Isabella
We stepped back into the room—me and Lorenzo. There was a strange stillness in the air, like the room had been holding its breath until we walked in.
No one said a word.
We sat.
And then came the files.
A man in a sharp navy suit—someone on their payroll, no doubt—walked forward with two thick folders. They weren't basic. No slim white folders with contract sheets. These were leather-bound, marked with gold Roman numerals on the spine. One was marked with a black ribbon, the other blood red.
He handed one to me. One to Lorenzo.
I hesitated. My hand burned just touching it.
Lorenzo took his like it was a grocery bag—carelessly, without much interest. But I could feel something tense in his shoulders. Something about these files made even him uneasy.
I looked down at mine. There was no label. Just cold, heavy material and weight. Not just physical weight.
Something deeper.
I opened the cover slowly.
I expected legal jargon. Prenuptial terms. Marriage conditions. Maybe family trees and inheritance breakdowns.
But the first page was not legal.
It was personal.
A photo of Lorenzo. A candid one. He looked young. Maybe sixteen. His eyes weren't cold like they are now. He looked… hopeful.
Below the photo was a handwritten note:
"Lorenzo D'Angelo – Psychological Evolution"
What the hell?
I turned the page.
More handwriting. Slanted, fast, yet careful. At the bottom was a name. Dr. Severino Moretti.
A therapist?
I flipped to the next page.
Bullet points. Phases of emotional development. Notes about abandonment. Fear of failure. Mild obsessive tendencies. Idealism turned bitterness.
A full psychoanalysis?
This wasn't a marriage file. This was a case study.
I turned more pages. At first, they were sterile. Clinical. But then it changed.
There were letters—actual letters Lorenzo had written to someone. Maybe his mother. Maybe no one. Maybe himself. Some torn, some scribbled.
And then came a section titled in thick red ink:
LOVE / PAIN
My chest tightened.
I swallowed hard and kept reading.
The pages turned from clinical to confessional.
There were names. Girls. Lovers. Mistakes.
A handwritten note beside one name said, "He cried for three days after she left. Locked himself in his room. Didn't eat."
Another line: "She said he loved her too hard. Too dark. He thought that was love."
Another: "He proposed at 18. She said no. He hasn't proposed since."
I paused. My breath caught in my throat.
I wasn't supposed to be reading this.
This wasn't business. This wasn't preparation for marriage.
This was someone's soul. Raw. Naked. Open.
I looked up at him slowly.
He hadn't opened his file.
"Did you know about this?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
His jaw was tight. His stare locked on the floor.
"I knew they had something on me," he murmured. "Didn't know they'd give it to you."
I flipped a few more pages, slower now. More heartbreak. More vulnerability. An entire section was titled "Triggers."
One read: "Lies. He hates liars. He'd rather be hurt by a truth than comforted by a lie."
Another: "He associates touch with betrayal. Every woman who touched him left him after."
And then, in black ink, a single question written at the center of a page:
"Is Lorenzo capable of loving someone without destroying them?"
My chest burned.
I shut the file quickly, holding it like it might start screaming.
"Why… why would they give this to me?" I asked, the words catching in my throat.
Lorenzo looked at me.
So calm on the surface. But there was something breaking behind his eyes.
"So you know what you're marrying," he said.
I stared at him, that same burning still twisting in my gut.
"And what's that?"
He didn't answer.
He just leaned back, arms crossed, face stone-cold.
"I don't want this marriage either," he said after a pause. "But I have to do it."
"You?" He paused. "You're just the unlucky girl whose father sold her soul for a power play."
My throat tightened.
"That's all I am to you?" I asked.
"To me?" He raised a brow. "You're… the first person who's ever seen what's in that file. So no, you're not just that."
His voice dropped lower. "But I don't want to love someone again. And I sure as hell don't want to destroy anyone either. Especially someone who didn't ask for this."
I didn't speak.
There was too much happening inside me. Too many things clawing to come out. Too much of my own pain being triggered by his.
I looked down at the file again.
And for the first time, I wondered—was there a file about me too?
And if there was…
Would it be half as messy?
While I sat trying to piece together Lorenzo's file and my own swirling emotions, the echo of a yell pierced the calm.
"Hey!!"
It came from the east wing—sharp, urgent, and unmistakably Evangeline.
Everyone in the room stilled.
Then chairs scraped. Feet moved. Heads turned.
It wasn't long before a security guard appeared, dragging Evangeline by the arm. She looked wild—angry, breathless, flushed with fury.
"Get your fucking hands off me!" she screamed, thrashing out of his grip.
He shoved her forward. She stumbled but caught herself, steadying her legs before she fell. Her pride stayed intact. Barely.
The room was heavy with silence.
The guard leaned into Mr. D'Angelo and whispered something in his ear. We couldn't hear it. But we all saw the change. His expression morphed—from still politeness to something hard and cold. Disgust? Rage? Maybe both.
Then he stood.
His voice was low, cutting through the air like a blade.
"You have twelve hours to leave my house," he said flatly, eyes locked on Aunt Catalina, my father, and Evangeline.
Aunt Cat turned slowly toward Evangeline.
The fire in her eyes was back, but this time it was directed at her daughter.
"We will talk about this when we get home," she said quietly—too quietly. The kind of quiet that promised hell would follow.
The room dispersed quickly after that. No one dared argue with the man of the house. No one dared ask what Evangeline had seen. Not yet.
By evening, they were packing.
Aunt Cat barked orders. My father said nothing.
And Evangeline and I stood beside the marble-trimmed pool, lit by golden garden lights and shadowed trees. The water shimmered. Calm on the surface. But beneath it, currents moved.
Just like this family.
"Babe," Evangeline said, gripping my wrist tightly. Her voice was low, but her eyes—terrified. "You have to be very careful here. They will kill you."
"What do you mean?" I whispered back.
She glanced over her shoulder, scanning the mansion like it had ears. Then leaned closer.
"Their secrets," she said. "It's terrible."
"What secrets?"
Her breath hitched, like she wasn't sure if she should tell me. But she did.
"In his office," she said. "The father's office. I snuck in while they were busy talking. And Isabella—there were drawers. Locked at first. I picked one."
My heart was thudding.
"Inside…" She looked at me with disbelief. "There were toys. Like, artificial cocks. Every shape, size, material. And lubes. So much lube. Like an entire shelf."
"What?" I choked out.
She nodded. "He's—" But before she could finish, her mother's voice rang out again.
"Evy! Let's go. Now."
She didn't finish the sentence.
But I did. In my head. And then out loud, when she kissed my cheek goodbye.
"He's gay," I whispered.
Evangeline's eyes held mine with something deeper than judgment. It was fear.
We hugged tight.
Then she was gone.
I watched as their car disappeared down the moonlit road, dust curling in the taillights.
Now it was just me.
Me in this palace of secrets.
This prison of inherited lies.
And that same thought came back, clawing at my ribs.
It's time for me to die.