29. Isabella
Chapter twenty-nine
Isabella
I shouldn't feel this surprised or disappointed, but here I am. My heart sinks like during those moments when my body betrayed me during treatment, like when I missed a step in the final act of Swan Lake and crashed onto the stage. The numbness spreading through me isn't the same shock I felt when the initial Hodgkin's diagnosis came, but it's close. That same hollow feeling, that same disbelief.
"Well, that explains why she's not here," I say, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. My lips curve into what I hope passes for a smile, but it feels as fake as the wig I wore after chemo took my hair. "It also shows us that we could never really trust her."
For a moment, I almost did. Her understanding eyes, her dignified composure…I thought I'd found someone who understood what it meant to be trapped in this world. Instead, she's aligned herself with my father—the man whose games left Antonio's face scarred, whose machinations have left bruises on my heart that haven't even begun to heal. A man who probably ordered the hit on Antonio's mother. A man who claimed to love my own mother, but has me questioning every memory I thought was real.
My mother. The thought of her sends a familiar ache through my chest, one I've carried for years like another scar.
I turn back to Alexandros, trying to look unfazed. After being imprisoned by The Beast for months, after surviving cancer's siege, it takes more than a towering Greek to intimidate me.
"My father must have decided an alliance with the French was what he needed," I continue, my analytical mind working even as my emotions threaten to spiral. "But that also means he's threatened." I clear my throat, trying to dislodge the knot forming there. "Let's not forget the so-called accidents during the auction and the tournament. Ms. Lefevre is either in danger or dangerous. Both options don't reflect well for a man who prides himself on being in control. And, she's...somewhat older."
The unease that grips me feels like those nights before PET scans when I couldn't sleep, couldn't breathe. I hate reducing this woman to nothing more than a womb—but in this world where I've been auctioned off like property, that's exactly what she is to my father. Another chess piece. Another pawn.
I won't be giving Antonio an heir. I can't. Early menopause from chemo has seen to that, despite what my father told Antonio. The thought of another child growing up in this life—it makes me think of Elena, her innocent giggles, her trust in me. The idea of her future being decided by men like my father, her choices stripped away before she even knows she has them, sends a familiar fire racing through my veins. The same heat that used to push me through rehearsals when my body screamed for rest.
"They're both weakened," Antonio growls beside me, his hand tracing up and down my spine like he can feel the tension coiled there. His touch is both electric and grounding, a reminder of everything between us: the hatred, the desire, the connection neither of us can seem to sever no matter how hard we try.
Connor steps forward, his voice cutting through the heavy silence. "Not that this conversation isn't fascinating, but...we need to eat, don't we? Why don't we sit down."
Part of me wants to race to Naomi's side, to collapse beside my best friend who held my hand through treatments, who smuggled romance novels into my hospital room. But my place is at the other end of the table, opposite Antonio, playing the dutiful wife. The Beast's prize.
As Antonio pulls out my chair, his lips find that spot on my neck that makes my body remember our wedding night, when he took such care with my scars, when he made me feel whole again. The men beside me grunt something in Greek, the words sliding over me like coarse hospital sheets. I wish my mother had taught me her language instead of ballet positions, that I'd learned to speak the words that were her birthright.
But wishes are for fairytales, and this is no storybook ending. I survived cancer only to be imprisoned in stone walls. I found Naomi only to see her married off to Connor. This is my reality, and like those mornings when chemo had me retching into hospital toilets, I'll face it head-on.
As I take my seat, a chill runs down my spine, the kind that used to precede bad test results. Stefanos is staring at me, his eyes no longer carrying that easy charm from earlier. There's something darker there now—a need for revenge that reminds me too much of Antonio when he first locked me away.
It's like looking into a mirror, seeing my own thirst for retribution reflected back. But I've seen where that road leads— to that stone room, to those letters, to night after night of tears that no one hears.
And there's no way I'm letting myself get pulled under that tide again. I've fought too hard to keep my head above water. Through treatments, through isolation, through Antonio's betrayal.
Antonio's staring at me across the table like he senses the shift within me, like he can see the determination forming. His eyes—those same eyes that burned with hatred when he found his mother's letter, that darkened with desire when he tasted me—lock onto mine.
Memories of us crash through me. It's a montage of everything we've been to each other, everything we could have been.
