Page 3 of Marriage of Revenge

Just Dad being Dad, expanding his empire, while I'm here trying not to fall apart.

Next to it, another file catches my eye and my lungs must stop working. It’shim.

My fingers hover over the folder, my former forbidden crush staring up at me.

Antonio.

The scar on his cheek is a brutal reminder of everything that went wrong. Once, those eyes used to soften when he looked at me, his voice would drop to a whisper, promising things that made my heart flutter. Now, those same eyes seem to burn through the paper, dark with a hatred that twists my stomach.

We were so close, once. Before everything went to hell.

Some nights I still wake up hearing...things I can't think about. Not now.

Pictures may be worth a thousand words, but they lie. They don’t show the memory of his calloused hands on my face, his minty breath on my face, his laughter that seemed to surprise him.

They don't show the weight of choices. Of silence. Of guilt.

The sudden mew of Pavarotti makes me tense up.

If Dad catches me here, he won't be pleased (understatement of the century). And I need Dad to be in a good mood—orwhatever that means for him—since I want to pitch him the idea of returning to school.

I’m a thorn in his side, here. Someone he has no use for.

I scoop up Pavarotti, holding his soft fluffiness for a heartbeat before setting him down. My phone chimes.

Morning Beautiful Bella! Any news on those spring applications? Also is your father still earning the title of Asshole Dad of the Century?

Naomi—my father's right-hand man's daughter and my lifeline in this wild world—is the only one who knows I'm trying for spring admission.

Three years ago, it would've been Juilliard or nothing.

Now, with August burning away and fall semester already starting everywhere, I'm throwing Hail Marys at any university still accepting applications for January.

Dancing might be out of the question now, but maybe school, language and art studies, can help gather the fragments of my life.

UCLA's portal still says under review. Maryland wants another recommendation letter before their late deadline. And I’m waiting for London.The thought of any university away from here ignites a flicker of hope.

Somewhere I might find a new rhythm for my hesitant feet. But not Chicago. Because that would be dancing on broken shards.

It’s going to work. I’ll see you later, okay?

Please, yes.

I slide the phone back into the pocket of my sweatshirt, smiling, and hold on to the railing of the sprawling staircase. At least the smell of French toast and cappuccino is now enticing, instead of nausea-inducing.

And this is like a mini-hug from the universe.

As I approach the kitchen, I overhear my father's stern voice.

"I didn't ask you for your advice," he says.

"You can't do that, Signor Moretti. Isabella ... she shouldn't have to go through that," Mrs. Romano pleads, her usually firm voice trembling with worry.

“You knew this was coming,” my father’s voice is low, a threat wrapped in velvet. “It could be worse. There are other ways...”

“But Signor Moretti... she’s your daughter.”

A chill races down my spine. I press myself flatter against the wall, my heart thudding in my ears. What could be worse? What could possibly be worse than this? Oh, he’s going to say no to the university, isn’t he?

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