Chapter 18 Isabella
Isabella
Something's wrong with Matteo.
He's sitting in the leather chair by the window, but everything about him screams danger barely contained. Not the controlled, predatory energy I've grown used to, but something rawer. More desperate. Like he's carrying the weight of the world and it's finally threatening to crush him.
My body aches in places that remind me of last night, of his hands and mouth and promises whispered against my skin.
The sheets still smell like him, expensive cologne mixed with something uniquely masculine that makes my pulse quicken even now.
But the bed beside me is cold, empty, and that emptiness feels like a warning.
The bedroom door is open, spilling morning light across the hardwood floor. He's fully dressed in dark jeans and a white button-down that's already rumpled, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. The careful and deliberate way he holds himself makes my skin prickle with unease.
I slip from the bed, my legs unsteady from the thorough claiming he gave me hours ago.
The silk robe hangs where he left it for me, and I wrap it around myself, tying the belt with trembling fingers.
The fabric whispers against my bare skin as I pad toward the sitting area, my bare feet silent on the cool wood.
His energy is different. Quiet. Protective. Burdened.
The silver coin lies on the table beside him, abandoned for once. That more than anything tells me something has shifted in the night. Seeing it motionless makes my chest tight with anxiety.
"Matteo?" My voice comes out smaller than I intended.
His head snaps up, and the look in his dark eyes confirms my worst fears. Whatever he's about to tell me, it's going to shatter something I thought was already broken.
"Hey, bella." He stands slowly, like he's afraid sudden movements might send me running. "We need to talk."
The words land like ice in my veins. Nothing good ever follows those four words. I wrap my arms around myself, the silk robe suddenly feeling inadequate against the chill spreading through my chest.
"About what?"
He crosses to me in three quick strides, his hands gentle as they frame my face. For a moment, he just looks at me, and I see something that makes my breath catch. Recognition. Like he's seeing pieces of me I didn't even know existed.
"My brother called in the middle of the night," he says quietly. "With information about your parents."
The world tilts. Those words hit me like a physical blow, stealing the breath from my lungs. I grip the silk of his shirt, needing something solid to hold onto.
"My parents?" I repeat stupidly. "What about them? They died in a car accident when I was nine."
The look that crosses his face tells me everything I need to know. Guilt. Rage. Protective fury. And underneath it all, the terrible weight of truth.
"It wasn't an accident," he says simply. "Chase ordered it. He killed them."
Something strange happens when he says it. Instead of shock or disbelief, there's a moment of absolute stillness. Like a puzzle piece clicking into place, filling a void I didn't know was there.
My knees buckle.
Images flash through my mind like fragments of a broken movie: Chase taking my hand at the funeral, his voice so gentle as he explained that my parents had died for business reasons I wouldn't understand.
The way he always deflected when I asked questions.
How he'd made sure I stayed away from anything that might trigger memories I didn't even know I had.
"No," I whisper, but the word has no conviction behind it. Because somewhere deep inside, past all the years of careful conditioning, a nine-year-old girl is nodding. Finally understanding why she always felt like she was living someone else's life.
"Isabella." His voice is rough with emotion. "I'm so fucking sorry."
The profanity, raw and real, cuts through the polite distance I've been trying to maintain. This is the truth, ugly and devastating, and he's not going to pretty it up for me.
"I need..." I can't finish the sentence. My breath is coming in short gasps, and the room feels like it's shrinking around me. "I can't..."
I bolt for the bathroom.
The marble floor is freezing against my bare feet as I stumble toward the shower. My hands shake as I reach for the faucets, needing the water, needing something to wash away the feeling of everything I thought I knew crumbling around me.
I strip off the robe with clumsy fingers, leaving it in a silk puddle as I step under the spray. The water hits my skin like needles, brutally cold, but I welcome the shock. Let it soak through my hair, run down my face, mix with the tears that are finally coming.
The sobs start small, just little hitches in my breathing. But they build and build until they're tearing out of me with devastating force. Full-body, silent-shaking sobs that feel like they're going to turn me inside out.
Chase was all I had. For fourteen years, he was my anchor, my family, my whole world. And it was all built on the blood of the people who should have raised me.
The cold water pounds down on me, and I can't stop shivering. My teeth chatter as the sobs wrack my body, and I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold the pieces together.
