7. Isabella
Chapter seven
Isabella
T here's a noise in the eerie silence of the night. And it's not a bird, or the waves crashing. Footsteps.
My eyes snap open, and instinctively, my hand darts beneath the mattress, gripping the shard hidden there.
I hold my breath, unsure whether I'm still in the grips of a nightmare or in my nightmarish reality.
Another footstep. Closer this time.
I struggle to swallow, to stay completely still, holding the cold shard so tightly warm blood trickles down my hand. The stinging bite feels real.
The moon's glow spills into the room, throwing shadows that dance and twist and turn, each one a secret I'm scared to think about. I can't just sit here, a prey to be hunted, waiting to be caught or something worse. So, I edge my feet onto the floor, the thick socks hopefully quieting any sound, and creep towards the door as silently as I can. If invisibility were my superpower, right now, I'd use it. Or maybe transforming into the Hulk wouldn't be too bad either.
The steps outside are too faint, too distant for a peek through the keyhole or to catch a whiff of any familiar scent. Could it be Antonio? Is he back to finish the job? Upset that his daughter took a liking to me?
But no, I know he can't. He still has a use for me.
The French dinner he mentioned – the one where I'll need to smile and pretend we're not one step away from killing each other. God, will he expect me to hold his hand? To let him touch me, his fingers brushing against my skin like they did on our wedding night? The thought sends an unwelcome heat through my body that has nothing to do with fear.
I press my ear against the door, straining to identify the intruder. These past days since our walk outside have been torture. The memory of sunlight on my skin, of Elena's giggles as we twirled together, makes my current isolation even harder to bear.
The dinner's been pushed back, and ever since, it's like I've been shut away from the world again, locked in a shadow. Has it been three days or three years?
Those moments with Elena, they felt like a crack of light in a long, dark tunnel, giving me a taste of something real, something human, only to snatch it away just as fast. It's like waking up from the best dream to the worst reality, knowing I got a fleeting glimpse of life only for it to be ripped out of my hands again.
Signora Martha conveyed something to me in Italian, a language I'm still grasping. The mention of Elena's name, coupled with the words "tears" and "dance," was clear enough, though. Her eyes, filled with a sad understanding, told me more than words could. It leaves me wondering if Elena is crying and whether Antonio hears her tears or chooses to ignore them. What kind of father is he, truly?
But above all, my thoughts circle back to how Elena is managing through this. My concern for her well-being eclipses everything else.
Maybe it's because I lost my mother, too, when I was young. Or maybe it's because I want to find ways to make her smile, or maybe it's because she reminds me, I'm human, too.
I hear it then. A heavy, labored breathing that's not my own. My shoulders hike up to my ears, every inch of me coiling tight as a spring. Fear skitters up my spine, freezing me in place.
If I understood correctly what she said (and drew and gestured), Signora Martha once mentioned that she returns the spare key to him after each visit, implying that this heavy door might be my only shield against whoever prowls outside. I struggle to believe Antonio would resort to physical harm, not when he's already mastered the art of inflicting emotional wounds that feel eternal.
My throat constricts with the thought.
Would this tiny shard of plate even do anything if it's Christos? What if there's more than one? Hiding in the bathroom feels like a joke, and under the bed? Even more so. I force my shaking to stop, trying to think clearly, but every plan screams "desperate". Then, as quickly as they came, the footsteps fade away, leaving me alone with my racing heart and the looming question: Will I ever find peace enough to sleep again?
Gripping the shard tighter, I move toward the window, its iron bars a constant reminder of my limited world. With a grunt, I wrench it open. The cold air brushes my face, grounding me. The moon's reflection on the ocean could make me believe I'm anywhere but here. That I'm not some pawn in a jail masquerading as a room. That my life hasn't turned into this. I refuse to let this cage define me. I've battled too hard for life, for each breath, each step, each dance. So what if my grace isn't what it used to be? Damn Antonio and his men, I will enjoy the moonlight even if it's nowhere near my dreams. So, I let the shard fall to the floor with a clatter. I don't ignore the fear still gripping my chest; I let it rush through me until it becomes one with the waves outside.
Stretching my arms above me, a small, defiant smile plays on my lips. It's like I'm a Phoenix rising from the ashes again.
After dancing for half an hour, I hide the shard back under my mattress, clean the blood and the last remnant of fear from my hand, and lay back in bed. This time, when I close my eyes, I remember the feeling of the air against my skin, the way my muscles obeyed me, the way I told the story all the way through my fingertips.
I imagine a ballet on a stage. I hear the music. The applause. And the laughter of Naomi and Elena after the dance.
And I promise myself that I'll find a way out of here, but in the meantime, I will hold on to those happy moments.
