Page 41 of Twisted Vows

She was ending it.

Leonardo stepped closer, his fingers trailing along the edge of the chair she was bound to, slow, deliberate, as if savoring the moment. "You’re my daughter, Isla, but Matteo will never truly love you. Men like him don’t love. They own. He will keep you locked in his world, and you will never be more than a possession."

Isla forced herself to stay still, to let his words slide off her like oil on water. But inside, a slow burn ignited.

"And what do you call this?" she shot back, her voice sharp, unwavering. "You have me tied to a chair, deciding my fate like I’m nothing. That’s not protection. That’s power. And you hate that Matteo took it from you."

For the first time, Leonardo’s carefully constructed mask cracked. His jaw tightened, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his gaze. Frustration? Contempt? Fear?

"Matteo was a weapon I intended to wield," he admitted, his voice low, taut. "I thought I could shape him, control him. But you—you ruined that. You made him dangerous. He doesn’t see clearly anymore. And that makes him a liability."

A cold chill slid down Isla’s spine, but she refused to let him see it. Instead, she smiled. Slow. Mocking. "You’re afraid of him."

Leonardo’s lips pressed into a thin line. "I’m giving you a chance to walk away from this. A clean exit. You vanish, leave this life behind, and you live. You stay, and you will never be free of him."

A bitter laugh escaped her lips. "You don’t want me to walk away, Father. You want me to run, so you can justify what happens next."

Leonardo exhaled, standing tall again, but something had shifted in his posture—an edge of impatience, a hint of desperation. "I don’t expect you to understand. But I won’t let you destroy everything I’ve built."

Isla clenched her fists, the rope biting into her skin. "And if I don’t agree?"

Leonardo’s expression darkened, his voice dipping into something colder. "Then you will force my hand. And I will do what I should have done from the beginning."

Her stomach twisted, but she kept her chin high. "You’d kill your own daughter?"

His face was unreadable, blank like marble. "I’d make the necessary choice."

Silence stretched between them, thick, suffocating. Isla knew what he was doing—planting doubt, trying to chip away at her before Matteo could come. Because Matteo would come. Of that, she had no doubt.

She inhaled deeply, steadying herself. "Matteo will find me. And when he does, there won’t be anything left of this place but ash."

Leonardo smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "Then let’s see who gets to you first."

He turned, his footsteps slow, controlled, the weight of his decision already settled in his mind. The heavy door groaned shut behind him, the lock sliding into place with a chilling finality.

Isla stared at the door, her breath steady, her mind already working.

She had been a pawn in this war long enough.

It was time to burn the board.

****

For a long moment, Isla sat motionless, absorbing the weight of what had just happened. The throbbing pain in her side was a brutal reminder that she wasn’t at full strength, that every move she made had to be calculated. The cold bite of the rope against her wrists was nothing compared to the icy grip of fear curling in her stomach.

She had always known her father was ruthless, but this—this was something else.

She shifted slightly, testing the tightness of the binds, but the movement sent a sharp lance of pain through her wounded side. She bit back a gasp, forcing herself to breathe through it. The bindings were too tight to slip free of, but not impossible to break. She just needed time—and time was the one thing she didn’t have.

Outside the door, the low murmur of voices filtered in, their tones hushed but firm. Leonardo had stationed guards close, making sure there was no chance of another escape. They had learned from last time.

Her gaze flicked around the dimly lit room, cataloging everything. The ornate desk in the corner—probably locked, but maybe holding something sharp enough to cut through the ropes. The bookshelves lining the walls, filled with heavy volumes that could serve as distractions or weapons. The heavy curtains framing the window, but she knew better than to assume there was an easy way out.

Even if she managed to free herself, she needed a way out that didn’t get her shot again.

Her father had made one thing clear—if she didn’t escape soon, she wouldn’t be leaving this place alive.

A soft creak from outside the door caught her attention. She stilled, straining to listen past the pulse pounding in her ears. Footsteps. Then a hushed voice.

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