19. Isabella
Chapter nineteen
Isabella
" H e's always been playing me."
The realization drops inside me like a stone in water, sending ripples through my entire body. I can barely form the words as I stare at Antonio, whose face has transformed into something murderous and cold. For once, that rage isn't directed at me.
"Always," I repeat, the word splintering in my throat.
And here's the thing about truth. It doesn't just hurt. It carves . Each revelation about my father feels like another layer of skin being peeled away until there's nothing left but raw, exposed nerves. The weight of it crushes against my chest until breathing becomes an act of defiance.
I dig my nails into my palm, pressing hard enough to leave crescent moons in my flesh. Pain I can control. Pain that anchors me when everything else threatens to dissolve. My other hand clutches my water bottle so tightly the plastic crackles in protest.
I will not cry. Not here. Not now. Not in front of him.
Because if I start, I might never stop.
"He's going to pay for everything," Antonio vows, his voice dropping to that dangerous growl that used to make my pulse race for entirely different reasons.
But now? Now it just sounds like more of the same. Another man deciding my fate. Another agenda where I'm just a pawn on someone else's chessboard.
Heat rises up my spine, crawling across my skin like wildfire. The anger doesn't just seep—it floods, drowning out the hurt, the betrayal, the stupid, naive hope I've been harboring that somewhere deep down, my father actually cared about me. That Antonio might see me as more than collateral damage in his revenge fantasy.
"Maybe I knew it," I say, lifting my chin. My voice comes out steady despite the hurricane raging inside. "Maybe I planned all of this, too."
Antonio's eyes narrow, that muscle in his jaw ticking like a bomb about to detonate.
"How can you be sure this isn't part of my master plan?" I continue, each word dripping with venom I didn't know I possessed. "After all, I'm responsible for everything , right? I'm working hand in hand with my father." My smile feels like broken glass cutting into my cheeks. "Maybe that tournament was my idea... Maybe Henrik and I are in this together."
Something flickers across Antonio's face. Doubt, maybe. Suspicion. Like he's actually considering the possibility.
And that feels like a knife straight between my ribs.
A laugh escapes me, hollow and corrosive. "Whatever." The word tastes like ash on my tongue.
They both use me. Both decided what my role should be. A puppet dancing on strings I can't even see. The thing about puppets, though? Cut enough strings and they collapse in a heap, lifeless and forgotten.
Antonio pushes to his feet, his chair scraping against the floor like nails on a chalkboard. There's something in his eyes I can't quite name—understanding, maybe. Or pity.
I don't want either. Not from him.
"Listen—" he starts.
"Don't," I snap, the word sharp enough to draw blood.
Memories flood in uninvited—my father's cologne, strong and familiar when he'd swing me up onto his shoulders. His proud smile when I performed my first arabesque. The way he'd smooth my hair back after nightmares, promising monsters weren't real.
Biggest lie he ever told me. The monster was him all along.
Was every memory just another manipulation? A breadcrumb trail to keep me docile, compliant, dancing to his tune without question? Was I nothing more than an investment he was cultivating for the highest return?
Bile burns a path up my throat, bitter and acidic.
"Bella," Antonio says, and there's an edge to his voice I haven't heard before.
"I said, don't ." I swallow hard, focusing on the condensation beading on my water bottle, the cold seeping into my fingers. "I'm fine. Cool." The words come out mechanical, rehearsed. Like I'm playing a role in someone else's script. Again.
Another thought punctures the fog. "I wonder if my mom knew."
Antonio's brow furrows, and I can see the calculations running behind his eyes. His mother tried to save me. Mine either didn't know or didn't care enough to try.
I inhale deeply, air scraping down my throat like sandpaper. How pathetically naive was I to believe that my father's coldness was just his way of showing love? That somewhere beneath Antonio's revenge burned something warmer, something real?
The rage builds inside me, a tsunami gaining momentum. I want to scream until my throat bleeds. Want to tear this room apart piece by piece until there's nothing left but destruction to match what's happening inside me.
But then, movement catches my eye. Through the window, Elena jumps up and down, her smile brighter than the sun reflecting off the Mediterranean. Innocent. Trusting. Unscarred by the games adults play.
If I let this anger consume me, what happens to her? To Naomi? To me?
I'd become exactly what they expect. The broken doll, the discarded pawn, the footnote in their war. Collateral damage. Nothing more.
I refuse to give them that satisfaction.
I clench my jaw so hard my teeth ache, forcing myself to breathe. To think. The past can't be rewritten, but the next chapter? That's still mine to claim.
"So... that dinner..." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Are you going to tell me more about what I need to do?"
Antonio leans against his desk, muscular arms crossed over his chest. A wince flashes across his face, gone so quickly I might have imagined it.
"You of all people don't need to pretend you're not using me, too." I measure each word carefully, dropping them between us like breadcrumbs marking my path through this darkness. "I'll help you. I'll help in whatever way I can. But I need that time with Naomi. I need more freedom. I want to make sure our old nanny and housekeeper are okay."
He nods, and the ease of his agreement sparks fresh suspicion. Nothing comes free in this world. Not for me.
"Just tell me what I need to do." A resigned sigh escapes me, heavy with things I'll never say aloud.
Antonio hesitates, like he's fighting some internal battle I'll never be privy to. The thought that we're both casualties of my father's machinations tugs at something I've tried to bury, and a bitter laugh bubbles up.
"Nevermind," I mutter when he raises an eyebrow.
"We'll practice the dinner tonight," he finally says.
I almost scoff at the absurdity. "I know how to eat."
Our eyes meet, and memories of formal dinners where my nervous fingers fumbled with crystal or dropped appetizers at the worst moments pass between us. Something flickers in his gaze—something that feels uncomfortably like the Antonio I used to know, not the Beast who locked me away.
"You know what I mean," I counter, the memory making my chest ache with unwanted nostalgia. "Fine, we'll practice that dinner. Great."
"Isabella, I—"
"Don't." My voice cracks despite my best efforts. "Whatever you want to say, just don't. Don't pretend you care."
I place the water bottle on his desk and stand, each movement deliberate, heavy with the weight of revelations I never wanted. My legs feel like they'll give out any second, but somehow they carry me toward the door, away from his burning gaze.
The walls seem to close in with each step, the air thinning until my lungs strain for oxygen. I push through it, focusing on each breath, each step. One foot in front of the other. Just like during chemo when my body felt like it belonged to someone else.
I slip through the door and press my back against it once it's closed, finally allowing myself one ragged, silent sob that tears through me like a hurricane. Just one. That's all I can afford.
I swallow the rest back down, tasting salt and fury and determination.
I can't lose it. Not now. Not when Elena and Naomi need me. Not when I need me.
Instead, I straighten my spine like before performances, wiping away the single tear that escaped my control. I make my way toward the garden, toward the Mediterranean breeze that carries salt and freedom. Toward Elena and Cerberus, where for a few precious moments, I'm more than just a chess piece in a game I never agreed to play.
I'm still standing. Still breathing.
And that, in itself, feels like the first move in a game of my own making.