Chapter 19 ~ Isabella #3
I get up silently and open the door. Carlos is leaning against the wall and pops off it, facing me as I close the door behind me.
“Piccolo?” He steps towards me.
I smile, and softly in Italian, I say,
“Alexandre Dumas once said, ‘Women are never so strong as after their defeat.’ I have been defeated too many times before, Carlos.” I look down at the floor. “This time I’ll make sure it never happens to me again.”
I walk past him and head up the stairs to my room. Closing the door, go to the couch, and sit down. I lift my feet to the coffee table, folding my hands in my lap, waiting.
Breakfast will arrive soon.
One step at a time, Izzy. This won’t work if you lose yourself too fast. Breathe, Chester, Charlie and Chad.
I’ve always had one goal, and that was my desire to work at the museum. Art was the only constant that kept me from falling; it was the one thing my father couldn’t take away. It was mine and a gift Nonno gave me at a young age. It was a place I could immerse myself in and leave the world behind.
But Alexander has managed to take everything I thought was safe and only mine. Anna, Helen, my work. He’s left me struggling to find purchase on a ledge, desperate for something to hold on to. I feel naked and bare to the bones.
I don’t know how long I sit staring at my hands when a knock brings me out of my stupor. I open the door and a tall woman with blond hair pulled back in a tight bun is standing there holding a tray with a silver dome-covered plate.
I move to the side as she walks in, putting the tray on the coffee table.
She holds her hand out and introduces herself as Sasha, my new bodyguard. I shake her hand. She looks me over, squinting her eyes at me.
“Should I expect any trouble from you?”
I shake my head no, move around her and sit down, removing the lid off the plate, picking up my fork, and placing the napkin on my lap. I don’t see any reason to make a new friend, especially with my jailer.
She turns and looks at me for a few minutes, waiting for me to say something, but I ignore her and continue to prepare my meal.
She sighs and then leaves me sitting there, closing the door quietly behind her.
I put my fork down and sit back down on the couch. I look up at the window, noting for the first time that it is a beautiful bay window with a plush cushion lining the bench. I toss a couple of pillows on it, making it a perfect reading bench.
They pulled the curtains back, and the sun is bright, shining through the rain-stained glass. I pick up my plate and sit sideways on the bench, resting my back on the wall.
Crossing my legs, I open the window, but it catches, making my fingers slip off the edge of the frame. It only raises about six inches. Sucking on the burning tip of my finger, I look at the frame and notice they have framed it in to prevent it from opening all the way.
I laughed to myself. He must have prepared this room the day he picked me up. I wonder what other ‘precautions’ he thought of. Did he seriously think I would jump out the window?
I don’t need to have the window open all the way; the little space is enough for my needs and a breeze to flow in. I lean my head back on the wall and look out over the backyard.
It’s beautiful.
Little flower garden’s edge of the yard in front of the tall cedar trees. He has benches and statues in marble scattered here and there, making it look peaceful. His home is anything but the tranquil setting of his backyard.
I can see a massive pool, an outdoor kitchen, and a guesthouse in the back. I watch as men pass by each other, making their way around the yard. This must be the security he was talking about.
Carlos comes into view as he takes a seat on one of the lounge chairs lining the deck of the pool. His back is to me as he plops down, putting his elbows on his knees, running his hands through his hair, and holding his head in the palm of his hands.
As the wind picks up, I look away from him to watch the water in the pool ripple, and the sheer curtain flutters against my knee as the wind rushes through the small opening.
I rub the material between my fingers and get up from the bench, putting my empty plate on the tray. I pick it up and bring it to the door. The handle slips in my hand as I try to open it. I try one more time, but soon realize it’s locked.
I set the tray down on the floor and take the vase of flowers off the little table by the door. I bring it over to the coffee table to set in the centre and go back to pick up the tray, putting it in its place instead. I return to the couch and sit down again.
I pace my hands on my lap and stare at the flowers, assimilating the colours that pass through each vein on the flower petal, and how they flow to form a seamless blend of colour. The stark and vivid green, with its varying shades, makes them stand out, accentuating their beauty.
I focus on the flowers as I rub my hands together, feeling them dry and cracking around my nails. I stare at the vase of flowers as I pick at a hangnail on my index finger with my thumb, trying to smooth the rough surface.
Three more hours till lunch.
Pick. Pick. Pick.