*Isabella*
This was all because of her. Gianna.
If she hadn't run away, I wouldn't be here — sitting on some *rando's* bed. No, not just a rando. My *husband*. Ugh. I almost laughed at the thought, but there was nothing funny about it.
The silk of the wedding dress clung to my skin, heavy and suffocating. I pulled at the laces with trembling hands, yanking it off like it had been burning me. No corset, no jewelry, no makeup. My family had been in such a rush to hand me over that they didn't even bother with the "pretty bride" routine. Just a quick exchange. Like a business deal. Like a *transaction.*
And now here I was, their little sacrifice, tossed to the lion.
I grabbed a towel and headed straight for the bathroom. The cold tiles under my feet made me shiver, but I didn't care. The second the hot water hit my skin, I let out a shaky breath, letting it wash away everything—the bloodstains I couldn't see but could *feel* on me. Matteo's eyes, the weight of his gaze, the way he looked at me like I was something he owned.
I pressed my forehead against the cold tile, letting the water stream down my back. *Don't cry, Isabella. Not for them. Not for him.*
But my chest still ached. Not because of him. Not because of this place.
It was *them*. My family.
They did this to me. They were so eager to "solve" their problems that they shoved me into this nightmare without so much as a second thought. My own father couldn't even look me in the eyes when he told me it was "for the family." As if that was supposed to make it okay. As if that was supposed to be enough. I wasn't enough to save. But is okey am here for it But I was enough to *sell*.
I stayed in the shower longer than I should have, the water slowly turning from scalding hot to lukewarm to cold. When I finally stepped out, goosebumps prickled my skin. I wrapped the towel around me, wiping at the fogged-up mirror, only to see my own reflection staring back at me.
My eyes looked different now. Harder. *Colder.*
I didn't know this girl.
I grabbed my bag off the bathroom counter and rifled through it, pulling out a sweatshirt and some old sweatpants. Comfort clothes. The things that reminded me of home—of freedom. I slipped them on quickly, the soft cotton against my skin like armor. Not strong, but familiar.
I was about to zip up my bag when—
**BANG!**
The door swung open with so much force it crashed against the wall.
I spun around, heart slamming against my ribs, clutching the front of my sweatshirt like it was a shield. Matteo.
He stood there like a god of war, drenched in blood. Not his blood. No. His eyes were too calm, his breaths too steady. It wasn't his.
Thick streaks of red ran down his arms, his shirt soaked with it, his hands stained like he'd dipped them in paint. His dark hair was tousled, damp with sweat.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" I snapped, trying to keep my voice steady even though every nerve in my body was screaming. My eyes darted toward the blood on his hands, on his chest, on his face. *God, what did he do?* "Have you ever heard of knocking?" I asked, gripping the towel a little tighter around me.
He took one slow step forward, then another. His eyes were sharp, focused, like a predator zeroing in on prey. But his body—he looked exhausted. His shoulders were tense, his breaths even but heavy.
"Never heard of it," he muttered, brushing past me like I wasn't even there. His eyes didn't meet mine as he made his way to the bathroom. "Besides, this is *my* bedroom. *My* house. So I don't see a reason to knock."
His voice was smooth, bored, like he was stating a simple fact. He didn't even look at me. Just walked past me, dragging his bloodied hands through his hair before stepping into the shower.
I stood there, frozen, heart still pounding in my chest. *What the hell just happened?*
He didn't close the bathroom door.
The sound of water crashing against the tiles filled the room, but I didn't move. I stayed rooted in place, my hands clenching at my sides. My brain was screaming at me to look away, to *leave*, but I didn't.
My eyes flicked to the sliver of his silhouette behind the glass. Strong shoulders. Muscles that moved like steel cables under his skin. The faint outline of his back, his arms, his neck. *Oh, come on, Isabella. Don't be stupid.*
But it was hard not to notice.
It wasn't fair. It wasn't *fair* that he could be so good-looking and so *heartless* at the same time. It felt wrong. Like he'd cheated somehow.
When he finally stepped out of the shower, steam rolling off his skin, I swore I forgot how to breathe.
A towel was slung low around his hips, water dripping down his chest in slow, deliberate trails. His dark hair was slicked back, beads of water catching on his lashes. His tattoos were on full display now—black ink cutting sharp lines across his chest, his arms, his ribs. They looked like stories written in a language I couldn't understand.
I swallowed hard.
Don't look. Don't stare.
You're not some idiot in a movie. Look away. I didn't.
I hate myself for it, but I didn't. He caught me staring. Of course, he did. His lips tugged into a slow, knowing smirk, his eyes dragging over me in that way that made me want to punch him and hide at the same time.
I pushed off the wall, heart still racing as I walked right up to him, head held high. It didn't matter that he was taller, broader, and completely *unbothered* by the blood he'd just washed off. I tilted my head back to glare up at him, my face inches from his chest.
"So what's your plan?" I asked, my voice sharp, biting.
He raised a brow, tilting his head like he genuinely didn't know what I meant. "What are you talking about?"
I narrowed my eyes. *Don't play dumb with me, Matteo.* "You know what I'm talking about. You know why you dragged me here, why you forced me to agree to this marriage." I jabbed a finger into his chest, ignoring how solid he felt. "Don't act like this is some big mystery. We both know why I'm here. We both know why I said yes. And we both know you loved my siste" His eyes darkened, his smirk vanishing. He stepped forward, and I stepped back. One step. Two. My back hit the wall.
He leaned in close, his breath warm on my cheek. "Who told you," he said slowly, voice as sharp as a blade, "that Matteo *Antonio* has ever had feelings?". I froze. His eyes were like ice, cold and clear, but so much more dangerous. The kind of cold that burned. And suddenly, I felt so stupid. So stupid.
All this time, I'd assumed—*no, Gianna told me.* She told me Matteo had feelings for her. She told me he loved her, that she had him wrapped around her little finger. She told me he would have chosen her if she'd stayed. But she was wrong. Because I could see it now, written in his face, in his eyes, in the way he looked at me like I was just another piece on the board. Matteo Antonio didn't *love*. He didn't feel anything at all.
"You thought I loved her, didn't you?" His voice was soft, deadly quiet. "Is that why you've been walking around here with your head held so high?" His eyes flicked to my lips, my throat, before landing back on my eyes. "Let me make this clear, *cara mia*." He leaned in so close I could feel his lips brush against the shell of my ear. "I don't love. Not her. Not you. *No one.*" I sucked in a sharp breath, my chest rising and falling so fast it felt like I might choke on it.
He pulled away just enough to look me in the eyes, his face unreadable. "Go to bed," he said, turning away from me. His voice had gone cold again, as if the storm had passed. "Tomorrow, you'll learn what it means to be my wife." I stayed there, pressed against the wall, too stunned to move. And as he walked away, I felt it settle into my bones.
I wasn't his wife.
I was his *prisoner.*