Isabella POV
The silence in the penthouse wasn't peaceful; it was the heavy, suffocating quiet of a crypt. I paced the marble floors, the phantom sensation of Damien Maddox's grip still burning on my arm. My mind was a chaotic storm of fear and confusion, but beneath it all, a naive hope still flickered—surely, my family wouldn't leave me defenseless in the hands of a monster.
I dialed my grandfather, Clifford Preston. It was late, but in our world, business never slept.
His face appeared on the screen, pixelated but stern. He didn't ask if I was okay. He didn't ask why I was calling past midnight.
"Grandfather," I started, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to steady it. "Mr. Maddox... he dragged me out of Vesuvio tonight. He humiliated me. Where is my husband? Why am I being handled by the Don like I'm some unruly child?"
Clifford's expression hardened, the lines around his mouth deepening into a scowl. "I heard about the incident. Jovani Langley is a fool, and you, Isabella, were careless to entertain him."
I gasped, the betrayal striking me like a physical blow. "I didn't entertain him! I was working!"
"Your work is to secure our alliance," Clifford cut in, his voice ice-cold. "Do you think you are there for a vacation? You are collateral, Isabella. A guarantee of good faith."
"But my safety—"
"Your safety depends on your utility," he snapped. "Stop whining. Your duty is to please your husband and his family. If Damien Maddox has to discipline you, it is because you gave him a reason to. Do not call me again unless someone is dead."
The screen went black.
I stared at the phone, the cold reality settling into my bones. I wasn't a granddaughter; I was a currency that had already been spent. Tears pricked my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I opened my messages and found the contact saved as Maverick. The chat was a one-sided graveyard of my previous pleas.
I typed one last message, my fingers numb.
We need to talk.
I didn't expect a reply. And as the hours bled into morning, none came.
Sleep was a luxury I couldn't afford. By eight a.m., I was standing outside the double doors of the Don's office, clutching a folder containing the PR strategy for tonight's charity gala. I smoothed my skirt, armor for the battlefield, and knocked.
"Enter."
The voice was a low growl. I pushed the door open. The office was a cavern of shadows and dark wood, smelling of espresso and danger. Damien sat behind his massive ebony desk, looking like a king contemplating an execution. He didn't look up as I approached.
"Mr. Maddox," I said, keeping my tone strictly professional. "The final press release for the gala."
"Leave it," he said, waving a hand dismissively without lifting his eyes from the document he was studying.
I stepped forward to place the folder on the edge of his desk. My gaze inadvertently drifted to the paper under his hand. The bold, capitalized header screamed at me, the letters sharp and black against the white page.
PETITION FOR ANNULMENT
My breath hitched. The legal jargon was unmistakable. He was ending his marriage.
A wave of unexpected sympathy washed over me. I didn't know who the current Mrs. Maddox was—no one did—but the thought of being discarded by this man, erased as if she never existed, sent a chill down my spine. She was just another piece of collateral, like me.
Damien's head snapped up. His eyes, usually cold and distant, were now blazing with a predatory intensity. He slammed his hand down over the document, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
"What are you looking at?" he snarled, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper.
I recoiled, clutching my folder to my chest. "Nothing, sir. I just—"
"Get out," he ordered, the command vibrating in the air. "And if you value your position—if you value your breath—you will keep your eyes on your own work."
I turned and fled, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I had seen the beast's wound, and he had nearly bitten my head off for it.
I retreated to the safety of the PR department, trying to steady my shaking hands. But the reprieve was short-lived.
A shadow fell over my desk. I looked up to see Cortez Riggs standing there. He was Damien's shadow, a man who moved with the silent lethality of a viper. He was the Enforcer, the one who buried the bodies Damien made.
"Miss Preston," Cortez said, his voice devoid of inflection. He dropped a seating chart onto my desk. "The Don expects a flawless event tonight. Seating reflects hierarchy. Do not make a mistake."
He tapped a manicured finger on a specific name on the guest list: Katerina Webb.
"Handle this," he said, and then he was gone.
I stared at the name, panic rising in my throat. Katerina Webb, the actress. The woman the tabloids claimed was Damien's mistress.
My mind raced back to the document on Damien's desk. Petition for Annulment.
If he was divorcing his wife, then Katerina's presence at the gala was a statement. But if I seated her at the head table, it would be a public slap in the face to the invisible wife he was erasing. It felt cruel. It felt wrong.
I bit my lip, staring at the empty circles on the chart. I had to make a choice. A choice that could cost me my job, or worse. I picked up my pen, my hand hovering over the head table, and then moved it to the VIP section—prestigious, but not beside the Don.
I would protect the dignity of the unknown wife, even if her husband wouldn't. I had no idea that by trying to save a stranger, I was digging my own grave.
