Chapter 20 - Isabella
Chapter twenty
ISABELLA
Day Six
Iwake to Chopin.
Not real—a memory. Antonio at the piano in those weeks before everything shattered, his scarred hands drawing something dark and beautiful from the keys while I pretended not to watch.
The music fades as consciousness drags me back to a body that doesn't feel like mine.
A commotion in the hallway pulls me fully awake. Raised voices—Greek, heated.
I force myself upright, head pounding from whatever they gave me.
"—can't keep him locked up. The other families will ask questions." Alexandros's voice, tight with something I haven't heard from him before. Desperation, maybe. Or guilt.
"He's been sabotaging us for months." Henrik, cold and dismissive.
"He deserves worse than a locked room."
"He's my brother." Steel underneath the desperation.
"Whatever debts we owe you, Henrik, they don't include Greek blood. Stefanos faces Greek justice. Not yours."
A long pause. I imagine Henrik calculating—weighing control against cooperation. "Fine." Henrik's magnanimity sounds like a threat. "Release him for the ceremony. Let him watch. But your people keep him unarmed and under guard. If he disrupts the proceedings—"
"He won't." "See that he doesn't."
Footsteps recede. Stefanos is alive. Being released. And Alexandros just pushed back against Henrik—the first crack I've seen in whatever alliance binds them.
My mouth tastes like copper and chemicals. My limbs are heavy, disconnected, like I'm operating them through water. The ceiling swims when I try to focus on it, and my arm throbs where they took too much blood.
How long was I out?
The last thing I remember clearly is the phone call with Antonio. His voice promising someone was coming. Then Dr. Theos appeared with a syringe—"just something to help you rest"—and my mother nodding approval, and then... nothing.
They drugged me. Again. Took my consciousness the same way they took my blood, my consent, my choices.
I force myself upright. The room tilts violently, and I have to grip the mattress to keep from sliding off the bed. My stomach lurches. Whatever they gave me, it's still working its way out of my system.
The green light blinks in the corner. Camera. Always watching.
Through the window, the storm still rages—gray sky, sheets of rain, wind that makes the old villa groan. But the light is different. Afternoon, maybe. I've lost hours.
How many hours until Antonio's courier arrives? How many until the ceremony?
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, testing my balance. My body aches in places I can't explain—muscles stiff like I've been lying in the same position for too long. Underneath the chemical fog, rage is building. A clean, cold fury that cuts through the sedation better than any antidote.
They keep taking from me. My blood. My freedom. My consciousness. And they expect me to just accept it.
The intercom on the wall crackles. I freeze.
"Don't react." A male voice, low and urgent. Not Dr. Theos. Not Henrik. Someone younger. "Camera's watching. Pace if you need to move, but don't look at the speaker."
I start pacing, letting my body language read as agitation. Not hard—I am agitated.
"Your husband's people are close. Storm's breaking. Sunset, maybe sooner." A pause. "The ceremony's been moved up. Tonight. Moonrise. They're afraid of losing their window."
Moonrise. That's hours away, not days. The timeline is compressing.
"Franco and Manuel are being held in the east wing. Alive—Henrik needs them as leverage. There's a service entrance on the north side, lightly guarded at shift change."
I stumble toward the window, hand pressed against the glass. The cold shocks through my palm, grounding me. Outside, the sea churns gray and violent, but is the rain lighter than before? Is the sky less dark at the edges?
"When things start, get to the north hallway. Stay low."
The intercom clicks off. Whoever that was, he's gone.
I press my forehead against the cool glass, processing. Antonio's coming. Franco and Manuel are alive. There's a plan.
I just have to survive until sunset.
The door unlocks—seven clicks, that pattern I've come to dread—and my mother wheels herself in. She's wearing a black dress, formal, like she's attending a funeral. The prednisone energy from yesterday has faded; she looks gray, diminished, the illness eating her from inside.
Behind her, Dr. Theos and two men I don't recognize. Private security—Henrik's personal detail, not Greek mafia. Their suits are expensive, their eyes are flat, and they move like men who've hurt people professionally.
"You're awake." My mother's voice is hoarse. "Good. We need to prepare."
"Prepare for what?"
She doesn't answer directly. Instead, she gestures to one of the security men, who opens my closet and removes a garment bag.
"Henrik chose it himself," she says. "He wanted you to have something beautiful." Is she playing a role? Happy for me, or sad?
