Isabella
Absolutely, Spencer. Here's an extended, emotionally rich and sensually charged version of your scene. It deepens Isabella's internal conflict, intensifies the sexual tension, and starts to peel back Lorenzo's broken masculinity without revealing too much too soon. It's dark, raw, and aching.
It's been a month.
One full fucking month since my life flipped—since I was dragged from my world, forced into this one, and expected to smile like I wasn't suffocating inside a palace dressed in gold.
But strangely, the chaos had calmed.
No ghostly visits. No mysterious shadows or threats. Just long, quiet days spent pretending I was okay.
And nights spent in his orbit.
Lorenzo D'Angelo.
The man I was supposed to marry.
We talked. We laughed sometimes. We shared stories in the garden when no one was looking. I learned the way he folded his sleeves. The way he chewed his bottom lip when thinking. How he always slept with one arm above his head and one eye half-open like he didn't trust the world. Or himself.
He never touched me. Not really. Just glances that lingered too long. Fingers that brushed mine by mistake—and never pulled away. He was gentle in a world that wasn't. But I also saw the rage in his eyes when he thought I wasn't watching. The kind of pain that made his smile feel like a lie.
Tonight, I made the first move. Not with words. With skin.
I stood in front of him in nothing but a silk robe, parted slightly in the middle, just enough to hint at what was beneath. I wasn't scared. I wasn't nervous. I wanted to feel something real for once, even if it was just the weight of his body against mine. Something to remind me I was alive.
Lorenzo watched me like he was starving.
His eyes dragged over every inch of me—slowly, reverently, like I was something holy. Something he didn't deserve.
He stepped close. His fingers found the knot of my robe. Hesitated.
And then?
He dropped his hands.
Like I burned him.
He stepped back.
Like I was poison.
And said, "I can't."
I blinked. "What?"
His voice broke. "I can't do this."
His hands clenched into fists. His jaw locked. His chest heaved.
And then he turned.
Stormed out.
Slamming the door behind him with a rage that cracked the silence in two.
Now I sit alone on the edge of the bed, heat pulsing between my thighs and humiliation burning in my chest. My robe's still parted, my nipples hard from cold air and unfulfilled lust.
What the fuck just happened?
I was ready. My body was warm, my mouth open for his name. My thighs parted for his hips. My soul stretched, begging to be touched by someone who wanted me.
And he couldn't.
Not wouldn't.
Couldn't.
A thousand questions twisted through my head like smoke.
Was it me? Was he scared? Did he even want me?
I pulled the robe tighter around my body, swallowing back the lump in my throat. But it wasn't sadness that stung.
It was need.
I wanted him.
I wanted to feel his weight pinning me down, his lips tracing my collarbone, his hands rough and desperate. I wanted to hear him groan my name like it meant something. I wanted to know what it felt like to be taken by the man I was supposed to call husband.
But instead… he left me here.
Dripping.
Burning.
Alone.
I laid back on the bed, staring at the chandelier, its crystals glittering like a hundred sharp little secrets.
And I whispered to the air, "Why can't you touch me?"
But the silence had no answer.
Only the lingering heat between my thighs and the sound of my own shallow breath.
The next morning felt like a goddamn earthquake.
People ran up and down the marble stairs like their lives depended on it. Maids clutched silver trays filled with untouched wine glasses, someone dropped a porcelain bowl, and no one stopped to clean it up. Flowers—white and red, too red—were being arranged in vases taller than me, and glittering candles were being lit in chandeliers I didn't even know this place had.
The whole fucking house felt like it was vibrating. I hadn't even left my room when I heard the chaos from three floors down.
I shoved my window open.
Golden ribbons floated in the wind, people dressed in black and white uniforms yelled orders in Italian, and somewhere in the garden, someone was setting up what looked like a goddamn throne.
I blinked. "What the fuck is going on here?"
I stormed down the hall, ignoring the maid trying to zip up my dress. I needed answers. And I needed them now.
I found him—Lorenzo—shirtless and brooding on the terrace like some sulky prince from a Shakespearean tragedy.
I was still mad. He was still mad. Everyone was mad.
I didn't care.
"Is this the wedding?" I snapped, not even bothering with a hello.
He didn't even look at me. Just kept staring off into the distance like the world below was too beneath him. What a punk. Still fuming because I offered sex? Boo-hoo, maybe next time I should offer him a cup of warm milk and a bedtime story.
