Page 39 of Marriage of Revenge

But nope.

Georgio is now joined by three other bodyguards. And they escort me away from the ballroom, back into my lavish prison. This time, escape feels even more elusive than when I tried sneaking through the kitchen. Heavy footsteps echo behind me, a constant reminder of the watchful eyes that never blinked during my treatments but never really saw me either. Their looming presence feels like a weight on my shoulders, heavier than any hospital blanket, tightening the air around me until each breath becomes an effort. It's clear they won't give me aninch of freedom tonight; they'll be watching, guarding, ensuring I remain trapped like some rare butterfly under glass.

A bitter laugh bubbles up in my throat. Fantastic. I survived cancer just to become a different kind of patient.

In the dimly lit suite, my father lounges confidently, a stark contrast to my tension. His position on the plush sofa is that of a king on his throne—the same pose he struck in hospital waiting rooms while never actually waiting with me. The amber liquid in his glass glints, reflecting the low light, almost as if mocking my predicament. His fingers tap against the crystal in that precise rhythm that always means someone's about to disappear.

As I approach, he doesn't move, but his piercing eyes track every step I take, cataloging weaknesses like doctors used to catalog symptoms. I brace myself, preparing for another of his scathing remarks or veiled threats. But when our gazes lock, the icy detachment in his eyes sends a shiver down my spine. It's the same look he wore when he told me dancing might not be an option anymore—like he's already calculated my worth and found me wanting.

"What went down yesterday?" The words are smooth as morphine before it burns, but the underlying danger is unmistakable. "What did Antonio mean? Because it wasn't your stupid attempt at night. He talked about something before the auction."

The casual mention of Antonio's name makes my heart skip a beat, but I refuse to let him see that. My fingers find the silk of my dress, twisting the fabric like I used to twist hospital sheets during bad nights.

Of course, his bodyguards already told him what Antonio said. Nothing remains a secret for long in this world.

"He's not here for you. You know that, right?" His tone is mocking, almost playful, and it stings worse than any needle ever did. I swallow the lump forming in my throat, tasting bileand bitterness. His words, though expected, still carry a pang of betrayal that cuts deeper than Henrik's bite. "He's here because he hates us. Both of us. And that fucking display on camera? It just shows you’re a whore like his mother."

I'm momentarily stunned into silence, but my father isn't done. With a tap on the space beside him, an unspoken command hangs in the air like smoke in a too-small room. After a brief moment of defiance—because some part of me still remembers how to fight—the pressure becomes too much. One of the guards nudges me forward, ensuring I get the message.

Just like old times. Just like when they wheeled me into radiation, into surgery, into rooms where pain waited with sharp teeth and cold hands. Only then, I had Naomi's voice in my ear, telling me I was strong enough to survive.

Now? Now I only have Antonio's kiss burning on my lips and my father's ice in my veins.

Taking a seat beside him, I'm all too aware of the proximity. I can smell the aged whiskey on his breath, the same expensive brand he used to drink.

Unexpectedly, there's a hint of warmth in his voice when he speaks next—the kind of warmth that once promised "the good cancer" wouldn't kill me. "But don't worry. I have plans for him. He won't win."

The reassurance, if it can be called that, fills me with a dread that's hard to shake off. Because I know that tone. It's the same one he used before Antonio's scar, before Luka's death.

When my father makes plans, people don't just disappear—they shatter. And something in my chest shatters too, because despite everything, despite the threats and the kiss and the promises of destruction, I don't want Antonio broken.

Not by my father. Not because of me.

Not again.

CHAPTER 19—ANTONIO

We're back in theballroom before dawn bleeds into morning. The hotel staff scurries around like frightened mice, their movements jerky with fear or greed—probably both. Money or threats, it doesn't matter. In our world, they're usually the same thing.

Crystal glasses clink as they're arranged with military precision, pitchers of ice water catching the first light.

The air hums with tension, thick enough that even the chandeliers seem to shiver, light like knives poised to drop.

The staff whispers among themselves in rapid-fire Italian, probably betting on which of us will die first. They've seen enough of these "tournaments" to know better.

But the real circus is already in full swing, a dangerous game where one misstep could mean a bullet between the eyes. Henrik’s second-in-command holds court with their men, champagne flowing like they've already won something. But Iknow better—because the only real prize here is control, and I’ll make damn sure it’s mine.”

The fool raises his glass to me, lips curled in what he probably thinks is a knowing smirk. Let them drink. They don't know they're toasting their own funeral. First the hacking challenge, then the race—I'll bury them all.

Security swarms the place like black ants, triple what it was yesterday. Mrs. Lefevre's attempted assassination left everyone jumpy, trigger-fingers itchy. It's a rookie move from her son.

Amateur hour.

Then again, many men are been better at appearing powerful than actually being it. Like Isabella’s father.

Not that it matters.

Once Isabella's wearing my ring, once she's mine in every way that counts, her father's empire won't just crumble—it'll implode. Death would be too kind for him. No, I want him alive to watch everything burn.

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