Llara came back carrying a jacket—most likely courtesy of Miguel—which she gently draped around Isadora's trembling shoulders.
"Are you good? You look stunned!" Llara asked softly, searching her friend's pale face with worried eyes.
Isadora only nodded, her head dipping slowly, a slightly dazed and distant look lingering in her gaze. Her lips parted as if to speak, but no sound came.
"I know things didn't go how we wanted to," Llara confessed with a heavy sigh, "and worse—I can't think of anything else to do." Her voice faltered with guilt, the weight of helplessness pressing on her chest. She thought Isadora had completely given up, that she had surrendered to despair, and it pained her not to know what more she could say or do to ease her suffering.
But Isadora's silence wasn't emptiness. Beneath her calm exterior, her mind was racing with thoughts, sharp and chaotic. She hugged Llara tightly, clinging to the warmth of her friend for a fleeting moment before she pulled away and bade her goodbye.
Her white shirt clung damply to her skin, still drenched, and it reeked faintly of the wrong mixture of drinks. But she ignored that discomfort. What consumed her was the phone she clenched tightly in her hand, her knuckles white around it as if it were the only thread keeping her from unraveling.
Isadora left, took a cab home, and when she arrived, she ignored everyone—her father and Maria, her stepmother—who were still awake. They muttered under their breaths in the dim light of the parlor. Her father's desperate, haunted expression followed her, but she didn't care. She slammed her bedroom door shut behind her, shutting out their voices, shutting out everything but the pounding in her head and the device in her hand.
Her breath came quick as she unlocked the phone and opened the video she had recorded.
It was short, painfully so, but enough. The footage captured Bellini harassing a man, his grotesque persistence caught on camera, and then—most damning—the man dramatically falling to his knees under the pressure of it.
Her heart pounded so hard it ached. Isadora fell onto her bed, the mattress sinking beneath her as she stared at the glowing screen. Almost without thinking, she typed his name into Google, searching frantically for more about him. When the results appeared, her eyes widened in disbelief.
Her shock only deepened when she typed in Lorenzo, the name Llara had pointed out before, and compared the two. To her amazement—and terror—the man she had recorded seemed to possess even greater wealth than Lorenzo himself.
"There's no way he's going to want a scandal!" she thought, her mind spinning as her fingers trembled around the phone. She stared at the damning video again, her pulse racing. If begging and pleading didn't work, perhaps she finally had a weapon.
Yet even as that thought planted itself in her mind, fear gripped her. Her hands shook so violently that she snatched up one of her pink sweaters and draped it over herself, trying to push away the cold dread crawling through her veins. The thought of seeing him again, of facing him with this threat, terrified her. She had never been so afraid in her life.
"Should I involve Llara?" she whispered to herself, but the thought died quickly. No—Llara had already done so much, risked too much. Dragging her into something this dangerous, something that could destroy her family as well, was not an option.
"Oh God!" she cried out suddenly, muffling her scream into her pillow. She pounded the cushion again and again, the frantic thud of her fists trying to keep pace with the racing of her heart. It was the last thing she wanted to do. And yet… it was the only path she could see.
If she did nothing, by evening—or even before then—the rest of her life would belong to an old pervert, a predator against whom even the police would be powerless.
She shuddered. Bellini was not a kind man, she had felt that already in her brief interaction with him. The video only confirmed it. And yet, a cruel choice lay before her. If she had to deal with a devil, then perhaps it was better to choose the one without the pitchfork in his hand.
That night, Isadora barely slept a wink. She tossed and turned, her body weary but her mind ablaze. By the time dawn came, her darkened eyebags gave away her unrest. Her eyes were hollow, her skin pale, but she forced herself up, determination mingling with dread.
She dressed with careful intent. A long black blouse that covered her arms and chest, paired with a loose, flowing skirt that did not cling to her form. The skirt was a bright orange. She caught her reflection in the mirror and managed a wry, humorless smile. At least the brightness of the skirt seemed to suit her otherwise shadowed appearance.
She packed her small leather bag, sliding the phone into it for safety. With that, she took a deep breath and opened her bedroom door.
Her steps were heavy as she descended the staircase toward the living room and the main door. She thought she could slip out quietly, unseen. But the sight that met her froze her in place.
Her entire family was waiting for her. Seated, tense, and clearly unslept, their faces were pale and drawn in the early morning light.
"Dad," Isadora whispered, her voice catching as her gaze landed on her father. He refused to meet her eyes, his head lowered in shame.
Before she could take another step, Rossi—her stepbrother, who usually treated her with cold indifference—was the first to break the silence.
"Dora! Where the hell do you think you're going? Are you trying to get us all killed?" he snapped, his tone sharp, his face twisted with fury. His words cut like a blade, and for once, he didn't hide how incensed he was.
Isadora's brows furrowed, confusion etched on her features as she opened her mouth to answer. But before she could, Maria—her stepmother—rose sharply to her feet.
"You're asking her?" Maria's shrill voice rang through the room. "Isn't it obvious? She's clearly trying to run away!" Her tone was laced with venom, her eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. Her movements were sharp, her attitude more biting than usual, exhaustion making her crueler still.
"Mother! Dora…" Elisa's soft voice trembled as she tried to interject, tears shimmering in her eyes. But Maria ignored her, her gaze blazing as she turned on both Isadora and Luca, her husband.
"Dora wants you to take her place, you stupid girl!" Maria spat, her words like poison. "Why else do you think she's running away so early in the morning?" She faced Luca, fury boiling. "Speak to her! Unless you don't cherish the manhood between your legs!"
"What? Running away? Why would I do that?" Isadora shot back, her voice sharp with disbelief, her frown deepening. But her protest was cut short when Rossi stepped closer, blocking her path to the door. His stance was firm, threatening, making it clear that she would not be allowed to leave.
"Shut up, Maria!" Luca snapped suddenly, his voice echoing, the words cracking like a whip. He turned then to Isadora, his expression softening into one of weary apology. But even that look couldn't hide the memory haunting him—the memory of being shoved onto a bed, a bodyguard pressing a scalpel threateningly against him.
"If you leave… Elisa will have to take your place," Luca said at last, the words dragging from the depths of his chest, heavy with resignation. His tone confirmed it: he was indirectly agreeing that she could not be allowed to go.
Isadora froze, her entire body trembling. Stunned, she stared at them, her throat dry, her voice gone. But the hurt in her eyes was unmistakable, especially from her father, who would not even meet her gaze.