Chapter 4 Isabella
Saturday
The first thing I feel is the ache. Not the good kind from too little sleep and too much writing, the kind that lives in the joints, behind the knees, and in the tender skin of my palms.
When I sit up, the scrapes make themselves known, small reminders of last night’s chaos. My skin on my knees stings when my feet touch the floor, my hands throb as I brace myself against the mattress. I should’ve cleaned them properly, but exhaustion had won out over first aid.
I walk to the coffee machine and pop in a pod. The hum and click are steady, mechanical, comforting. When the first stream of espresso hits the cup, the smell fills the kitchen, strong and bitter, with that faint caramel edge. It smells like courage in liquid form.
For a moment, I just stand there, letting the steam touch my face. The city hums beyond the window, muffled traffic, a siren far away, the slow heartbeat of a Saturday morning. I should feel safe. I don’t. Not exactly.
The article’s already out there, a living thing in the world.
People are reading it, talking about it, tearing it apart, or applauding it.
I should feel proud, and I do, but pride has a way of sitting beside anxiety and pretending they’re friends.
There’s the car that tried to run me down on the sidewalk, then my run-in with Nico Mancini and the shove from the train.
I’ve opened a hornet’s nest, and the journalist in me is proud I’ve elicited that reaction, but the woman in me, the human being who isn’t big on physical threats or danger, is very uneasy.
My laptop glows from across the table, a single email waiting like a dare.
N. Mancini.
I didn’t open it yesterday. I don’t know why. Discipline, maybe. Pride. Fear.
Now, with my body aching and the memory of his hands pulling me out of the street still too vivid, I click.
Six words.
You don’t know what you’ve done. No greeting. No threat. Just... weight.
I read it again, even though I promised myself I wouldn’t. It shouldn’t make my stomach twist the way it does.
The man is impossible, controlled, dangerous, too sharp around the edges. He saved me, but it didn’t feel like safety. It felt like gravity. And when his arm was around me, when his voice hit low and furious right against my ear... my body had the nerve to react.
I hate that. I hate that my pulse betrayed me for someone who looked at me like I was the enemy.
I shut the laptop and shove it away, trying to shake the memory off.
“Coffee first,” I mutter, taking a sip. The heat stings my tongue and grounds me. “Then the world.”
The apartment feels too quiet. I reach for the speaker and tap on my Christmas playlist. The first notes of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas fill the room, low and scratchy from overuse. My dad used to play this on a beat-up vinyl every year, his voice off-key but full of warmth.
I feel the ache in my chest again, not grief exactly, but absence. He would’ve called me “his brave girl” after the article. He would’ve told me not to back down. Instead, it’s just me.
Maybe that’s what being an adult really is, learning to hold your victories alone.
I finish my coffee and pull the box of decorations from the closet. It’s heavier than I remember, or maybe I’m just tired. When I peel the tape back, the smell of cinnamon, pine, and old paper fills the air.
The first ornament I pull out is a snow globe. The same one my dad bought me at a street fair when I was nine. Inside, a tiny town glitters beneath fake snow, still perfect, untouched. I shake it gently, watching the flakes swirl and fall.
“Here we go again,” I whisper, setting it on the shelf.
One by one, I string the lights along the window frame. They flicker to life, each one a tiny defiance against the gray November sky. When the playlist shifts to Sinatra, I can’t help but hum along. Christmas has always been my armor. My proof that light can exist, even in the coldest season.
Halfway through untangling the garland, my phone buzzes on the counter. Maya.
I put her on speaker as I hang the last strand of lights. “Morning, partner in crime.”
Her voice is bright and teasing. “Morning, Miss Front Page. I’ve spent all morning reading your quotes out loud just to feel important when I should be doing laundry.”
I laugh, soft and genuine. “I’m sure your cat’s impressed.”
“She’s my biggest fan. And, also, the only one who didn’t call to warn me about you being on someone’s shit list.”
I pause mid-step. “They’re exaggerating.”
“Are they? Because the internet’s calling you fearless and reckless in the same sentence.”
“I prefer ‘committed to truth’.”
“Yeah, that’s one way to spin it.” Her tone softens. “You okay, Iz?”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Just… a little tired. Thinking I might hibernate till December.”
“Ha! You’d never make it a week without caffeine or chaos.”
