4

Isabella Leonardo:

The lights were too bright.

White ceiling. Beeping machines. The faint scent of antiseptic.

My body ached—my side, especially—but I was alive.

I blinked slowly, trying to remember how I got here. The rain. The street. The knife.

Oh God.

I sat up too fast, wincing at the pull of pain. A soft gasp escaped my lips.

Just then, the door creaked open. A nurse peeked in and her eyes widened.

“Oh, you’re awake! Thank God,” she said, walking quickly to my side. “You’ve been out for almost a day.”

I tried to speak, but my throat was dry.

“You were brought in last night,” she explained gently, checking the IV in my arm. “Someone found you bleeding on the roadside and rushed you here. They didn’t leave a name, just dropped you off and disappeared.”

My brows furrowed. Someone…?

She smiled kindly. “You’re lucky. If it had been a few minutes later, we might have lost you.”

Lucky.

Yeah, right.

I looked down at the bandage wrapped tightly around my side, the pain dull but persistent. My gaze shifted to the empty chair near the bed—no visitors, no flowers, not even a message.

“Can I have some water? I’m so dehydrated…” I croaked, voice barely above a whisper.

The nurse nodded gently. “I’ll be right back.”

As the door clicked shut, silence wrapped around me like a heavy blanket. I could still hear the rain in my head, see the glint of the knife, feel the sharp burn in my side. I blinked hard, willing the tears not to fall.

When the nurse returned, I took the water with shaky hands. Cold, blessed relief on my dry lips. I looked up at her.

“I… I need to make a call. Please. My phone was stolen.”

She hesitated, then nodded and handed me the hospital’s phone.

I stared at the numbers, hands trembling. I didn’t have anyone. No friends. No one here. But I remembered one number.

I dialed.

The phone rang once. Twice. Three times.

Then, finally, her voice.

“Who is this?”

“It’s me… Isabella.”

A beat of silence.

“What are you calling me for?” Her tone was flat, annoyed.

I swallowed. “I was robbed. They took everything—my bag, my phone, my money. I was stabbed. I’m in the hospital and… I haven’t paid the bills. I don’t know what to do.”

She let out a sharp sigh. “And what exactly do you want me to do about that?”

“Help. Just… a little help. Please, Mom.”

“You’ve always been a burden. Figure it out,” she snapped, and the line went dead.

I stood there, frozen. My hand lowered slowly, the dial tone still ringing in my ears. I dialed again.

Voicemail.

Again.

Voicemail.

Tears slipped down my cheeks. My body ached, but this—this ache was worse. Abandonment burned deeper than any knife ever could.

I leaned on the desk for support. My voice came out in a whisper. “What now? What do I do now?”

The answer came to me like a flicker in the dark.

Christopher.

I stared at the phone. Every inch of pride told me not to. But desperation was louder.

I dialed his number.

One ring.

Two.

He answered.

“Hi… it’s Isabella.”

Silence.

“What do you want?” Cold. Controlled.

“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to call, but…” My voice cracked. “I was robbed. Everything’s gone—my phone, my bag, my cards. I was stabbed too. I’m in the hospital and I… I don’t know what to do.”

There was a long silence on the other end. Just his breathing.

Then finally—“Where are you?”

I looked at the nurse walking by. “Ma’am, what’s the name of this hospital?”

“St. Matthew Hospital,” she replied, giving me a kind smile I didn’t deserve.

I whispered it into the phone.

Another pause. Then a sharp exhale.

“I’ll send someone. Wait there.” Click.

The line went dead.

He didn’t ask if I was okay.

Didn’t ask if I was in pain.

Didn’t even say goodbye.

Still, I curled into the pillow, a wave of shame hitting me like the rain had hours ago. I hated this—needing him. Needing anyone. But when you’ve got no one left, even the person who once broke you becomes a lifeline.

An hour later, an old black car pulled into the hospital lot. A man in his late fifties stepped out, polite but distant. “Miss Isabella?”

I nodded.

“Let’s go. Everything’s been handled.”

I followed silently, clutching the loose hospital gown around me. The ride was quiet. Just the hum of the engine and the weight of my thoughts pressing into my chest.

By the time we pulled into the driveway of the mansion, the sun was beginning to set.

My heart dropped at the sight.

I didn’t belong here.

Not anymore.

Just one night. Then I’m gone.

Before I could knock, the doors opened—and a high-pitched voice pierced the air.

“Daddy!”

A little girl barreled into Christopher’s arms, laughing.

He caught her effortlessly, spinning her around.

And for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.

Everything about the scene—the warmth, the ease—felt like a punch to the gut.

He looked up and saw me. His eyes didn’t widen. No expression of shock or pity. Just that unreadable look he always wore when he was holding something back.

“Hi,” I said, stiff.

“Hi.”

He turned to the maid nearby. “Maria, take her to the guest room. The one beside mine.”

“Yes, sir.”

“This way, ma’am,” the maid said.

I followed, saying a quiet, “Thank you…” that barely made it past my lips.

“Daddy, who is she?” the little girl asked, looking at me with wide, curious eyes.

“She’s Aunty Isabella,” he said simply. “My step-sister. She’s staying with us for a while.”

I flinched at the label, but I forced a smile. “Sorry for the trouble.”

I turned away before my voice could betray me.

But as I glanced back one last time, I caught his eyes again.

And there it was—that look.

Smug. Knowing. Like he still had a hold on me.

And God help me, maybe he did.