But most of all, I think of Elena. Her little hands in mine as we twirled in the garden, her trust, her future. She's the one pure thing in all this darkness, worth fighting for.
So when I turn back to face the Greek brothers, my smile has the same steel I forged during those endless days in treatment. They want to play games? Fine. But they'd better know who they're dealing with.
I toss the script into the salted air, changing the scenario. "We can all pretend here," I say, my voice steadier than my SVT-prone heart. "We can have dinner and regale you with stories of love and trust. We might even make you laugh. But how about you tell us why you really came here? Because it's certainly not for the delicious food we're about to serve you."
I pause, inhaling deeply like before those vagal maneuvers that sometimes steadied my heart. "I was maybe planning to use you to escape this fortress. Because while Antonio and I had wanted to show you a mask of unity, we're dealing with what feels like centuries of betrayals and lies."
I half-expect Antonio to silence me with a look; that's what my father would have done. But instead, his attention stays fixed on me, his eyes not commanding but understanding. A silent "so we're doing this" hanging between us.
I'm not sure whether I believe his support, but right now, it doesn't matter. I continue, "Trust me when I say, this marriage may be on rocky ground, but there are people we'd defend to the bitter end. And you don't want to make an enemy out of us."
The words hang in the air, a challenge and a promise. I hold Stefanos' gaze, daring him to underestimate me, to write me off as just another pretty ballerina. Because he has no idea what I'm capable of, the lengths I'll go to protect what's mine.
In this twisted game of power and control, sometimes the only way to win is to change the rules. I may not have been quick at seeing through my father's lies—but I'm done being a pawn in someone else's game.
They exchange glances like doctors debating a treatment plan while Connor shifts almost imperceptibly, positioning himself to protect Naomi if needed.
Nikos is the first to reply, his eyes locking onto mine like he's trying to see past the walls I've built. And then he utters words that shatter my world:
"Your mother is alive. And she wants to see you."
The air vanishes from my lungs like someone's punched straight through my chest. My body goes cold, then hot, then ice-cold again, the same terrible cycle I endured during those first weeks of chemo when my body didn't know how to process what was happening to it.
"What?" The word scrapes out, barely audible. My throat closes up, my vision blurring at the edges. I grip the table hard enough that my knuckles turn white, the wood digging into my palms.
My mother.
Not dead.
Not buried.
Alive.
The truth crashes through me like a wrecking ball, demolishing every foundation I've built my life upon. Every memory of placing flowers at her grave. Every tear shed on the anniversary of her death. Every time my father used her memory to manipulate me, to control me, to justify his actions.
All lies.
I can't breathe. My chest constricts painfully, and for a second I think I'm having another SVT episode, but this is different. This is grief and rage and hope colliding into something so overwhelming it threatens to tear me apart.
Antonio's hand finds mine under the table, his grip tight enough to anchor me to reality. I don't look at him—can't look at him—but I feel his strength flowing into me, steadying me when everything else is spinning out of control.
"That can't be true," I whisper, but even as I deny it, something deep inside recognizes the truth. "She died. There was a funeral. I saw—" But what did I actually see? A closed casket. My father's performance of grief. Nothing concrete. Nothing real.
My mind races, connecting threads I never saw before. The grandmother's contract—that mysterious agreement everyone values so much. The one that requires me to be alive and living in this fortress for a year.
The realization hits me like another blow: "The contract. It's not only about alliances or territories, is it? It's about keeping me alive. Is that why I'm still breathing? Is that why Antonio hasn't—" I cut myself off, the implications too staggering to voice.
Was my life spared solely because of some agreement my grandmother made? And if my mother is alive, what does she know about it? What part did she play in all of this?
"How?" I finally manage, my voice cracking on the single syllable. "How is she alive? Where has she been all these years? Why didn't she—" The words choke off as tears burn my eyes, hot and stinging.
Why didn't she come for me? Why didn't she save me from my father, from cancer, from this life I never chose?
The Beast offering comfort? The irony isn't lost on me. But then, nothing about us has ever been simple.
And as the full reality of Nikos's words sink in, one thought crystallizes above all others with razor-sharp clarity:
If my mother is alive—if she has been all this time—then every moment of my life has been built on lies. Every choice I've made, every path I've taken, has been shaped by a deception so profound it makes Antonio's betrayal look like child's play.
And someone is going to pay for that.