A small, fractured laugh escapes me. "I haven't even told Cristian."
"Good," she mutters. "He doesn't deserve a warning."
Lawyer's Office — Later That Day
The room is still and lined at the walls with thick books on shelves. My hand starts shaking while holding the pen. The attorney speaks nicely. "Mrs. Valasco, are you positive you wouldn't like to reconsider?"
"My name is Isabella," I correct him softly. "Just Isabella." I sign the divorce papers. It feels like ripping a bandage off a wound that never got the chance to heal. Luna squeezes my shoulder.
"I'm proud of you." The lawyer straightens up the documents neatly. "These are ready. Return home, gather your essential belongings, and when you're ready, you may hand the papers to Mr. Valasco." The very thought of facing Cristian spikes my pulse. Of seeing the disappointment in his eyes. Not because I'm leaving…but because he'll think I am disobeying him, and he didn't get the chance to do it before me, chance to humiliate me. The lawyer hands me a brown folder. Within—
my escape, my ending, my beginning. "You may give them to your husband whenever you choose," he says. Husband! I clench the papers tightly in my good hand. Something inside me shifts, a last line-break. One last breath, "It's over," I whisper.
The world outside the hospital is colder than I remember. Maybe it's because I'm still wrapped in white gauze-around my head, my wrist, my ribs. Maybe it's because the bruises on my skin pulse every time my heart beats. Or maybe it's just because I'm carrying something far heavier than my injuries.
Divorce papers, or my escape…my ending…my failure.
Luna walks beside me with that fierce protective energy she always has, holding my arm carefully so I don't stumble.
"You sure you don't want me to go with you to the house?" she asks.
"No," I say softly. "I need to face him alone." She bites her lip and nods, though she manifestly hates the idea. Luna walks me out, hugging me one last time before she leaves for work. "Call me," she says. "Even if it's 3 a.m. I'll show up with a baseball bat." A tiny smile pulls on my lips. "I know." Her exit leaves the street too quiet. Or perhaps… too loud. Cars honk in quick spurts. People are passing by without looking at me. I feel invisible, just a ghost wandering through a world that never took any notice of my existence. With the divorce papers pressed against my chest, I commence a brisk walk towards the bus stop.
Then—
A shiver runs down my spine. Somebody is watching me, I don't know how I know, I just know. My steps slow, I look behind me—nothing. Just an empty stretch of road. I let out a shaking breath. "You are overthinking."
But the oppressive sensation doesn't go away. Instead, it grows sharper. A black car rounds the corner—sleek, tinted windows, the kind that doesn't belong in this neighborhood. It slows down, too slow., too deliberate. My heartbeat scratches against my ribs. Not again, not now, please,
"I didn't even give the divorce papers to my respected cheater husband." I whisper.
I take a step back. Then two, the back door bursts open. A man—tall, muscular, tattooed—steps out. His hair is tied back, his jaw sharp, his gaze colder than steel. "Target spotted," he mutters into his earpiece. His accent is thick—Italian, maybe? "Proceeding." My blood freezes, he walks toward me with the confidence of someone who never hears no. "W–Who are you?" I whisper. He doesn't answer. Answer or I'll smack u hard. Another man exits the car—leaner but just as intimidating. A scar crosses his eyebrow, giving him a permanently cruel expression.
"Aidan, grab her," Scar-eyebrow says. "We are running late." Aidan.
I turn and run. But I'm weakened, bandaged, barely recovered, my legs stumble, my vision blurs. I don't make it far. Arms wrap around me from behind, unyielding, vice-like.
"Let me go u Moron!" I yell, kicking futilely. "Stop moving," Aidan growls in accented English. "You'll hurt yourself, bambina."
"I don't care, Idiot!"
"Well, I do," he snaps. "We need you alive." Alive?. Alive for what?
"Tie her," says Ivan-the-scarred-one, giving orders. My head goes under a cloth bag, my wrists are tied, my scream is muffled. My heart slams against my ribs, panicked and fast, as if it's trying to get out, cars pass by, people walk down sidewalks— yet nobody sees. Nobody helps, of course, I'm invisible, I always have been.
(Elsewhere — Veronica, Third person's POV)
She struggles like a cornered cat when they seize her. But it doesn't matter. She is dragged into another car, her screams echoing down the street. For the first time in her life, her gesture of fragility isn't enough to save her.
(Isabella)
It's totally dark inside the bag. Heavy, suffocating warm air fills my lungs. My ribs ache with every inhale.
"Why are you doing this?" I choke out. "I—I don't have money—" Ivan snorts. "We don't want your money." "Then what?" He leans back in the seat beside me. I can feel him in the weight of his gaze.
"Ask your husband," he says.
"My what—Cristian?" My voice cracks.
"Yes. The CEO Of Valasco Industry." Ivan laughs darkly. "That bastard."
My stomach twists, It's always him. It's always him, even when it's not.
"What does Cristian have to do with—"
"You'll see soon," Aidan cuts in. "Just shut up and don't piss me off." I swallow hard. The car drives for what feels like forever, every bump sending pain through my bruises. At some point, someone removes the hood—only for a moment—to move me, and I catch a glimpse through the window. An iron gate, high walls. armed guards. This isn't kidnapping, this is a fortress. The hood goes back on and I'm dragged out. My feet barely touch the ground as they lead me across concrete, then inside a building. Cold air conditioning hits my skin. The air is heavy with the scent of expensive cologne and gun oil. I stumble, but Aidan readjusts his hold so I don't fall flat on my face.
"Watch her," Ivan mutters. "Boss won't be happy if she's scratched up." Boss, who's that boss? The word sends fear and respect, my stomach churns. God! Why I can't just live a normal life for a day?
The sudden light blinds me. I blink rapidly, until the room materializes into focus. It's huge, marble floors, black stone pillars, accents in gold, dark velvet curtains. Italian architecture, old-world wealth mixed with modern danger, my breath catches. And then I see her.
Veronica. Oh no! even my kidnapper wants her too.
She's tied to another chair, across the room from him, mascara smudged, eyes wide. "K-Isabella!" she wails. "They took us! They—"
I ignore her, bitch. For once, her panicked theatrics don't matter. My gaze rests on the man entering the room behind her. Everything inside me freezes.
Fuck!!!!!!!
(To be continued...…..)