Page 27 of Marriage of Revenge

His lips ghost over my ear and every part of me tightens like a bow string about to snap. "I...I..."

One more step, one more turn, and my traitor of a right foot—the one that still remembers what chemo feels like—gives out. He catches me, probably pure reflex from years of watching me dance. His hold loosens immediately, like touching me burns.

"You lingered because you pictured it was you." His words slide under my skin. "You against that wall, every part of me claiming you until you forget your own name."

He's not wrong, and that's the worst part. My fingers itch to trace the scar that splits his face like a battle line—the one hewears like armor while I hide mine under layers of foundation. The laugh that rumbles through his chest feels calculated, arctic. Like even his amusement is a weapon.

"Let's get one thing straight, my dearest former stepsister." The endearment drips poison, each word curling around me like a snake tightening its grip. "You're going to watch your world burn the second that ring slides onto your finger. And piccola Bella-rina?" He spits out the nickname my dad used to call me. His finger trails along my cheek, deceptively gentle, the rough calluses leaving a scorching path that sends a confused tremor down my spine—too intimate, too unsettling, too... him.

"This isn’t a threat—it’s a promise." His voice is smooth, dripping with a dark certainty that makes my pulse stutter. "By the time I'm done, you'll wish Henrik had won."

He tells me threats, but he holds me like he cannot let me go. He promises darkness.

He has no idea that darkness and I are old friends, on first-name basis, that I’ve survived nightmares, too. Maybe not the kind of darkness he knows, but I have my own demons—and one of them wears his face.

His voice sends shivers through me that feel too much like want. Like my body hasn't gotten the memo about him being the villain in this story. "You're going to lose it all."

"Or not," I whisper, the words barely breath. His half-smile says he heard me—and thinks I'm living in the same fairy tale where he used to play piano while I danced.

My treacherous foot gives again, and this time he doesn’t catch me. Instead, I need to hold on to him tighter, and something flashes in his eyes—concern? Recognition? It's gone before I can name it, replaced by that cold calculation. He probably thinks I've gotten sloppy with my arabesques, has no idea about the scars that map every victory against death. No idea what kind of survivor he's trying to break.

As the last notes fade, he guides me back to where my father watches like a chess master plotting his next move. But before we reach the table, Antonio pulls me against him one last time.

"They call me The Beast," he growls, his eyes burning into mine with a hunger that promises ruin. "And you'll learn every reason why, Bella-rina. I’ll make sure you never forget."

My eyes widen, and my heart does that stupid flutter-skip thing. I force my face into that perfect mask I perfected in hospital rooms—the one that says I'm fine when I'm anything but.

The dance ends, but his warning clings to me, smoke and shadows, an echo of flames that refuse to die. Running isn’t an option anymore. Not from him, not from this auction, and definitely not from the storm he’s about to unleash.

And oh, it's coming. I can taste it in the air like I used to taste metal before chemo.

The only difference?

This time, the poison wears Armani shirts, jeans and used to play piano while I danced.

CHAPTER 13—ISABELLA

Sleep is an illusion,something other people have the luxury of slipping into. Or maybe it's more of a betrayal, because when I finally did drift off, my subconscious decided to torture me with images I can't scrub away: Antonio's hands on my waist instead of Paola's, his lips at my neck, his voice rough against my skin. "You'll be mine," dream-Antonio growled, and my dream-self didn't fight when he pressed me against that wall, didn't protest when his fingers traced paths that made me forget about scars and treatments and betrayals.

I jolt awake, my heart doing that stupid stutter-skip that is controlled by my meds but still feels weird. The silk sheets cling to my skin, but there's no comfort in them—only the suffocating weight of privilege twisted into prison bars and the lingering heat of a dream I shouldn't want to remember.

So instead, I turn onto my side, hugging a pillow that smells of the honeysuckle perfume I insisted on bringing, a scent that reminds me of home.

My throat tightens, missing Pavarotti's judging stare and the way his Persian fluff would tickle my face when he decided I was worthy of his attention.

There's no Pavarotti here to give me that what-are-you-doing look he's perfected, no familiar barre to steady myself against. I miss how pliés used to ground me, the feel of cool wood under my palms. How dance could make me forget my mother's ghost, my stepmother’s gaze and the pressures of being a Moretti.

But there's no escape tonight. No soothing stretches or musical notes from my old life. Just threats and dark promises replaying in an endless, sickening loop.

Henrik's voice echoes, "This time you'll dance on your knees. Maybe I’ll shatter them so you can stay there as I fuck your pretty little mouth."

His words slither under my skin, followed by Antonio's threats, Antonio's hands holding me too tight, his body a wall of heat and broken promises. The way he growled that I'd lose everything... and how, in the worst way, my treacherous body responded to his touch like it didn't get the memo about him being the villain.

The girls, like Ruby, haunt my thoughts too, their eyes empty, their laughter sharp as broken glass. Will I end up like them? Another prop in some monster's collection while he plays king? I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to force the images away, but they're burned into my mind like Antonio's scar is burned into his face.

And then, as if to add a final blow to the insomnia, the text from Naomi comes at 3 AM. It vibrates against my chest, where I’ve been clutching my phone like a lifeline. The message ignites a flare of hope so bright it almost hurts.

Found blueprints of the hotel. There's a service exit through the kitchen - marking it on the map. Guards change shift at 4AM. Kitchen staff arrives at 4:30. That's your window. Get out. Run. I'll handle the rest.

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