Isabella POV
The freezing Chicago rain felt like a baptism as I pushed through the heavy iron side gate of the Moretti estate. My bare feet were numb, my lungs burning, but the sheer will to survive propelled me forward into the dark.
Headlights cut through the torrential downpour. A sleek, unassuming sedan idled at the curb. The door flew open, and Nathaniel Hayes rushed out. Nate—the Sterling family’s trusted lawyer and the only outsider I could truly rely on.
He didn't ask questions. Seeing my soaked, trembling frame, he immediately stripped off his heavy wool coat and draped it over my shoulders, shielding me from the biting wind. "I've got you, Bella," he murmured, his voice thick with pure, protective concern as he guided me into the warmth of the car.
As the door closed, my eyes caught a subtle shift in the shadows near the ivy-covered wall. A faint red light blinked. Rocco Gallo. Damien’s most ruthless Enforcer.
I leaned my head against the cold window as Nate drove away. I knew exactly what was happening back in the estate.
*
Damien POV
My phone vibrated against the mahogany desk. A message from Rocco.
I opened it, and the temperature in the room plummeted. It was a photograph of my wife. Isabella, looking fragile and soaked, willingly stepping into the embrace of Nathaniel Hayes.
*Sir, Mrs. Moretti has left the estate. Nathaniel Hayes was waiting for her.*
A muscle feathered in my jaw. The sheer audacity. After her little theatrical display in the West Wing, she ran straight to another man's arms? She had orchestrated our marriage with ruthless precision, and now she expected me to believe this sudden rebellion was anything but a calculated move? She was using the lawyer to provoke me, to claw back my attention.
I stared at the screen, a dark, possessive fury warring with cold amusement.
*Let her play her games,* I texted back, my grip nearly cracking the screen. *See where she goes.*
*
Isabella POV
The wrought-iron gates of the Sterling estate loomed ahead, bearing our family crest. The mansion was brightly lit, a stark contrast to the decaying West Wing, yet the safety it promised felt entirely fragile.
As Nate’s car pulled up to the marble portico, my loyal old housekeeper, Maria, was already waiting in the downpour, holding a large umbrella.
Before Maria could reach me, another figure shoved past her. Bianca. The maid who had spent the last year secretly feeding my movements and miseries to Liliana and the Morettis.
"Miss! You're finally back!" Bianca cried out, her face twisted into a mask of exaggerated, sickening concern as she reached out to support my arm. "We were so worried!"
I didn't even blink. I didn't look at her face, didn't acknowledge her voice. I simply sidestepped her outstretched hands as if she were a puddle of filthy water on the pavement.
Bianca froze, her fake smile shattering as the color drained from her face.
I walked straight to Maria, letting my exhausted body lean heavily against her side. "Maria," I said, my voice quiet but carrying enough weight to echo across the portico. "Help me inside."
The power shift was instantaneous. The entire staff watching from the foyer understood: Bianca was dead to me, and Maria was my only shield.
Minutes later, I was standing in my old bedroom. The lavender walls and plush white rugs were exactly as I had left them before my wedding—a sickening monument to the naive girl I used to be.
My brother, Julian, paced the floor, while the portrait of my late father, Arthur, watched us from the shadows of the study. Julian looked at my pale, shivering form with pity, but his mind was still trapped in the boardroom.
"Bella, stop being stubborn," Julian sighed, running a hand through his hair. "We all know Damien's temper. You can't just walk out. Look, I'll handle it. I'll send over that limited-edition Bugatti he's been eyeing, put it under your name. We'll use it as an apology—"
"An apology?" The word tore from my throat, sharp and violent. I cut him off, my hands balling into fists. "I committed no crime!"
I took a deep, ragged breath, wiping a stray drop of rainwater from my cheek. I looked at my brother, then at the empty, imposing desk where my father once ruled, stripping away every ounce of the obedient daughter they knew.
"The contract is broken," I declared, my voice dropping to a dead, icy calm. "I am done with him. I want a divorce."
The silence that followed was deafening. Julian’s jaw went slack, and the sheer, unadulterated terror that washed over Julian’s face told me everything I needed to know.
