Page 89 of Marriage of Revenge

Everything stills around me.

And yet everything tilts.

I'm balanced on the edge of existence, about to plunge into an abyss I didn't know was waiting. My hands clench in sheets that still smell like us, like hope, like lies. I try to clench my heart too,but it's already in my throat, splattering onto silk stained with blood. Because last night Antonio showed me ecstasy, and now? Now he's teaching me what true torture feels like.

"She didn't. I... I did not know."

He pulls out another paper - one I've never seen. Another letter? Impossible. His mother and I had our own ways of hiding messages, our small rebellion against constant surveillance. When I started realizing my father’s world was darker than I thought possible.

"Read it," he commands, voice arctic enough to send a thousand shivers down my spine.

My trembling fingers take the paper like it's made of blades. "'Come with us, Bella Ballerina Mia. Antonio would never forgive me if we left you behind. You belong with us.'" Each word cuts deeper than the last, her elegant but hurried writing like daggers in my gut. Belonging - god, I've never really known what that feels like. Always dancing on the edges, alone except for Naomi. Now my mind floods with could-have-beens: laughter, love, a life where warmth didn't come with conditions.

"I never received this one," I tell him, but the words fall like stones in water - useless, sinking. He doesn't believe me. Worse, he doesn't care if it's true.

He moves closer, until his lips brush my ear, and his harsh whisper freezes my blood. "Even if you didn't... You were overheard telling your father that you'd rather leave with my mother and me than staying with him. That was weeks before your little story about asking him to make sure she stayed."

My chin quivers. My mind races. My heart slams to a stop.

Because I did say that. In a moment of pure rage. Three weeks before Antonio's mother disappeared. Before I even knew she wanted to escape.

My father had missed another recital - empty seats where family should have been. Then he'd demanded I attend one ofhis grand soirees, where Henrik's eyes followed me like predator tracking prey. Antonio wasn't there to run interference. When Henrik got too close, I almost buried my fork in his hand. Until my father's hiss of my name reminded me exactly what I was - decoration in a world I didn't understand yet.

All I knew then was that it was a world where my desires didn't matter. My wants. My needs. My right to choose who touched me.

That's the one time I truly confronted my father. The one time I dared stand against him. The one moment that shattered any future I might have had.

Because I can see it in Antonio's eyes - there's no path back from this precipice. No way to bridge this chasm between us.

No matter what truth I offer, he won't believe me. Or maybe worse - he won't care. His own guilt forms a wall too thick for any explanation to penetrate. His mother tried to save him, tried to prevent him from becoming my father's mirror, and that knowledge eats at him like cancer ate at me. I see his torment burning in those eyes, feel it in his relentless need for revenge. It's not just guilt consuming him - it's devouring whatever's left of the boy who used to play piano while I danced, leaving only the Beast's scarred shell.

Maybe if I shoulder all the blame, it will ease his burden. Even slightly.

I struggle to inhale, exhale, trying to steady myself like I used to before performances. "Fine. You're right. I did it. I said those things. I wasn't careful." The words tumble out like confessions in a fever dream. "I was stupid. And my stupidity led to your mother's death." Another shaky breath as I meet his gaze. "I'm responsible. I told you I’m guilty. Me. Not you."

The moment those words leave my lips, something raw and agonized flashes through his eyes. But it vanishes so quickly I might have imagined it.

"Of course you,” he roars. “Confession is only the beginning." His voice cuts like a surgical blade. Those fingers that traced my scars with such care last night now grip my chin with deceptive gentleness before tightening. "You're going to pay, Isabella." Then he releases me like I burn.

He stands, leaving me alone with bruises that go deeper than flesh. I hear him calling his men, his voice winter-cold as he orders them to take me to my prepared room.

The same gilded cage or a different one? It doesn't matter. A prison's still a prison, no matter how expensive the bars.

"I... I'm sorry," I whisper, but he might as well be carved from stone. His back - the same one I raked with my nails hours ago - doesn't even flinch. Like I've already ceased to exist.

My eyes drift to sheets that still hold our memories. His careful preparation, his passionate claiming, how his strong fingers and clever tongue made my body sing. The way he felt inside me, thick and hard and perfect, forging a connection that went beyond everything I’ve ever known. His voice growling my name like prayer and possession mixed together.

All of it was just strategy. Just the Beast playing with his prey before the kill. And he succeeded - I'm shattered into pieces too small to ever fit back together.

This can't be the end. There has to be more.

"Antonio." His name falls from my lips like a last prayer, but he's stone-still at the window, watching waves crash like they hold answers I can't give.

"Get her out of my sight. Forever." Each word drops like a death sentence, but I won't break. Won't let him see me shatter.

Instead, I lift my chin like before performances, wearing nothing but his shirt that still smells like last night's lies. Follow his men with whatever grace cancer and heartbreak haven't stolen.

Paola appears in the doorway, triumph curved across her lips. "He's mine now."

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