Page 2 of Marriage of Revenge

I look up to my mother’s portrait, like I always do. The only portrait among that gallery where the woman smiles. “WWMD – What Would Mom Do?” was my go-to during years of grueling trainings and then chemo.

I don’t remember much of her, but making her proud is always a whisper in the back of my mind.

That, and wondering if I look like her. If I would make her smile.

At the ballet barre, my worn-out sneakers feel like betrayal against the polished floor. The mirror shows a stranger—new curves, dark circles, and a curly pixie cut that showed up without RSVP-ing where my dancer's bun used to be.

But this moment isn't about things I can't change.

So, I hit play.

Haunting piano notes flood the room--Chopin. I always dance to Chopin these days.

Maybe because this room is whereheplayed piano for me, wherehewrapped his arms around me after lifting me on the piano, wherehemade me believe that romance novels could become true.

I shake my head, focusing on the curve of my arms.

I grip the barre, my fingers turning white as my calf muscle twitches, threatening to give out. My legs tremble with each relevé, beads of sweat gathering on my forehead. I force myself to keep going, refusing to let the burn stop me. My knee wobbles, and for a second, I almost topple. But I bite down on my lip, hard, and push through. I won’t let my own body betray me—not again.

And then I slide across the room. The music gets me—it really does. I move, guided by a memory tape that's all kinds of raw, rough, and ridiculously alive.

Mid-pirouette, and I lose it. The floor slams into me, and my hip feels like it's on fire. But what really burns? My ego.

I try to wiggle my toes, but a vicious cramp decides to throw a party in my hand instead.

Footsteps echo down the hall. I know that measured pace, the weight of disappointment it carries. And there’s a tightness in my chest I want to ignore.

"Isabella." My father's voice cuts through the music.

For one silly, stupid second, I hope for a hand, a comforting word, a small smile.

But all I get is silence.

For a heartbeat, I'm eight years old again, falling during my first recital. Back then, he scooped me up, called me his Piccola Bella-rina. Back when I thought his business was just business, when I didn't know what happened to people who disappointed him.

Now? I catch him watching me as I struggle to push myself up from the floor. His eyes narrow, flicking over me like he’s calculating the cost of repairs on something broken. He doesn’t say a word, but the slight downturn of his mouth, the almost imperceptible shake of his head, speaks louder than anything. It’s that silent appraisal that turns my stomach more than if he shouted at me.

I force myself to square my shoulders.

“You’re wasting your time,” he grunts. “Breakfast is ready. And we need to talk.”

I stand there, waiting, hoping he’ll meet my eyes, that maybe this time he’ll smile, say something kind, anything to show that he still sees me. But all I get is a dismissive wave of his hand, like I’m nothing more than an annoying fly he can’t be bothered to swat.

“And put your sweater back on or something.” The way he says it has me wanting to scream.

The mansion murmurs secrets as I make my way to the kitchen. Last night, a group of men cheered to something in my father's office. There was even loud laughter from a few of them. The kind that makes the maids duck their heads and find reasons to dust the same spots twice.

As I pass in front of the office, Georgio isn’t anywhere to be seen. And the guards stop talking when I approach.

“I need to grab a file for my father,” I tell them like I do this every day, crossing my fingers they don’t hear my heart thundering.

I step inside. Just for a peek. Nothing more.

Maybe he got my latest scan results, and this was what they were celebrating. Or maybe I'm delusional. There is a folder on his mahogany desk. But the word scrawled on top is Asta.

Auction in Italian.

Nothing about medical results.

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