Page 7 of Marriage of Revenge

"You still have a role to play." His voice carries the same tone he used when I was eight and forgot my steps at recital. "And you'll play it."

He pauses, and something shifts in his face—like he's remembering ghosts. "Your dear mother..." The word 'dear' sounds like a curse. "When she died, it messed up our books. Messed up my business more than you know." His fingers drum against the table, a rhythm of contained violence. "And your stepmother—" Another pause, heavier this time. "She didn't give me the heir I needed."

Something dark flashes across his face. "And let's not talk about your former stepbrother." His hand tightens on his glass as if the simple thought of Antonio has rage building inside of him. "I should have killed him for what he did, for what she did, for the way he looked at you. At least you’re still innocent. That will get the bidders more… motivated."

I struggle to swallow.

The threat hangs in the air like stage smoke, making it hard to breathe. Then his businessman mask slides back into place. "This auction is what our family needs. It's not a choice."

The world stops spinning like a broken pirouette. A spotlight I never asked for is thrust onto my face.

Blinding. Disorienting.

Just like that, I'm back to being weak, being broken—being something to be bartered away.

An auction. A tournament. My marriage.

This isn't a romance novel I can slide under my pillow. This is my life being choreographed by hands that have already proven they know how to break things. Break people.

Break me.

Looking at him now, all CEO swagger and mafia menace, I barely recognize the man who used to sneak extra chocolate in my ballet diet.

When I was younger, dumber, still playing at being daddy's perfect princess, I thought he was a ruthless businessman with a thing for imported furniture and creepy portraits. What a joke. When I figured how feared he was was the time one of my ballet teachers disappeared and his daughter yelled that I was responsible. A warning for others.

I still didn’t believe it.

Or maybe I didn’t want to.

You don't get to be king of Chicago's underworld by being nice—I just never thought I'd be the one whose legs would shake at his command.

God, I was stupid. All those college applications sitting in my room might as well be confetti now.

"I hope you understand, Isabella," he says, his voice steady. As if he's negotiating another shipment of whatever-the-hell-it-is he actually sells, not auctioning off his daughter like last season's Louboutins.

Understand? The only thing I understand is that I've been stupid. Again. Thinking I could escape through college applications and literature studies. As if my father would ever let his broken beauty slip away.

I want to scream, to rage, to fight. But my legs—these useless, treacherous legs that already failed me once—refuse to move. My hands grip the edge of the table, knuckles white, trying to ground myself as the room tilts sideways.

A heavy knot forms in my stomach, and I press my fingers to my neck. Not now. Please not now. The world blurs into a kaleidoscope of imported marble and judgment, and I can feel my grip on reality becoming as shaky as my arabesques.

The room shrinks, air thinning like it did during treatments. I need out. Need to breathe. Without a word, I push back my chair and stand, my legs trembling like a baby deer's.

As I inch away, my father's voice follows me like a death sentence.

"Prepare her,” he tells Ms. Romano. “This time it’s really happening."

“This time?" The words scrape my throat like chemo. Like bile.

"I was waiting on your latest PET scan." He says it like he's discussing the weather, not my life. Not my body feeling like it was waging a war with itself. "Your doctor says you're still in remission. Which is good because I was getting tired of postponing."

I’m in remission. Still in remission. Those are good news and yet…

I barely make it to my room before collapsing, mind spinning with memories of another time I thought I had control. Another time I made choices that ended in screams and scars and silence.

Tears come, hot and useless, just like me. I never wanted to be a mafia princess. Never asked for that life.

But the last time I tried to stand up to my father...

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