Page 4 of Marriage of Revenge

Georgio must have overheard Naomi and I talking about it.

Or maybe the last scan wasn’t good.

"Non è una decisione che spetta a te," my father spits at her. Something about it not being her decision.

While I want to keep on listening, Pavarotti meows at my feet again and I stumble. My father's piercing gaze shifts toward where I'm awkwardly standing.

There's a hint of annoyance flashing in his eyes as he takes my sweater in—even though he did tell me to wear one. It was my mother’s sweater.

It’s a reminder of who she was and who I’ll never be.

Maybe he hates that sweater more than he hates my scars.

"Sit," he tells me, tapping his fingers on his folded newspaper.

He waits until Mrs. Romano hands me the plate of delicious French toast with a look filled with pity. The heavy scent of butter and maple syrup does little to ease the tense air.

My father's gaze feels like chains. "Isabella," he begins, formal and cold. When is the last time he called me his Piccola Bella-rina? "I need to tell you something. It's about your future." He's not smiling. It must be bad news.

I can barely breathe, each thought louder than the last: more tests, treatments, and the unraveling of dreams I’m starting to weave again. Whether it’s terror or rage bubbling up, I can't tell.

"What's happening?" My voice doesn't break and I look at him, search his eyes for a hint, a clue. But they're closed off, remote. The father who once upon a time laughed with me, encouraged me, told me I was his princess is replaced by this stern figure who seems more like a stranger than my flesh and blood.

Mrs. Romano halts her knife, eyes meeting mine for a fraction of a second before she looks away.

"Someone called you 'Broken Beauty' the other day." His casual tone doesn't match the cold fury in his eyes. "They won't make that mistake again."

I tense, the nickname lacing through me like a barbed wire. It's the closest thing to an emotional reveal I've heard from him in ages.

"I've shielded you from much of my life. But now, your role in our family is changing. You're still invaluable," he pauses, locking eyes with me. "Like you were once."

I am?

While I know who he is, I’m still unsure of everything that means. But being invaluable? That’s something I’ve longed to hear.

"Three days from now, there's an auction in Naples. Followed by a tournament."

My eyes widen, hope blooming in my chest. An auction? That’s right. The folder I saw on his desk.

My mind leaps to paintings, art—something respectable, something that could finally get me closer to leaving this house. Maybe even help with my university applications.This could be the beginning of my new life.

Finally free.

I don’t even have to force out a smile, it’s there. Eager. Real. “We’re traveling to Naples?” My voice comes out almost breathless.

Italy.

Out of this house, away from the suffocating shadows. Maybe Mrs. Romano’s hesitation was her worrying about my doctors.

But I need this. Ineedto breathe again.

“Yes,” he says, his eyes narrowing, like he can see every hopeful thought I’m trying to hide. And thinks I’m stupid. “But not for what you think.” The cold twist of his smile drains the warmth from my chest.

The room tilts. “What do you mean?” I whisper.

“The winner... will claim you as a wife.” It takes a heartbeat too long for his words to register.

Wife?

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