No wonder he's not married. No wonder his father had to go bride shopping like we were antiques. I narrowed my eyes.
Maybe he's gay.
Maybe he's the one with the sex toys Evangeline saw.
Maybe his father is boning him—
"Ma'am." A maid behind me cut in gently, trying not to interrupt the emotional mess unraveling in front of her. "It's the dinner."
I turned. "What dinner?"
"Your wedding dinner," she said calmly, like it was obvious. "It's the first dinner. In this family, it takes time to marry. Sometimes a year. Sometimes two."
I blinked.
"Oh—" I muttered, my stomach sinking. "So… no wedding?"
She shook her head.
Damn it.
There went my whole escape plan. The whole thing was supposed to go down today. I'd been coordinating with Evangeline for weeks. She was supposed to come with her mother, sneak a car into the garden, and I'd disappear during the ceremony. Like smoke. Like a fucking legend.
But there wasn't a ceremony.
Just a dinner.
A damn fancy dinner.
I was stuck.
Stuck in this towering, velvet-cushioned mansion with creepy fathers, broken sons, and secrets buried under gold and stone. Stuck in a pretend engagement with a man who looked like he wanted to throw himself off a cliff whenever I got too close. Stuck in the silk of privilege that choked instead of comforted.
I turned away from Lorenzo.
"You know," I whispered, not looking at him, "I'd rather be dead than wait two years to marry someone who looks at me like I ruined his fucking life."
He didn't answer.
Good.
Because if he had, I would've thrown him off the terrace.
It had been just over an hour since I left the fitting room, and I finally had my moment of silence—alone, on my bed, dress still sprawled across the mattress like some ghost of obligation. The stylists had just left, dragging the rest of the dresses out with them, their perfume lingering like fake sugar in the air.
I scrolled absently through my phone, not even seeing the screen, just thankful to breathe for once.
But peace is temporary in hell.
The door handle twisted with a lazy click. I didn't even need to look to know who it was.
"Great," I muttered, deadpan. "My nightmare."
Fuck this house.
Fuck this family.
And fuck the entire world for letting this bastard be born.
He walked in like he owned the planet and my airspace. Dante. Holding a slim black card in his hand, his eyes smug, his walk slow like he was playing the villain in his own personal porno.
"Hey, strawberry. You good?" he asked with that damn crooked grin that made my stomach twist—and not in a romantic way.
I didn't answer. I didn't even flinch.
"Guess you've been avoiding me over the last month, huh?" he said, stepping closer.
"Fuck you," I spat. "Don't ever call me strawberry, you son of a—"
"Shhh…" he cut me off, raising one hand to hush me.
The other? He slid it down over the front of his pants, palming the thick length behind his zipper like it was a fucking threat.
I froze.
Not from fear. From rage. And some sick, confusing flicker of heat that I refused to acknowledge. My clit pulsed like it wanted to humiliate me, but I shut that bitch down instantly.
I turned away and looked out the window, jaw locked. He wasn't worth my breath.
He strolled toward my desk, as casually as if he lived here—which, unfortunately, he sort of did.
"As for what I came for," he said, placing something onto the table with a soft thud, "just letting you know I'm getting a little of what I want today."
I glanced over. My blood turned ice.
The photo.
The goddamn photo.
The one when I was jumping over the dance back home.
That fucker.
"Jesus," I muttered under my breath. "Eve better bring her ass here today or I'm fucking dead."
Dante didn't say anything else. He just stood, observing the scene like a psycho director surveying his next bloody masterpiece. His eyes danced between the open window, the dress, the photo, and me.
Then—finally—he stepped out.
The door clicked shut.
I exhaled like I'd been drowning.
I was about to lose it when something caught my eye outside the window. Movement at the gates.
Two black limos, crawling up the driveway like shadows. One with the English flag.
My heart slammed in my chest.
Then a second limo. Spanish flag.
I sat up straighter.
That was the sign. That was the moment. Evangeline had promised—the day her mother arrived back here, she'd sneak in. And tonight, when the house was distracted with wine and words, I'd be gone.
Gone before my father laid a single filthy finger on me.
Gone before Dante could come back with whatever twisted revenge he had brewing behind those eyes.
Gone before I became a damn prisoner in a silk cage.
I stood slowly, crossing to the window.
"It's time," I whispered.