They won't break me.
As Signora Martha brings me my breakfast the next morning, I don't wait to see if today is the day Elena will be allowed to spend time with me again. Instead, using the Italian I know, I ask her to tell Antonio I'd like to see Elena.
That I'll come to the dinner and pretend but that I want to spend time with his daughter.
It's a risk, using Elena as leverage. If Antonio were anyone else, I might worry about exploiting an innocent child. But I've seen how Elena lit up during our dance, how she clung to me when Antonio tried to separate us. She needs this connection as much as I do. And if playing the dutiful wife at his precious dinner is the price for bringing some joy to a little girl's life, I'll pay it.
Even if it means smiling through his palm on the small of my back, his lips brushing my ear as he whispers to me, pretending for all the world that he doesn't hate me as much as I hate the way my body still responds to him. Even if it means remembering how his hands once mapped every inch of me, gentle and possessive all at once.
I'm not sure I really expressed myself correctly. With my luck, I may have asked to see Antonio instead. So, I write down the same message in English on a piece of paper to give to my former stepbrother.
Signora Martha's nod, accompanied by a knowing smile, assures me my message is heard, maybe even understood, beyond the words I've written.
And that she agrees with me.
And once again, I feel less alone.
Stronger.
I can't believe he said yes. Did his eyes widen at my bold request? Or did his jaw clench in annoyance? Or maybe he gave that signature dismissive shake of his head that used to make my stomach flip before I knew better.
He probably said yes because he thinks he can control me better at that dinner on Saturday. Give me a semblance of freedom and I'll be sweet as honey, playing the dutiful wife for his French allies. Maybe he doesn't know me at all.
It doesn't matter the reason. All I know is that I'm out of my decrepit and dark wing into the slightly less decrepit and dark main part of the fortress. These windows stretch taller, letting the sunlight dance on floors that whisper stories of centuries past. How many happy families and star-crossed lovers have these boards witnessed? And how many heartaches?
Last night's dream still clings to me like his scent once did – his hands mapping my body again, his mouth claiming places that made me arch and beg. In the dream, I didn't hate him. In the dream, I surrendered completely, pulling him closer as he whispered Italian endearments against my skin. I woke tangled in sheets, aching and furious with my treacherous body for still wanting what my mind knows is poison.
The aroma of citrus and garlic pasta wafts up from the kitchen below, filling the room with the promise of a meal I haven't tasted in ages. Surrounded by three bookshelves, I let myself daydream for a moment, imagining a life of freedom within these walls, dancing through these rooms, losing myself in books.
"Again!" Elena's enthusiastic claps break through my daydreaming. I smile, guiding her through another pas chassé, her laughter a melody in the stillness. Suddenly, she halts, adopting a grave expression and mimics a growl. "Mio papà..." she declares, pointing to herself before growling again. Is she imitating her father? The accuracy sends a burst of laughter from deep within me, uncontrollable and liberating. Then, with a gentle smile that softens the room, she twirls, her voice tender, "I... a bailerina." Her innocence in that moment, her pure joy in the dance, it unclenches something deep within, reminding me of dreams not yet lost.
"Ballerina," I affirm gently, and she nods in understanding.
Then, with a solemn expression, she touches her chest and says, "Figlia della bestia."
"Figlia," I echo softly, my voice a whisper of reflection. "Daughter..." The word hangs in the air, heavy with unspoken questions. Who is her mother? Is she Paola's child? The thought twists something painful in my chest. I think about Paola's triumphant smile as she slid her arms around Antonio that last morning. "He's mine now," she'd said. Did she give him this beautiful child before disappearing? Or worse – is she still in his bed, still claimed by those same hands that once worshipped my body?
Or is Antonio some kind of Bluebeard, collecting wives who disappear when they displease him? The thought sends a chill down my spine. Elena clearly has no mother figure. What happened to the woman who birthed her? Is she dead like Bluebeard's wives, locked away like me, or simply cast aside when Antonio finished with her?
A part of me aches to be whatever Elena needs in this moment. Her finger then turns towards me, "Principesa," she declares, and adds in clear English, "Tangled."
I can't help but smile, running a hand through my short locks. "Too short of hair or you think I'm her at the end of the movie?" I play along, the lightness in our exchange a brief escape from the weight of our reality.
Elena's laughter rings out again, but it tightens my chest. Her innocence, her questions, they're so pure yet painfully poignant. I, too, long for an escape from this tower, a real-life Rapunzel. Then, drawing nearer, Elena takes my hand, guiding me to a book she's eager to share. It's the Disney version of Beauty and the Beast. She points to me, "Bella," then looks at me with eyes brimming with curiosity. "Are you Bella?" she asks, indicating the book cover, and adds in Italian, "My father is the Beast." Her growl, meant to mimic, carries a note of melancholy this time.
