For the first time in months, Isabella allowed herself hope.
It came quietly, almost shyly, while she sat on the edge of her narrow bed, the scholarship letter unfolded in her hands for the hundredth time. The paper was worn now, creased at the corners, but the words were still there—unchanged, undeniable.
A full scholarship.
Tuition covered.
On-campus accommodation available.
Italy.
Campus.
A place that was not exile.
"If I can live on campus," she murmured to herself, "we wouldn't need to worry so much."
Lucia looked up from the small stove where she stirred soup. "What do you mean, cara?"
Isabella stood, her voice gaining strength as she spoke. "The scholarship includes housing. If I go back to Italy, I can live on campus. It won't cost us anything. I can work part-time. I'll send money home."
Marcello frowned. "After everything they've done, you still want to return?"
"I need to," Isabella said softly. "That place… it's my future. And it's legal. A student visa. They can't deny that."
Andrea smiled for the first time in days. "You'd finally be somewhere safe."
Isabella nodded.
Safe.
And—though she didn't say it aloud—closer to him.
---
She applied that night.
Forms filled carefully. Documents scanned. Letters attached. She triple-checked every detail, every signature.
When she pressed Submit, her hands trembled.
A confirmation email arrived minutes later.
Application received. Processing time: 7–10 business days.
Isabella let out a breath she felt she'd been holding for months.
---
For the first time since exile, she dreamed without fear.
She dreamed of stone buildings covered in ivy. Of lecture halls filled with light. Of walking across campus with books pressed to her chest, her hair loose, her steps unburdened.
She dreamed of running into someone unexpectedly.
A uniform.
A familiar smile.
She woke with tears on her cheeks—but they were different this time.
They were hopeful.
---
Day three passed.
Then day five.
On day seven, Isabella refreshed her email every hour.
Nothing.
On day ten, she received a message.
Please attend an in-person verification appointment at the Italian Consular Office.
Her heart raced.
Verification meant progress.
---
The consular office was cold and impersonal, its walls bare, its chairs bolted to the floor.
Isabella sat upright, documents clutched neatly in her folder.
When her name was called, she stepped forward.
The man behind the desk barely looked at her.
"Miss Isabella Rossi," he read. "Scholarship recipient."
"Yes," she said quickly. "I'm here about campus accommodation."
He typed for a long moment.
Then stopped.
His expression changed—subtle, but unmistakable.
"I'm afraid there's a problem."
Her stomach dropped. "What kind of problem?"
He turned the screen slightly, just enough for her to see lines of red text stamped across her file.
HOUSING ELIGIBILITY: REVOKED.
STUDENT STATUS: UNDER REVIEW.
"I don't understand," Isabella said. "My scholarship was approved. Everything was complete."
He folded his hands. "There have been… updates."
"From who?"
He hesitated.
"That information isn't available to me."
---
Her voice shook. "So I can't live on campus?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Then where am I supposed to stay?"
He shrugged, uncomfortable. "Private accommodation."
"I can't afford that," she whispered.
He avoided her eyes. "Then perhaps you should reconsider your plans."
---
Isabella walked out of the building in a daze.
The sky felt too wide. The street too loud.
She sat on the steps outside and stared at her phone.
The scholarship still existed.
But without housing—
Without stability—
It was useless.
---
Otilla D'Este signed the final authorization with steady hands.
She had anticipated this move.
Isabella was predictable when desperate—bright, resilient, hopeful.
Dangerous.
That could not be allowed.
She closed the file labeled ROSSI — STUDENT ACCESS and slid it into the locked drawer.
"Education shapes rebels," Otilla said to no one. "And rebels inspire others."
She pressed the intercom. "Ensure all future appeals are… delayed."
"Yes, General," came the reply.
---
That evening, Isabella told her family.
Lucia's shoulders sagged. "They took that too?"
Marcello's jaw tightened. "This isn't bureaucracy. This is personal."
Andrea kicked the wall. "She's doing this. That woman."
Isabella sank onto the bed.
"I really thought," she said quietly, "that maybe this time…"
Her voice broke.
Lucia held her, rocking gently. "You did nothing wrong."
But Isabella knew the truth.
She had dared to hope.
And Otilla D'Este had noticed.
---
That night, Isabella opened the small box she had kept hidden at the bottom of her suitcase.
The smartphone.
The number.
She hadn't called it in weeks—fear and silence had wrapped around her like chains.
But now?
Now she had nothing left to lose.
Her fingers hovered over the screen.
Then—
No Service.
She laughed bitterly.
Even this.
---
Far away, Xavier stood in a dim corridor, reading a classified memo he was never meant to see.
SUBJECT: ROSSI, ISABELLA
STATUS: EDUCATIONAL ACCESS RESTRICTED
His chest tightened.
"They won't stop," he muttered.
And for the first time, he understood fully—
Otilla wasn't just removing obstacles.
She was erasing futures.
---
Isabella lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling.
Campus life.
Italy.
Normalcy.
All gone.
But beneath the grief, something else stirred.
Not despair.
Resolve.
"If she thinks this ends me," Isabella whispered into the darkness, "she's wrong."
Otilla had closed another door.
But Isabella Rossi was done waiting for doors to open.
And somewhere, in the same hour, Xavier made a decision that would change everything.
The war was no longer distant.
It was personal now.