not trying to stop me, but I feel him watching as I move toward the stairs. At the bottom step, I pause without looking back.
"Matteo?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't read too much into this. I was just tired."
The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, but it's necessary. For a few minutes, I let myself believe someone could hold me without trying to own me. But that's not how this works. That's not how men like him work.
A muscle ticks in his jaw, and when he speaks, there's something rough in his voice that makes my chest ache. "Whatever you say, bella."
I climb the stairs to my room, every step taking me further from the man who just held me while I fell apart. But even as I close the door between us, I can still feel the phantom warmth of his arms around me.
And that scares me more than any message Chase could ever send.
Because for a moment there, I wanted to stay. I wanted to trust him with more than just my tears. And that's exactly how women like me get lost in men like him.
No matter how gentle the cage, it's still a cage.
Even if some treacherous part of me wishes it wasn't.