Chapter Five: The Mask Slips

Isabella's POV

Her father.

Her father had sold her as a shield, a bargaining chip, a bridge between empires. And Damian Moretti hadn’t married her to unite families or even to strengthen his empire. No—he had married her as a blade. A weapon aimed at Antonio Russo’s heart.

And she was the perfect delivery system.

Her hands trembled. Inside the ballroom, a toast erupted, guests laughing as champagne frothed over crystal rims. They thought they were celebrating a union, a new era. But out here, Isabella knew the truth: they were celebrating the beginning of the end.

She pressed her lips together, swallowing the bile that rose in her throat.

Footsteps echoed from inside—the faint shuffle of servers, the murmur of another group approaching the balcony. Damian ended the call, sliding the phone into his pocket with a predator’s ease. His gaze shifted toward the doorway.

Panic surged in her chest. She had seconds—seconds to decide whether to confront him now, to throw his words in his face, demand the truth while her blood was still burning.

Or—

Play the part.

The ignorant bride, the pretty pawn, blind to the war she had just stepped into.

Her pulse thundered as his footsteps drew closer, each one deliberate, heavy with the kind of certainty that came from power. Isabella forced her shoulders back, smoothed her expression, and turned as though she had only stepped out for air.

Damian emerged from the shadows, his eyes catching hers. Cold, assessing, yet curious. Always curious.

“You slipped away,” she said, her voice steady despite the storm inside her. “Should I be jealous of who you called?”

The faintest curve touched his lips, humorless but sharp. “Business never sleeps.”

Neither do monsters, she thought. But she smiled, tilting her head like a woman pretending she didn’t just hear her husband swear vengeance on her blood.

He stepped closer, his cologne curling through the air—woodsmoke, spice, danger. His gaze lingered on her face a moment too long, as if weighing what he saw there.

“You shouldn’t be alone out here,” he murmured, his voice low, dangerous in its gentleness. “People will talk.”

Isabella’s throat tightened, but she lifted her chin. “Then let them.”

For a beat, the night seemed to still around them—the music inside muffled, the city beyond glittering, two enemies bound in gold rings and lies.

She wanted to scream the truth at him, to spit her fury into his face. But she knew if she did, she would lose everything—her safety, her leverage, her only chance to survive this cage.

So instead, Isabella slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, every nerve in her body sparking at the contact. She smiled, her mask flawless, even as the war drums pounded in her chest.

“Come, husband,” she said softly. “Our guests will miss us.”

He studied her again, eyes sharp as glass, but finally inclined his head. Together they stepped back into the blaze of chandeliers and champagne.

The ballroom swallowed them whole. Conversations faltered as heads turned, eyes following them with envy, curiosity, fear. Damian raised a hand in acknowledgment, the faintest smile tugging his mouth, and the crowd responded as if their king had granted them favor.

Beside him, Isabella kept her smile fixed. But she could feel the weight of eyes on her, probing, assessing, searching for cracks. She forced herself to glide through the room like silk, every gesture measured, every look deliberate. Already the mask was molding to her skin.

Antonio Russo’s gaze found her from across the hall, sharp even through the haze of wine. He lifted his glass toward her in a father’s toast, lips curving into a smile that did not reach his eyes. Her chest tightened, rage and grief coiling together. He thought she was secure now, tethered, the leash shortened by marriage. He didn’t see the noose tightening above his own head.

Damian leaned closer, his mouth brushing the edge of her hair. To anyone watching, it was intimate, affectionate. Only Isabella felt the warning behind it.

“Careful, bella,” he whispered, his voice silk over steel. “This world eats the weak. Don’t give them anything to chew on.”

Her breath hitched, but she tilted her head, smiling as though he had whispered sweet nothing. “Don’t worry,” she murmured. “I’ve always had sharp teeth.”

His hand flexed against her back. For a heartbeat, silence roared between them, louder than the music, heavier than the laughter. Then he let it go, guiding her forward again with the poise of a man who never lost control.

Only Isabella knew that when the doors closed behind them, she was no longer just a bride.

Her mask had already begun to slip—not for Damian, not for her father, but for herself.

Beneath the lace and diamonds, she finally saw what she truly was: not a pawn, not a prize.

She was a battlefield.