She doesn’t look up, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m tired.”
The words land like stones. I tell myself this is what I wanted—that her defiance was exhausting, that her fighting spirit was just another problem to solve. The truth presses in, sharp and unwelcome. I hate seeing her like this. I hate the way the room feels cold when she doesn’t glare at me. I hate that the spark in her eyes—the thing that made me want her in the first place—is fading, and I can’t stop it.
I force myself to be cold. “You brought this on yourself, Isabella. No one asked you to fight, even if I like it.”
She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even flinch. Just stares out the window, lost in her own world.
Frustration surges in me. It’s hot and helpless and ugly. I want to shout at her, to drag her back into the fight, to remind her that I’m the one with power here.
I don’t. I stand there, jaw clenched, hands curled into fists at my sides.
This was supposed to be a punishment. She was supposed to learn what it meant to lose, to bend, to be molded intosomething useful. She was never meant to be an obsession, a constant ache, a question I can’t answer. She was supposed to be a warning to her family, a trophy, not a curse that keeps me up at night.
I watch her, trying to summon the old anger, the old certainty. All I see is the hollow space where her fire used to be. All I feel is the sickness growing inside me, the knowledge that I’ve done this—that I’ve become the kind of man who destroys the only thing he ever wanted.
Dimitri’s words echo back to me:“Maybe they’ve accepted their circumstances.”
I wonder, for the first time, if Isabella is doing the same. If this silence is her surrender, or her way of disappearing. If the woman I wanted is gone for good, and all I have left is the ghost of her, haunting the house I built to keep her close.
I leave her there, unable to speak, unable to fix what I’ve broken. The door shuts behind me with a finality I can’t ignore. I remind myself this is weakness, that she’s breaking as she should. But the lie is thin. The truth—the raw, bitter truth—is that I hate seeing her like this. And I hate myself for needing her to burn, for needing her at all.
In the darkness of my office, I sit alone, drowning in paperwork and regret. She was never meant to matter this much, but she does. I have no idea how to make it stop.
***
Dusk settles over the mansion in long, gold ribbons, turning the world soft and quiet. Even the garden—usually a riot of birdsong and rustling leaves—feels subdued, the air still as glass. I find her there, sitting on a low stone bench beneath the shadow of an old willow.
Her back is straight, hands folded in her lap, face lifted toward the first stars, but her eyes are empty, expressionless. For a moment, I watch her from the terrace, trying to remember the last time I saw her truly alive.
She doesn’t turn as I approach. My footsteps crunch over gravel, louder than usual, but she doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move to greet or avoid me. I stop a few feet away, close enough to see the faint shimmer of tears dried on her cheeks, the pale half-moons beneath her eyes.
The silence stretches. I want her to say something—anything—to break the spell that has frozen us in this strange new distance. Instead, she just sits, a statue carved from regret and exhaustion.
I clear my throat, forcing my voice into something steady. “You’ll accompany me tomorrow. We’re leaving early.”
She doesn’t ask where or why. Her voice is flat, stripped of everything that used to cut me so deep. “Fine.”
“That’s all?” The question slips out, harsher than I mean. I want her to fight, to argue, to give me even a shred of the fire she used to wield so effortlessly.
She nods once, barely moving, her gaze never leaving the sky. “Whatever you want, Emil.”
Something cold settles in my gut. I watch her for another moment, jaw clenched so hard my teeth ache. I can’t read her anymore. I can’t even find the boundaries of her anger, or her fear. She just stands, smoothing her dress, and walks away—past me, past the roses, through the long shadows and back toward the house. She doesn’t look back. She might as well be a ghost.
I stand in the garden long after she’s gone, the hush of twilight pressing in. The air is thick with the scent of cut grassand wet earth, but none of it settles me. I look at the spot where she sat, trying to convince myself this is what I wanted, that her surrender means victory, that her emptiness is proof I’ve won.
It doesn’t feel like winning. It feels like something’s gone terribly wrong.
I rake a hand through my hair, pacing the garden path. Somewhere between revenge and desire, I’ve lost control of everything. She was supposed to be a weapon. She was supposed to teach the Brunos what happens when they cross me.
Instead, she’s become a wound that never heals, a question I can’t answer.
I remember the way she used to look at me, eyes blazing, every word a challenge. I remember the taste of her mouth when she hated me, the heat of her body when she fought back, the satisfaction of conquering her defiance. Now, with her broken silence, her passive acceptance, I feel unmoored, uncertain, dangerously exposed.
I realize, standing here, that I don’t recognize myself anymore. The man I was—cold, calculated, unflinching—would have rejoiced at her defeat.
Now, with every step she takes away from me, something inside me fractures further. I want her fire back, want her rage, her stubbornness. I want her to look at me like she used to, even if it’s with hate.
Dimitri finds me as the light fades, his presence always so easy to read. He lingers at the edge of the path, arms folded, eyes flickering between me and the empty bench.
