Was I always a pawn? Did he ever see me as anything else? Guilt and rage tangle in my chest. Maybe I brought this on myself. Maybe I should’ve listened, should’ve been more loyal, less hungry for answers.
Some part of me—smaller, meaner—refuses to believe it. I did what I had to do. I wanted the truth. I wanted justice for Enzo.
Enzo.
A sob rises in my throat, sudden and sharp. I choke it back, breathing through my teeth. For a while, I just sit, hunched over the tray, jaw clenched.
The grief wins. The tears come, hot and slow, spilling down my cheeks as I pick at a piece of fruit, shoving it past the ache in my throat. I force myself to swallow, to keep eating, to pretend I still have control. I won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me fall apart, not yet.
My eyes drift to the photograph I keep in my pocket—a battered square, creased from too many years. Enzo at sixteen, wild-haired, grinning, arms wrapped around my shoulders. Iremember the night it was taken: a family dinner gone wrong, shouting in the hall, our mother weeping in the kitchen.
Enzo sneaking dessert from the fridge, pressing a wedge of cake into my palm, whispering, “Don’t cry, Izzy. It’s just noise. We’re better than all of them.”
Later, he would make me laugh with bad impressions, pull faces until I snorted soda through my nose. Always on my side, always the shield between me and the worst of the world.
I close my eyes, holding that memory tight. The contrast is unbearable. He’s gone, and I’m alone in a gilded prison.
Eventually, I push the tray aside and get up. I cross the room, pressing my hands flat against the door. The knob rattles, firm and unmoving. I test it again, harder, until my palm stings. No one comes. The lock is solid, the world on the other side deaf to whatever I could scream.
I turn to the window, yank at the latch. No luck. The glass doesn’t even flex. I try the phone on the nightstand: old-fashioned, heavy, the kind you see in movies about rich Americans. I lift the receiver, press it to my ear. Only silence. Or a dial tone that leads nowhere, maybe just Emil’s staff on the other end, ready to report every word I say.
I pace the room, running my hands over the surfaces: polished wood, velvet curtains, expensive rugs. Everything is soft, luxurious, useless. All these riches, and I’m just as trapped as I was in my uncle’s house—only here, there’s no illusion of safety.
Here, I’m property. I feel it in the set of every chair, the way the clothes in the wardrobe still carry the scent of someone else’s perfume, the taste of breakfast that sticks to my teeth. Even my own reflection—hollow-eyed, mouth drawn, hairunbrushed—looks foreign, the face of someone who’s lost every mask.
There’s a letter on the dresser. Vittorio’s handwriting, looping and precise, my name written across the front. I pick it up, fingers trembling, reading the first lines: “Isabella, you must understand, I did what was necessary…” The words blur. Something inside me snaps.
I ball it up and hurl the letter across the room, screaming, voice cracking with the force of it. My hand knocks over the vase, peonies scattering across the floor, water soaking into the rug.
The sound is loud, almost shocking, but no one comes to check on me. The silence returns even heavier now.
***
By midmorning, the soft hush of the room fractures with a sharp knock. I’m still curled on the rug in yesterday’s silk slip, numb from head to toe, the peony petals scattered around me already wilting. Before I can rise, the door opens. Two guards fill the threshold—clean suits, unreadable faces, hands clasped in front like they’re here to collect a package, not a person.
“Miss Bruno.” The taller one nods with no hint of apology. “You need to be ready. Mr. Sharov is waiting. There’s news.”
I want to argue, to buy time, but the look in their eyes tells me it’s pointless. I gather myself as best I can, pulling on the clothes left out the night before: a pale blouse and dark skirt, nothing of my own.
They stand by the door, offering no privacy, their presence a silent threat. My hands shake as I fasten the buttons, but I force my chin up. I will not let them see me small.
When I’m done, the guards fall into step at my sides, flanking me down the endless hallway. Marble echoes under our feet, each step louder than the last. Every staff member we pass averts their gaze. Someone whispers in Russian. My cheeks burn, but I walk steady, refusing to let them see what’s left of my pride slip through my fingers.
At the doors to the grand salon, they pause, open them wide, and usher me in. The room is vast, gilded, full of light and polished wood. Emil stands at the far end, framed by tall windows and a half circle of his people: Lukyan, Dimitri, a handful of other lieutenants. Not a friend among them.
He waits until I’m standing before him, the guards at my back like shadows. I meet his eyes, searching for any hint of what comes next: anger, triumph, even pity. There’s nothing. His face is carved from ice, his suit dark and immaculate, hands folded over a folder on the table.
“We’re moving forward,” he announces, voice cool and final. “The wedding is in three days.”
It’s not a question. Not a request. He could be talking about a business deal or the weather. The words ring out, echoing off the painted ceiling. No one reacts. Not his men, not the staff. It’s just another order to be executed.
My chest tightens, pulse rushing in my ears. I try to speak, but the words tangle—anger, disbelief, a last desperate plea. “You can’t… this isn’t—” I stop myself, swallow hard, and force my voice steady. “You can’t do this to me.”
Emil’s gaze sharpens in a silent warning. The look alone steals the rest of my protest from my tongue. Around us, the men barely blink. I’m not a person to them. I’m a bargaining chip, a line in a ledger.
He continues, voice calm, “Everything has been arranged. You’ll be fitted for the dress this morning. Afterward, you will remain here. My staff will see to your needs.” A pause, just long enough for me to feel the weight of humiliation. “You will conduct yourself as expected. Do not make this harder on yourself.”
I feel the room tilt, the floor gone uncertain under my feet. My ears ring. I want to scream, to fight, to beg. Instead, I just stand there, hands clenched so tight my nails leave crescents in my palms.
