The past few days had been a blur of anxiety and despair for Isabella. Her mind wouldn't stop racing with thoughts of her impending marriage. Every time she thought of the old man who was to be her husband, a wave of nausea rolled over her. She could barely eat, barely sleep. Even Clara's constant companionship and attempts to cheer her up were in vain.
Clara had tried everything—suggesting a girls' day out, cracking jokes, even trying to talk her into standing up to her father. But Isabella couldn't muster the courage. Marco Romano wasn't the kind of man who could be reasoned with, especially not by his youngest daughter.
Her sister, Giulia, wasn't helping either. If anything, Giulia seemed to relish her misery.
"Oh, stop sulking" Giulia had said earlier that morning, lounging on the sofa with a smirk. "You're acting like it's the end of the world. So what if he's old? At least he's wealthy. Maybe he'll die soon, and you can inherit everything."
Isabella had stormed off to her room, slamming the door so hard the walls shook. She threw herself onto her bed, clutching a pillow as tears spilled from her eyes.
What kind of life was this? Married to a stranger ...an old.... decrepit stranger,just to satisfy her father's ambitions. Her chest ached with the weight of her helplessness, and for a moment, she wondered if she could just… disappear.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, pulling her out of her spiraling thoughts. She grabbed it without thinking, assuming it was Clara, and answered with a trembling voice.
"Clara" she sobbed into the phone, her words tumbling out in a flood of emotion. "I can't do this. I can't marry him. It's not fair. Why is this happening to me? I don't want to—"
"Micia."
The single word cut through her rambling like a blade. The deep, commanding voice on the other end was unmistakable. Isabella froze, her breath hitching.
It wasn't Clara.
"W-who—" she stammered, her heart pounding in her chest. "Who is this?"
"You already know who it is" came the calm, assured reply.
Isabella's grip tightened on the phone. Her mind raced as she pieced it together. That voice—it belonged to him. The man from the gala.
"Dante" she whispered, barely audible.
His silence and the sharp intake of breath was confirmation enough. She sat up, her tears forgotten, her entire body tense. "How—how did you get my number?"
"That's irrelevant," he said smoothly, as if the question itself was beneath him.
"It's not irrelevant!" she shot back, her fear momentarily giving way to frustration. "You can't just—just call me out of nowhere!"
"And yet here we are" he replied, his voice tinged with amusement.
Isabella swallowed hard, her pulse racing. She could feel the weight of his presence through the phone, oppressive and magnetic all at once.
"You're dangerous" she blurted out, the words escaping before she could stop them.
There was a pause, and when he spoke again, his voice was softer, but no less intense. "Not for you."
Her breath caught, her chest tightening at the certainty in his tone. "Why are you calling me?" she asked, her voice trembling.
"To make you an offer," he said, his words deliberate. "Say the word, micia, and I'll end this. You'll never have to marry that man."
Her heart skipped a beat. "End this? What does that mean?"
"It means," he said darkly, "that your father will never force you into this marriage. That old man will be nothing but a bad memory."
She stared at the wall, her mind spinning. His words were a lifeline, a way out of the nightmare she was trapped in. But they were also terrifying.
"Why would you do that for me?" she whispered. "You don't even know me."
There was a pause, and then he said, "Because no one should live in chains, especially not you."
Tears welled up in her eyes, but they weren't from sadness. It was the first time in days she'd felt hope, no matter how dangerous it seemed.
"I don't know," she said hesitantly. "I… I don't know if I can."
"You can," Dante said firmly. "The choice is yours, micia. Just say the word."
She bit her lip, her mind a whirlwind of fear and desperation. Could she really trust him? Did she have any other choice?
Her voice was barely a whisper, but it carried all the weight of her decision. "Yes."
The line went quiet for a moment, and then she heard it—a low, dangerous chuckle that sent a shiver down her spine.
"Good" Dante said, his voice a dark promise. "You won't regret this."
The call ended, leaving Isabella sitting on her bed, clutching the phone to her chest. Her heart pounded as his words echoed in her mind.
As the call ended, Dante Vitale leaned back in his chair, a wicked smile playing on his lips. His eyes gleamed with a dangerous determination as he poured himself a drink.
"Micia" he murmured, the nickname rolling off his tongue with a dark satisfaction. "Let's see how this game unfolds."
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Breaking news: "This morning, Milan woke to the grisly news of Arturo Moretti's death," the anchor announced, her voice heavy with unease. "The prominent businessman, aged seventy-two, was found murdered in his private villa under horrifying circumstances."