Isabella
My heart nearly exploded in my chest.
Arms locked around me, tight and unyielding, pinning me so I couldn't scream or fight.
Oh God. Oh fuck. Am I about to be raped? Did my father do this? Is this Evangeline pulling some twisted prank? Or—
"I'm gonna let you go," the voice rasped. "If you scream, I'll kill you."
I nodded, trembling.
The hand fell away.
And then I saw him.
Clearly.
The stranger from the club. The blackmailer.
He stepped into the moonlight pouring from my window, and this time I could take in every wicked inch of him.
Raven-black hair, tousled like he ran his hands through it in frustration or lust. Icy grey eyes, sharp enough to slice through fabric. Full lips twisted in a half-smirk, half-threat.
And his body—lean, built, tense like a predator ready to strike.
"What do you want?" I stammered.
He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. "Now?" His voice was low. Sin dipped in silk.
Before I could move, he shoved me against the wall.
His body pressed into mine.
I froze.
His cock—hard and heavy—pressed right against my cunt. Thank God we were still clothed. But my body betrayed me. A heat pooled low in my belly. No. Fuck no. Not him. Not now.
He leaned in, breath brushing my ear. "You've been dreaming about me, haven't you?"
"Fuck you."
I turned my face away. His lips chased mine. I jerked my head left, then right, but he caught me. His hand snapped to my jaw, holding me still.
His other hand slithered beneath my thin nightdress.
And I gasped.
"You're wet already?" he whispered, voice dripping with smug filth. "Jesus… Look at those green eyes. You want it, don't you, princess?"
I didn't answer. I couldn't.
His fingers didn't go inside me—he hovered close, teasing.
Then, without breaking eye contact, he slid his fingers from my inner thigh… lifted them to his mouth…
And licked them.
Motherfucker.
"Now," he whispered, reaching for his zipper, "for what I want…"
A sound.
The lock clicking.
I turned toward the door—and when I looked back…
He was gone.
Like a ghost.
My heart pounded in my ears as I stumbled to bed, yanking the covers up. My father entered, glanced around the room.
Silent.
Cold.
Suspicious.
But he said nothing. Just turned, stepped out, and locked the door again behind him.
I didn't sleep that night.
Not really.
I lay there with one eye open, clutching a pillow like it could protect me from that shadow with the grey eyes and filthy mouth.
I didn't know who he was.
I didn't know what he wanted.
But I knew this:
He'd be back.
It had been three days since my world was spun into chains.
I wore a white dress—not flashy, but sleek and tasteful, the kind of elegance that didn't beg for attention. The kind that whispered class and power instead of screaming for it.
I stood near the fireplace, the heat barely warming the ice lodged in my chest. Evangeline stood beside me, her arms folded. Her face said she was ready to set someone on fire if I gave the word.
We weren't alone.
Father and Aunt Catalina were in the sitting room, but their voices cut through the house like knives—too loud, too sharp to be contained by walls.
"Antonio! There is no way in hell Isabella is getting married. Not on my fucking watch."
"And who the fuck are you to stop me?"
"Oh, you wanna go down that road, bastard? For starters—I'm the Prime Minister of England, and you're just a fucking Spanish governor. My sister took her English ass and married your Spanish dick just to get herself killed by your society of devils."
"It was a suicide."
"No, damn it. The police may be dumb, but I'm not. And I'll be damned before I let my niece marry into that fucked-up bloodline against her will."
I held my breath, fingers clenched behind my back. My heart thundered louder than the fire cracking beside me.
"Catalina Roberts—"
"Don't you fucking dare call me by my father's name."
Her voice cracked like a whip.
Silence followed.
Father froze.
If there was one human being on this earth that terrified him—it was her. Aunt Catalina. Prime Minister. Raging lioness. The woman who once slapped a
Saudi prince in public and got away with it.
"Listen Mrs Williams-"
The rest of his sentence faded to dust.
His voice had dropped. His pride tucked itself away. Whatever he said after that, it wasn't meant for our ears.
"I DON'T CARE!" Aunt Cat's voice roared again. "Fuck yourself."
"You have to understand the problem here."
"And what is that problem?" Her voice was quieter now, but deadly still.
A pause.
Then my father spoke again—too low to make out. But I watched her shoulders stiffen. Her lips thinned.
Something had changed.
Whatever he whispered turned the tide.
"It's time, sir," the security guard said from the door.
Aunt Catalina stood without a word, clutching her purse like a weapon. She adjusted her blazer with a grace that said she'd burn the world in heels if she had to. Evangeline and I followed, my father falling in behind us like a shadow that refused to vanish.
The flight to Italy was long—painfully so. The sky outside was breathtaking, but the air between us in the cabin was thick with silence, fear, and fury. No one smiled. No one spoke. We weren't flying toward beauty—we were flying into a war.
When we landed, I expected elegance. What I didn't expect was this.
The D'Angelo estate was a fucking monument. Towering and draped in luxury, it loomed like a palace carved from ancient secrets. Marble staircases. Golden door handles. Velvet drapes. The kind of place where sins were committed in satin sheets and washed away with hundred-year-old wine.
We didn't greet it.
We didn't bow.
We sat in the oversized living room like prisoners waiting for execution. Everything screamed wealth—monarch-level wealth—but it felt cold, sterile. Like beauty without a soul.
For thirty goddamn minutes, we waited.
Silence. Glances. Impatience.
Then—
Footsteps echoed.
Three men entered.
Not just entered—claimed the room. Like gods descending from Olympus. Like devils returning home.
The one in front was older, graying, his presence sharp and suffocating. The father, no doubt.
The two behind him—young, dangerous, and cruelly beautiful. Men who probably never heard the word no without killing whoever said it. Their suits were tailored within an inch of their lives. Confidence rolled off them in waves. Eyes like razors. Mouths built to destroy.
And then—
It hit me.