Isabella
I sat at the very end of the long, polished dining table, porcelain plates and silver utensils laid out like weapons. At the other end sat my father. We weren't close. We were never close. My relationship with him consisted of four daily lines:
"Good morning, sir."
"Yes, sir."
"No, sir."
"Good night, sir."
That was it.
No hugs. No warmth. No daddy moments. Just orders and expectations.
The only sound between us was the clink of forks against china, the soft scrape of knives slicing meat. I kept my eyes on my plate, trying not to breathe too loudly. I swear, with him, even inhaling wrong could be a crime.
"Isabella."
He finally spoke. The first word he'd said to me in over a week.
"Yes… Father?" My voice was neutral, cold, trained.
He didn't look up. Didn't repeat himself.
My mind spun. Why call my name? What did I do now? Was I chewing wrong? Did I blink out of sync?
"You're getting married." My entire body froze. It felt like someone shot a bullet straight into my chest.
"…What?"
"You heard me," he said, calmly. Like he hadn't just destroyed my entire fucking life.
"No."
The word came out of me before I could stop it.
"No," I repeated louder, rising slightly. "Your marriage was arranged. Mine won't be—if Mom was here—"
"If Rebekah were here," he snapped, finally looking up, "she would willingly give your hand in marriage."
"Bullshit," I said under my breath.
My mother would never do this. Rebekah was gentle. Protective. She believed in love—not bartering daughters like cattle.
"You're a liar. Mom wasn't that type of woman—"
The air shifted. His chair scraped against the floor. I saw the change in his eyes before he even moved.
"You are getting married," he growled, rising from his seat like a storm cloud ready to strike. "I don't give a fuck which son it is."
Which son.
That's when the final piece snapped into place.
"You're marrying me into the D'Angelo family." My voice dropped to a whisper. "Why? Money?"
Of course. The D'Angelos. The richest, most powerful family in Europe. This wasn't about love. This wasn't even about family. This was about power. About him cashing in his daughter for a throne.
Before the thought could even settle, CRACK—his hand met my face.
The slap sent my head flying left, a sharp sting blossoming across my cheek like fire.
My father had hit me before, but this one was different.
This one was a declaration: You are not a
person. You are a possession.
"I said you're getting married," he barked. "Understood?"
I swallowed the scream rising in my throat. Tears clawed at my eyes but I refused to let them fall.
"…Yes, sir," I murmured. Just loud enough for him to hear. Just quiet enough to keep my pride.
I started to rise from the chair.
"If your ass gets up from that seat," he warned, stepping closer, "I swear you'll be drinking your own blood. And if one fucking tear touches my floor, you'll be licking it sparkling clean. Understood?"
I sat.
My spine stiff. My heart crumbling.
This wasn't a home. It was a gilded prison. And I wasn't a daughter—I was a pawn.
He sat back down and resumed eating like he hadn't just shattered my soul.
See why I said I'm not a princess?
Yeah, sometimes he showers me with diamonds, designer clothes, the illusion of luxury. But he's not a daddy. He never earned that word. Daddy is for men who love. Who protect. Who give a damn.
He's just "Father." A man with a title and a terrifying grip.
And now, apparently, I belong to the D'Angelos.
After breakfast, I went back to my room. My feet moved, but my chest stayed behind—numb and heavy like I'd swallowed concrete.
The maid came in quietly, carrying a cloth, ointment, and a sadness in her eyes I refused to acknowledge.
She sat on the edge of my bed and reached for my face—the red, swelling slap mark still fresh across my cheek. It stung under her touch, but not half as much as what he'd done to my heart.
When the cloth dabbed the bruise, I lost it.
I let go.
Tears spilled like they'd been waiting in the dark, ready to flood everything I was trying to bury.
I didn't care that the maid saw me cry.
I didn't care about pride anymore.
Grief came in waves—and with it, memories.
Mom.
Her laugh. Her perfume. The way she used to sing while brushing my hair, like life was beautiful even when it wasn't.
And then—her death.
The world claimed it was suicide.
They said she jumped. That she gave up.
But my mother was not that woman.
She adored life—even when it was brutal. She fought for joy, scraped it from the corners of every dull day. She'd never leave me behind. Never disappear into the dark like that.
No.
Someone killed her.
And the worst part?
They got away with it.
My whole day was ruined.
Night had come, but the storm in my chest hadn't passed. I dragged myself from the bed, eyes sore and puffy, my soul bruised. Crying into my pillows had become my only form of rebellion.
I reached for the door.
Locked.
That son of a bitch actually locked me in.
Of course he did. He thinks I'll try to escape.
He's not wrong.
But what he forgot is—windows exist. Except, what would be the point?
There's nowhere I could run where he wouldn't find me. He's part of some secret society shit. Mafia. Cartel. Whatever. His power spreads like rot.
A buzz from my phone.
Evangeline: Are you not coming? I'm in the woods.
Me: Not today. I'm sick…
She knew I was lying, but she wouldn't push. She obeyed the unspoken rule between us: when it's dangerous, pretend everything's normal.
I had to skip tonight for two reasons:
1. My blackmailing stalker.
2. My father—who, no doubt, would check in on me through the night.
Too much risk.
I dropped back onto the bed, curled in my sheets, ready to force myself into sleep…
And then I saw it.
A shadow.
My blood turned to ice.
My breath caught in my throat.
Shit. Had my father hired someone to watch me? Or worse—was I about to be murdered?
I stood up, slowly, stepping toward the light switch—
A hand clamped over my
mouth.
"Mm—!!"