Isabella's POV
The last night of my freedom already feels like a story someone else lived.
The days have begun to blur together—same walls, same corridors, same endless quiet. The Romano estate has always been large, but now it feels hollow. Like a museum built to display a well-behaved daughter.
My father calls it "time to reflect."
I call it what it is—house arrest.
My car keys are confiscated. Even the staff—people I've known since childhood—suddenly have eyes that flicker away too fast. They report to him now, I can tell. Freedom has become a rumor that used to live here.
The only small victory in this whole mess is that Dante got away clean.
I told my father he wasn't involved, that the club had been my idea. And surprisingly, Damiano didn't contradict me.
He's lucky he didn't.
Although, if he wanted to humiliate me, he could've done it himself. But of course, the bastard had to make it official—call my father and hand him the knife.
Now I'm being treated like a prisoner in my own home.
I pace my room until I can't stand the walls anymore. I need air—no, not air. Space. Something that still feels like mine.
So I decide it's time to pay a visit to my favorite room in this house. The library.
The library sits at the far end of the west wing. My mother's portrait still hangs above the marble fireplace, eyes eternally gentle and unseeing.
This room was my rebellion.
Every book on these shelves, I picked myself. Not the decorative hardbacks the interior designer suggested—but the kind that made me feel. Poetry, romance novels, travel journals, histories of places I'll probably never see. They reminded me there were worlds outside Naples, beyond obedience and arranged smiles.
I run my fingers along the spines, pausing over a dog-eared copy of Neruda. I'd hidden the first book I ever bought here, years ago. My father had said it was "unbecoming for a young lady" to read love poems. So, of course, I memorized every one.
Now, as I breathe in the faint smell of paper and dust, the tightness in my chest eases—just slightly.
This room taught me something long before he ever tried to teach me discipline: silence isn't always surrender. Sometimes it's strategy.
But peace never lasts long in this house.
By mid-morning, a maid knocks softly, interrupting my reading. "Signor Romano wants to see you in his study."
Of course he does.
I smooth my dress and follow the familiar path, every step measured. You never run when you're summoned by a man like my father—it smells like guilt.
The door opens to the heavy scent of cigars and leather. He sits behind his desk, posture perfect, expression carved from stone.
"Sit," he says.
No greeting. No warmth. Just the weight of authority that fills the room like smoke.
I take the chair opposite him, my hands folded neatly in my lap.
"You embarrassed this family," he begins, voice calm—too calm. "Do you have any idea what people would've said if that night had gone public?"
I start to answer, but he lifts a hand. "Don't. I've heard enough excuses."
My throat tightens. "Then why call me here?"
His gaze sharpens. "Because, Isabella, you're lucky this can still be fixed."
Fixed. As if I were a broken vase.
He leans back, studying me the way he studies his investments—cold, calculating, with a faint edge of disappointment. "You've been given a chance to make things right—for the famiglia. To restore the dignity you tarnished."
"And what chance is that?"
He allows himself a small smile—the kind that never reaches his eyes. "Your engagement party."
For a second, I think I misheard. "My—what?"
"It's been arranged. We will be having dinner tomorrow night with Damiano to finalize the details. We'll announce the engagement formally the week after. It's time we made the alliance official."
My pulse stumbles. "Tomorrow?"
He nods, almost indulgently. "It's best to move quickly. You'll wear the dress I got for you. It's appropriate."
I can only stare. "Appropriate for what? For pretending this is my idea?"
His expression hardens. "For preserving our name. You may not understand the weight of legacy, Isabella, but I do. I built this family's power from the ground up. You will not be the one to ruin it."
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from saying something that would burn everything down.
He continues, calm as ever. "Damiano has shown great patience. You would do well to learn from it. He's the kind of man who knows how to keep you safe."
Safe.
That word again. It always sounds like ownership when he says it.
"I'll expect you downstairs by 8pm so we can leave for dinner tomorrow night," he finishes, closing the conversation like a deal. "Behave accordingly."
He doesn't dismiss me. He just picks up the phone and starts another call, already erasing me from his mind.
I leave the study numb.
In the corridor, I can already hear staff whispering—florists, caterers, guest lists. They move around me like I'm invisible, like I'm not the one being sold behind polite conversation.
My heels echo down the hall, each step sharper than the last. I don't want to go back to my room yet. The air in there feels too still, too knowing. So instead, I slip through the side door that leads to the gardens.
The moment I step outside, the world exhales.
The late afternoon sun sits low, turning everything gold. The hedges are perfectly trimmed, the fountains humming quietly in the distance. Even freedom here is manicured.
I walk slowly down the gravel path, the sound crunching under my shoes. Somewhere behind me, a guard stands watch. I can feel his gaze on my back even when I don't look.
Once, this garden had been my escape. I used to sneak out here with a glass of wine and my favorite book.
Now, I can't even look at the flowers without thinking about how perfectly they've been pruned. Clipped into obedience. Just like me.
I stop by the marble fountain at the center, the one with the angel carved into it. She looks serene, head tilted upward, wings unfurled. I envy her. Even made of stone, she looks freer than I feel.
I sit on the edge of the fountain and dip my fingers into the cool water. Ripples spread outward, distorting her reflection.
What would happen if I said no?
If I told my father I wouldn't go to that dinner, wouldn't wear the dress, wouldn't marry Damiano?
The answer comes too easily.
He'd find another way to make it happen. He always does.
And yet, somewhere beneath the dread, something darker stirs. A whisper that sounds too much like defiance.
Maybe there's another way to win.
Maybe silence isn't surrender this time either.
I lift my gaze toward the high stone wall that surrounds the estate. The sky beyond it burns in shades of rose and gold. I used to think that wall was built to protect us. Now I know it's there to keep me in.
For a moment, I close my eyes and imagine tearing it down brick by brick. The rush of air. The taste of freedom. The sound of my father's empire crumbling behind me.
The image makes me smile—small, dangerous, and fleeting.
Tomorrow night, I'll play the part he's written for me.
But one day soon, I'll write my own script.