I don't hear the bathroom door open over the sound of water hitting stone. Don't notice I'm not alone until I see him through the glass, his dark eyes taking in my collapse with something that looks like physical pain.
"Isabella." His voice is strained, raw.
He doesn't hesitate. The shower door opens and suddenly he's stepping in with me, fully clothed. His white shirt immediately soaks through, clinging to his chest, his jeans heavy with water.
His hands find the shower controls first, and the water temperature shifts from freezing to blissfully warm. Steam immediately begins to rise around us, and the brutal edge of cold that was making me shake starts to ease.
"I've got you," he says simply, and then his arms are around me.
I collapse against him, my naked body pressed against his soaked clothes, and let myself fall apart completely. The sobs come harder now, tearing from my chest in waves that feel endless. My knees buckle, but his arms tighten, holding me upright.
"Let it out," he murmurs against my hair. "All of it."
"He killed them," I sob against his chest. "He murdered my parents and then he held my hand at their funeral. He told me he loved me. He made me call him Uncle Chase."
Matteo's whole body goes rigid. When I look up at him, his jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping beneath his skin. His dark eyes are blazing with a fury so intense it takes my breath away.
"I'm going to kill him," he says, and his voice is deadly quiet. "I'm going to kill him for what he did to you."
The words should scare me. Instead, they feel like validation. Like someone finally understanding the magnitude of what was taken from me.
"I was nine," I whisper. "Just a little girl. And he looked me in the eye and lied about murdering my parents. Then he raised me. Made me grateful."
His arms tighten around me, and we slide down the shower wall together, the warm water cascading over us. He pulls me into his lap on the marble floor, creating a cocoon of heat and steam around us.
"The nightmares," he says suddenly, his voice rough with realization. "All those nightmares I've been holding you through. They weren't random, were they?"
I look up at him, water streaming down both our faces. "What do you mean?"
"Your mind was trying to remember," he says quietly. "Your body knew the truth even when your mind didn't. The nightmares were fragments, pieces of that night trying to surface."
The words hit me like a revelation. All those nights of terror, of waking up gasping with images I couldn't quite grasp. The feeling of being chased, of doors slamming, of voices whispering secrets I couldn't understand.
"I remember," I breathe, the words barely audible. "Oh God, I remember pieces. The sound of Chase's voice on the phone that night. The way he held me afterward, so tight I couldn't breathe. He kept saying it would be okay, that he'd take care of everything."
"He was covering his tracks," Matteo says, his voice vibrating with controlled rage. "Making sure you wouldn't remember anything that could expose him."
The water continues to pour over us, but Matteo reaches up to adjust the temperature again as it starts to cool. His movements are careful, efficient, like he's prepared to sit here on this marble floor for as long as it takes.
"I loved him," I whisper, the confession scraping my throat raw. "For fourteen years, I loved the man who killed my family. I wanted to make him proud."
"Look at me," he says, his hands framing my face. "That little girl who survived, who adapted, who found a way to keep going even when everything was taken from her? She's the strongest person I know."
I meet his eyes, and what I see there takes my breath away. Not pity or sympathy, but something deeper. Recognition. Like he's seeing all the broken pieces of me and finding them beautiful.
"I see you," he says quietly. "Not the woman Chase shaped you to be, but the woman you really are. The one who's been fighting to surface all these years."
The words hit something deep inside me, a place I didn't know existed. For the first time in my life, someone is seeing me—really seeing me—and not finding me lacking.
"I don't know who that woman is," I admit.
"Then let's find out together."
He stands slowly, pulling me up with him. The water continues to pour over us, but now it feels cleansing instead of punishing. My fingers are pruned from the heat, and steam has fogged the mirrors around us, creating a private world where nothing exists except truth.
He reaches past me to turn off the water, and the sudden quiet is profound. He grabs a towel from the rack, wrapping it around my shoulders with gentle hands.
"I want to know everything," I say, surprised by the strength in my own voice. "About my parents, about what really happened that night. About who I was before Chase got his hands on me."
His smile is fierce and proud. "Then we start there."
He pulls another towel from the rack, running it through his wet hair. His soaked shirt clings to every line of muscle, and his jeans are heavy with water, but he seems completely unconcerned with his own comfort.
"Welcome to your real life, Isabella Callahan," he says, and the way he says my name makes it sound like armor instead of a burden.
For the first time since he took me, I don't flinch when I hear it. Because finally, finally, I'm ready to find out what it really means to be me.