“Maybe.” I smile, even though she can’t see it. “Go get some laundry done, I don’t want to sit next to you at work in last week’s socks.” I hear the snort of laughter. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
When I hang up, the quiet feels bigger. The kind that settles behind your ribs.
I turn off the music, letting the silence hum.
It’s not that I’m lonely, not exactly. I have people. Friends, work, my mom. But there’s a difference between having people and belonging somewhere. I don’t think I’ve ever really belonged to anyone.
Maybe one day, I will.
Maybe.
By evening, the decorations glow softly against the dark. My fingers smell faintly of pine and wax. The air feels warmer now, cozier.
I throw on jeans, a sweater, and my camel coat. The red scarf, my favorite, loops twice around my neck. I glance in the mirror, tugging at a loose strand of hair. “Dinner,” I tell my reflection. “Around the corner. Ten minutes. Be brave.”
The diner’s only two blocks away. It smells like frying oil and nostalgia, the kind of place that makes loneliness taste better. I order grilled cheese and tomato soup, scroll through congratulatory messages, and pretend the world isn’t humming with quiet threat.
When my phone buzzes again, I glance down.
Unknown number: Pretty lights.
My stomach drops.
“Everything, okay, Miss?” I glance up at the older man behind the counter in surprise and see concern on his face. I shake my head to clear it and then smile. “Yeah, just an unknown caller, it’s probably spam.”
He nods. “Damn scammers be calling me twenty-four-seven. Pain in the butt, that’s what they are.”
“I agree,” I say as he hands over my order. “Thank you.”
He dips his chin. “You have a good evening, Miss.”
Once outside, I go into my settings and block the number immediately, shove the phone into my bag, and tell myself it’s nothing. It’s always nothing, until it isn’t.
By the time I get home, the city’s cooled to a velvet hush. I unlock the door, step inside, and flick the light switch. The glow of the Christmas lights is the only answer.
I lock the deadbolt and slide the chain across, resting my forehead against the door. My shoulders loosen, the first real exhale of the day.
“You don’t run from the dark,” I whisper. “You outshine it.”
I walk to the table, relight the three candles on an antique brass candelabra, and watch the tiny flames settle. They glow gold against the window, catching my reflection. Tired, yes, but proud.
Maybe that’s what courage is, small, ordinary acts in a world that wants you to hide.
The candles flicker. Only they shouldn’t. The windows are closed. The air is still.
My breath stills in my throat. Behind my reflection, something moves. A shape. A shadow.
I turn, fast.
The candelabra wobbles, wax spilling across the glass table as it falls.
The flames die.
And I scream.
The scream rips out of me before I even know I’m making it.
The candlelight jumps, shadows bending sharp across the wall. Something moves fast, solid, a blur of dark fabric and motion.
Then pain. White-hot, blinding. My cheek hits the floor, hard enough that the sound cracks through my skull.
The breath goes out of me in a single, panicked gasp. I taste copper, thick and sharp, spreading across my tongue.
My thoughts stutter, trying to make sense of shape and sound, figure, boots, the smell of cold air and sweat.
I curl in on myself instinctively, hands over my head, ribs tightening with fear.
I feel hot breath on my face as the man grabs my hair and yanks it hard, so my ear is against his lips.
Fear swims inside my veins, hot and poisonous.
“Should’ve left it alone,” a voice growls. Low, accented, male. Rough around the edges. The words buzz through my ears like static. “Retract it,” he says, closer now, his lips skimming my cheek, making bile rush up my throat. “Or next time you don’t walk away.”
I open my mouth, but no sound comes. The floor is cool beneath my palms; my pulse is a drumbeat behind my eyes.
A sharp pain blooms in my side, a kick, swift and punishing. The air punches out of my lungs in a grunt.
I roll instinctively, my foot catching the coffee table, my arms clutching my ribs, the world narrowing to fragments, the scent of burnt wax, the taste of fear.
And then, a sound that doesn’t belong. The door slams open. A shout, deep and furious, fills the room.
Footsteps, heavy and fast. A scuffle, the scrape of shoes on tile, a crash, a grunt.
I press my palms to my ears, everything muffled, the world dimming at the edges.
“Hey,” I try to speak, but my throat won’t work.
Something heavy hits the wall. The silence that follows is violent in itself.
And then I hear him, that voice, sharp and controlled even when it’s full of rage.