The zipper reveals white silk. Expensive lace. A wedding dress.
Someone has woven roses into my hair. White roses, symbol of purity and new beginnings. The irony isn't lost on me. Nothing about this ceremony is pure, and the only new beginning I want is the one that ends with me on a plane back to Italy.
I catch my reflection in the mirror. The woman staring back looks like a sacrifice dressed as a bride. Which, I suppose, is exactly what Henrik wants.
My stomach drops. "No."
"Isabella—"
"I'm already married."
"This isn't about legality." Dr. Theos steps forward, his voice gentle, reasonable. "The ceremony tonight is spiritual. A binding of souls. The witnesses need to see unity—your mother's healing depends on the energy in that room."
"Energy." I laugh, and it comes out harsh. "You're going to cure kidney disease with energy?"
"The transfusion happens after the ceremony. Your blood, freely given in the context of sacred union—"
"There's nothing free about any of this."
My mother wheels closer. Her eyes are bright with that feverish belief I've come to recognize—the look of someone who's traded reason for hope.
"Henrik understands what's at stake," she says. "He's invested millions in this research. In my treatment. He deserves... recognition." But she doesn't believe it. Her eyes keep on glancing behind us like she knows we're being listened to.
"Recognition." The word tastes like acid. "Is that what we're calling it?"
"He cares for you, Isabella. In his way."
"His way involves stalking me, drugging me, and forcing me into a ceremony I didn't consent to." I hold her gaze. "That's not care. That's ownership."
And in her eyes, I see many emotions. Or maybe just one. Guilt? Doubt? But it's gone before I can name it, buried under desperation.
"After tonight, you go home," she murmurs as she readjusts the roses. "Antonio comes for you, you leave, everything goes back to normal. Henrik just needs... this. This moment. This symbol."
She's lying. To me or to herself, I can't tell. But Henrik didn't spend eight million euros for a symbolic moment. He wants something real. Something lasting.
"What exactly happens in this ceremony?"
Dr. Theos answers. "An exchange of vows. An exchange of blood—just drops, nothing harmful. Words spoken before witnesses."
"What kind of vows?"
A pause. "Henrik was specific about the language. Devotion. Fidelity. Submission."
Submission. There it is.
"And if I refuse to say them?"
One of the security men shifts, his jacket falling open to reveal a holstered weapon. "Mr. Henrik wanted you to understand—your bodyguards are comfortable. For now. Their continued comfort depends on your cooperation."
Not subtle. Henrik's never been subtle.
"The believers need to see willingness," Dr. Theos adds. "They need to feel the energy of consent. If you resist openly, it damages the ritual's power. Damages your mother's chance at healing."
So that's the game. The believers think this is about spiritual healing, about miraculous blood, about resurrection and hope. They don't know Henrik's real interest has nothing to do with faith.
He's not a believer. He's an opportunist. Using their desperation the same way he's using my mother's.
But what does he actually want? Not just me—he could have tried to take me by force anytime. He wants something that requires witnesses. Something that requires ceremony. Something that requires the appearance of consent.
"The dress," my mother says again. "Please, Isabella. We don't have much time."
I look at the white silk, the expensive lace. Henrik chose it. Probably based on photos he's collected over years of surveillance. Tailored to measurements he obtained through whatever invasion of privacy money can buy.
But it's still just a dress. Fabric and thread. It doesn't have power unless I give it power.
And if wearing it keeps Franco and Manuel alive until sunset, until Antonio arrives, until whatever plan is in motion can unfold—
"Turn around," I say to the security men.
They glance at Dr. Theos, who nods. They turn but don't leave. No privacy. Another thing Henrik's buying.
I strip out of the clothes I slept in—the jeans and henley that felt like armor yesterday, now just fabric soaked in sweat and fear. The dress slides over my skin like cold water. White silk that whispers of ownership every time I move.
It fits perfectly. Of course it does.
They try to remove Simona’s locket. I bare my teeth. “That stays.”
The nurse glances at Dr. Theos, who waves a dismissive hand. “Let her keep her trinket. It won’t matter after tonight.”
He’s wrong. It already matters. It’s the only piece of Antonio’s family that’s mine to carry
"Beautiful," my mother breathes, and there are tears in her eyes. Real tears—grief or joy or desperation, I can't tell.
"I look like a sacrifice."
"You look like a bride."
Same thing, in this place.
Dr. Theos checks his watch. "The witnesses are gathering. We should proceed."