I sit down, inviting her onto my lap, and begin, "I'm Isabella. I love to dance, and your father... he plays the piano." I wonder mimicking someone playing on the piano. And she smiles, nodding. Why am I compelled to paint him in a softer light for her? To humanize him? To show her that he is—or at least was—more than just the Beast.
"He loved to play soccer, chase the waves, and once, he loved to laugh," I share mixing Italian and English, and Elena listens as if this is the most magical story she's ever heard. Her eyes wide with wonder, I lean down and kiss the top of her strawberries-and-hope smelling soft hair, just as the air in the room shifts.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up before I even see him. My body's warning system hasn't forgotten what my mind tries to ignore. A familiar cologne mingles with the scent of power and danger, and my pulse kicks up without permission. My fingers instinctively tighten around Elena. Not to keep her from him, but to anchor myself against the tide of unwanted reactions.
Antonio fills the doorway like some dark force of nature, shoulders blocking the light, those eyes that once mapped every inch of me now assessing the scene with calculated interest. His scar catches the sunlight, a stark reminder of flames and betrayal that should send me running, not wondering how the texture would feel beneath my fingertips.
Heat pools low in my belly, an involuntary response to the memory of his body against mine, inside mine. I hate how my breath catches, how my thighs press together of their own accord. Three months of isolation hasn't killed the muscle memory of what he made me feel that night – both the ecstasy and the shattering heartbreak that followed.
"Are you telling her a story?" His voice slides over my skin like warm honey laced with poison. The softer tone throws me more than any growl could have.
Elena looks up, uncertainty flickering in her eyes, but instead of the dismissal I expected, Antonio opens his arms. With a delighted giggle, she runs into his embrace, and he lifts her, spinning her around with a grace that seems at odds with the man I thought I knew. Watching them, a part of me aches, a hollow space expanding beneath my ribs where dreams of my own family once lived before cancer and captivity tried to kill them.
I can't help but wonder if he holds Paola like that too, if he whispers Italian endearments against her skin like he once did mine. The jealousy that flares is unwelcome and ridiculous. I shouldn't care who warms his bed. I shouldn't care if Elena calls another woman "mama." I shouldn't care about anything beyond escaping this place.
And yet I do. God help me, I do.
Cerberus ambles over, nudging my hand for a scratch behind his ears, finding comfort in my presence. "Seems the dog's taken a liking to you," he observes, his gaze sharpening. "Much like my daughter."
The words hang between us, both accusation and something more dangerous. His eyes track my every move like I'm a puzzle he's still trying to solve. Like he can't decide if I'm a threat or a treasure.
Words fail me, not from defiance this time, but from the sheer weight of them unspoken. Questions swarm my mind, urgent and numerous, yet they remain caged behind my lips. Around Elena, I can't unleash them. I want to confront him about the injustice of my confinement, to challenge the ease with which he discarded me once his interest waned. I'm desperate to understand the significance of that upcoming dinner, what role I'm expected to play in his grand design.
The urge to question if he was the one lurking outside my room last night is strong, too. Was it him standing there, breathing hard enough I could hear it through the door, his hand resting against the wood like he was contemplating coming in? And if it was, what did he want? To hurt me? To claim me again? To apologize? None of the options seem quite right.
Yet, I'm wary of giving him the impression that my time with Elena has softened me towards him. And to give him the impression I'll believe his lies again.
So I stay silent, not glancing away. Let him see the steel in my eyes, the walls I've built. Let him wonder what I'm thinking as I stand my ground, chin lifted in silent challenge.
His nostrils flare slightly, the only sign that my defiance affects him at all. The tension between us crackles like static electricity, something dangerous and alive. Elena, sensing it, presses closer to her father, her tiny hand patting his scarred cheek in a gesture so tender it makes my throat tighten.
In the solitude of my room, I've pieced together more than just idle thoughts. I'm convinced there's a deeper story to his mother's fate, a betrayal not by my doing. Letters that don't match timelines. References to places I've never been. If Antonio is so blinded by hatred that he can't see the inconsistencies, then his issues run deeper than any dinner plans could solve.
And maybe, just maybe, the real monsters in this story aren't just the Beast and me, but the shadows lurking behind us all, pulling strings neither of us can see, creating a twisted fairy tale where neither of us knows who's truly the villain and who's the victim. Where my father, his enemies, and all those shadowy figures in this dangerous game are playing with lives they consider expendable.
Where Elena might be the only true innocent left.