“She’s not doing well,” he says quietly.
I don’t bother answering. He knows. I know. The whole house knows.
“Maybe you should let her go,” he continues, voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. “Or at least let her breathe.”
I glare at him, but it’s all show. The truth is already eating at me. “It’s not that simple.”
“It never is.” He hesitates, then says, “She’s strong. But even iron breaks if you hammer it too long.”
He leaves me alone with my thoughts, and I stare into the growing dark, feeling the garden close in. I wonder, not for the first time, if I have become the enemy in my own story. If I have destroyed the only thing that could have saved me from myself.
I follow the winding path back to the house, heart heavy, mind racing. I pass her window, see her silhouette framed by candlelight, her head bowed, shoulders hunched. She looks so small, so lost.
Inside, I pour myself a drink and sit in the dark, turning the glass in my hand. I think of tomorrow, of the trip, of the hope that maybe a change of scenery will snap her out of this fugue.
I think of all the ways I could try to fix what I’ve broken—words, gestures, confessions—but none of them sound right, none of them true. The gulf between us is wide, and I have no map for crossing it.
She was supposed to be a punishment. Now, she’s my obsession, my ruin, the only person in the world whose suffering matters to me.
I can’t bear it. I can’t bear what I’ve become.
The hours slip by. I finish my drink and stare out at the dark garden, wondering if I’ll ever see her look at me the wayshe once did—alive, furious, unbroken. I know I’ll do anything to bring her back, even if it means losing the battle I started.
Tomorrow, I’ll take her away from here. I tell myself it’s for strategy, for safety, for leverage. But the truth is simpler, uglier: I just want to see her live again. I want to remember the man I used to be, before she changed everything.
Chapter Twenty-Five - Isabella
The car glides through miles of open road, black and shining, windows tinted against the world.
I stare out at the passing blur of trees and steel and sky, trying to ignore the suffocating hush in the space between us.
Emil drives in silence, his hands steady on the wheel, jaw set hard enough to crack. I watch his profile reflected in the glass: the dark stubble on his jaw, the rigid line of his mouth, the eyes that won’t look at me.
I’m too tired to fight, too numb to care. Everything that’s happened—my family turning their back on me, this marriage that’s not a marriage, the endless, gnawing guilt—has left me hollowed out. I barely slept, haunted by the memory of Emil’s touch, the ache of want and shame tangled up so tightly I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. My hands rest useless in my lap. I drift somewhere above my own skin, too worn out even for anger.
The city thins behind us, the world narrowing to the white noise of tires on asphalt and the mechanical hush of air-conditioning. I glance at the side mirror and see a pair of black cars trailing behind. It barely registers; I assume they’re just Emil’s men, his shadow always present even when he doesn’t speak it aloud. Everything in his world has eyes.
After a mile, the hair on my arms prickles. Emil’s knuckles go white on the steering wheel, his stare flicking from the mirror to the road ahead. The silence thickens, sharpens, and for the first time in hours I sense something is wrong.
I shift in my seat, forcing my voice to work. “What is it?”
His mouth twists, voice flat and cold. “It’s your family.”
For a split second, relief flares in my chest. I twist in my seat, craning to see better. My heart pounds. “They came for me?”
He doesn’t answer. The car behind us speeds up, closing the gap. I see faces hard and familiar, all lines and shadows. My pulse leaps, hope rising so fast it hurts. I reach for the door, fumbling with the handle. “Emil—”
He grabs my wrist, and orders, voice like steel, “Stay down.”
Before I can argue, one of the black cars swerves, slamming into us with a sickening crunch. Metal screams.
I’m thrown sideways, head cracking against the window. Glass shatters, scattering across my lap.
I hear Emil curse, tires squealing, the car careening off the road and into a shallow ditch. Everything blurs—shouts, gunshots, the sharp, dizzying taste of blood in my mouth.
I claw at the door and tumble out, legs shaking, lungs burning. The world tilts. I stagger, stumbling through weeds and broken glass. For a heartbeat, all I see is the blur of suits, guns raised, chaos swirling around me.
Then I see him—Matteo, my cousin, charging toward me with men at his back. He’s older, harder than I remember, a gun drawn in one hand, wildness in his eyes.
