Isabella
The grand chandelier glistened above me as I descended the staircase, the soft swish of my pastel-pink gown brushing against the marble steps. The Valentino heels made each step a deliberate declaration—I was no longer the girl screaming inside; I was the future bride of one of the most powerful mafia heirs in Europe. The thought was suffocating, but I'd mastered the art of smiling through a noose.
The hall was immense. Golden columns curved toward a ceiling adorned with oil paintings older than my bloodline. Silver platters of hors d'oeuvres were passed around, and glasses of champagne sparkled in every direction. The musicians played soft classical music in the background, blending with the murmurs of influential guests from across the globe.
"Isabella Modric," a deep voice called as I turned, greeted by the President of Portugal. His presence was intimidating, tall and shrewd-eyed. "Daughter of Governor Modric. It is a pleasure."
"The pleasure is mine, Mr. President," I answered with a gracious smile and curtsy.
"And the fiancée of young Lorenzo D'Angelo," he added with a sly chuckle. "A powerful match. I wish you strength. You'll need it."
I was still smiling, but his last words clung to my spine like ice. I nodded with practiced politeness and moved along.
Next, a slender woman in a navy pantsuit approached. "Chief of Staff for the United States," she introduced herself, her hand extending with firm professionalism. "On behalf of the President, congratulations, Ms. Modric."
"Thank you," I replied, trying to sound composed. "Your presence is a true honor."
The greetings never ended. A cardinal from the Vatican kissed my hand. A Russian oil tycoon chuckled drunkenly and told Lorenzo he better "guard me like gold." A few mafia figures I vaguely recognized from whispered conversations nodded at me from across the room—calculating, dangerous, curious.
All eyes felt like knives tracing my skin. Every time I smiled, I imagined myself with a gun in my bra just in case someone tried anything. And yet, with each person I greeted, I grew colder, stiffer, and more empty inside. I was the centerpiece, the pretty fruit in the middle of the table everyone admired, but no one dared bite.
Lorenzo eventually found me, wearing a suit so sharp it could slice the tension between us. "You look…" he paused, as if the word "beautiful" caught in his throat. "Fitting."
"Fitting," I echoed, eyebrows raised. "Charming."
He offered a hand. "Shall we?"
As we walked toward the center of the ballroom, I could feel every gaze turning to us. The music shifted. Slower. Deeper. Romantic, if you could call it that.
Lorenzo's hand pressed to the small of my back. His other hand held mine, firm but not tender. As we danced, we moved in perfect form, just like we'd been trained. Our bodies spoke elegance, tradition, power. But our eyes—mine empty, his guarded—said something else entirely.
"You don't want to be here, do you?" I whispered, low enough so the watching ears wouldn't catch.
"No," he said simply. "And you?"
"I'd rather dance with a corpse."
His lips twitched slightly. "We might both be corpses by the time this wedding actually happens."
The dance continued. The crowd watched like hawks. Our movements were poetry, but every step we took was a step deeper into a pit I couldn't see the bottom of.
Then, it happened. As I twirled, my arm knocked a tall glass off a passing tray. Red juice—grape or cranberry, I didn't know—spilled across my light pink dress in a loud splash.
"Shit—" I muttered.
There was a collective gasp from the closest guests, but I quickly regained posture.
"I'll go fix it," I told Lorenzo, who looked more relieved than concerned.
I hurried out through the side hallway, l clutching the side of the dress where the stain spread like a bleeding wound. I didn't even know where I was going. I just needed to breathe.
The door I found led to a bathroom gilded with silver and marble. I turned on the cold water, letting it splash on my hands and across the stain. The fabric didn't forgive easily. Neither did I.
I leaned forward against the counter, breathing hard. The lights buzzed overhead, and the soft sound of music continued through the walls.
This was hell in silk and gold.
I stared at my reflection. My hair was perfect. My makeup flawless. My smile fake. And my eyes… They were full of the girl still hiding under the bed, still waiting for someone to save her.
But no one was coming.
I was going to have to save myself.
Now it was time.
The moment my heart had been whispering toward for weeks… it had finally arrived.
I'd changed out of the stained pink gown into a baby-blue, sleeveless silk dress that hugged my curves like the sky kissing the sea. My LV heels clicked against the stone floors, but they weren't taking me back into the ballroom. No. My feet had other plans—plans stitched from desperation, stitched from fear, stitched from a hunger for freedom no arranged marriage could cage.
Instead of turning toward the grand hall, where people from around the world were sipping expensive wine and pretending they knew me, I moved swiftly toward the east garden. No one ever went there during events. The guests were packed into the west, where the chandeliers sparkled and the wine flowed. The east was private. Quiet. Exactly what I needed.
All I needed was to find tge perfect angle. I walked in garden, astonished by its beauty. They really did a good job for the first dinner.
And who the hell planted these beautiful bushes like a puzzle? I couldn't find my way to the fence. I turned left and then right and then went front and came back and I did it all again and again and again and I was tired when finally I saw a little road.
I didn't take that road when I was going in a circle, so now I taking it. I took it and boom! Right to the fence.