Chapter 2 So Pathetic

Isabella’s POV

My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat pumping molten fury through my veins. How dare he stand there? How dare he breathe the same air after what he'd done?

The realization hit like a physical blow—two years of whispered promises, two years of stolen moments, all while he'd been playing house with Giana. My nails bit into my palms as I forced myself to walk past him. For Giana's sake, I wouldn't make a scene.

Damon grabbed my wrist, that familiar touch now setting my skin on fire. "Belly—"

"Don't." I shoved him back, my voice trembling with barely contained rage. "You lost the right to call me that."

He stepped closer, the scent of his cologne—the one I'd bought him last Christmas—making my stomach churn. "Just let me explain."

"Oh, please." A bitter laugh escaped me. "Let me guess—this was all some elaborate rehearsal? Giana's just your stand-in until the real proposal?"

His jaw tightened. "Don't be cruel. You know I don't want this, but I need her family's money." His voice dropped to that intimate whisper I used to melt for. "You're the one I love. This is for us."

For us?

Revulsion crawled over my skin like a swarm of insects. He'd shared her bed for two years, then come home to mine. Had he compared us? Had he laughed about it with his friends?

"You don't get to use that word," I spat. "There is no 'us.' There's just you—a lying, greedy coward who sold himself."

The truth hung between us, rancid and undeniable. Every tender moment we'd shared was now tainted, every "I love you" exposed as currency in his transaction.

"Don't you dare use me as your excuse!" My voice trembled with barely restrained fury as I tore away the last shred of his pathetic justification. "This was never about 'us' - it's always been about you and your selfishness!"

The memory of that moment burned fresh—his hands shoving me aside, choosing her safety over mine. "If this is your idea of love, then a stray mutt shows more devotion by licking its wounds alone!"

His gaze dropped, "I... couldn't let Giana suspect—"

"But my feelings were disposable?" I laughed bitterly, the sound sharp as broken glass. "Did you think because I have no family, no power, I'd just accept whatever scraps you threw me?"

The fleeting shock in his eyes confirmed everything. Something inside me shattered irreparably. Five years. Five years wasted on a man who saw me as nothing more than a pet—expected to heel when called, to suffer silently when discarded.

"Get out of my way, Damon." My voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "Unless you want your precious engagement party to become a scandal they'll gossip about for years."

His fingers clamped around my wrist like a vise. "You won't," he hissed, that familiar arrogance resurfacing. "You'd never hurt Giana. And you still love me, Belly. However angry you are, we both know—"

A dry, sarcastic laugh escaped my lips.

"You're the only woman I want," he whispered, his breath warm against my ear—the same lips that had kissed Giana's fingers while slipping on her ring. "Remember our plans? Three children. That villa by the sea. Traveling the world once they're grown..."

Each word was a knife twisting deeper. I could still see us sprawled on his dorm room floor, sketching those dreams on napkins, his laughter mingling with mine. But fantasies crumbled under the weight of his betrayal.

"If you wanted that future," my voice cracked, "why break us to pieces to get it?"

He mistook my tears for softening. "It's temporary," he urged, grasping my hands. "I don't love Giana, but her family's empire can fund everything we dreamed. Two years—just give me two years to secure it all, then I'll—"

The slap echoed before I realized I'd moved.

"You think I'd celebrate becoming the other woman?" My palm stung, but not half as much as my heart. "That I'd let you destroy her life for a villa and passport stamps?"

"It's business!" he snapped, rubbing his cheek. "She'll recover—she has money, connections—"

Another slap. This time, my fingers trembled. The man before me wasn't the boy I'd loved—just a stranger wearing his face. "I didn't fall for a coward who trades hearts for stock portfolios."

He reached for me. "Belly, I can't lose y—"

"Don't." I recoiled, the scent of his cologne—once comforting—now churning my stomach. "You lost me the second you chose money over loyalty."

Wiping my tears with the back of my hand, I met his gaze without flinching. "We're done. If you ever cared, you'll let me walk away and never look back."

"The hell you will!" His control shattered. In one violent motion, he slammed me against the wall, his fingers digging into my arms like manacles. "You don't get to walk away," he growled, his breath hot and frantic against my skin. "You've always been mine. You'll always be mine."

I twisted, but his body pinned me mercilessly. His lips scraped my cheek, seeking my mouth with a desperation that turned my stomach—until Giana's voice cut through the darkness.

"Damon? Honey?"

Like flipping a switch, he released me, stepping back with smooth composure. When he turned to her, his face had transformed into gentle concern. "Just checking on Isabella, love. The surprise overwhelmed her—you know how emotional she gets about her friends' happiness."

Each polished lie carved another piece from my soul. The whiplash of his duality left me breathless—monster to prince in the blink of an eye. My throat locked around the truth as Giana's warm gaze found mine.

"Belly, you're pale." She reached for me, oblivious to the fingerprints blooming on my wrists. "Let Damon take you home—"

"No." The word tore from me, raw as an open wound. The thought of being trapped in a car with him made my pulse riot.

Damon tucked her against his side with practiced ease. "Darling, our parents are waiting to discuss the floral arrangements." His thumb stroked her shoulder—the same hand that had bruised me moments ago. "I'll have Charles drive her."

I didn't wait to hear more. Pushing past them, I fled into the night, rejecting the arranged car with a sharp shake of my head. I had myself an Uber.

The moment the car door closed, the dam broke. Sobs wracked my body as I curled into myself, hot tears soaking my dress. The pain was physical—like someone had reached into my chest and ripped my heart out with bare hands. I needed oblivion. Now.

The bartender took one look at my heartbroken face and trembling hands before sliding over a glass of amber liquid without comment. I downed it in one burning gulp, welcoming the fire—until the opening chords of that song floated through the speakers.

Of course. Of fucking course.

A spotlight illuminated a couple near the stage, the man kneeling with a velvet box. The crowd's collective "Aww" turned my stomach. I watched through the bottom of my glass as he mouthed the same empty promises Damon had whispered against my skin just last night.

"Men," I slurred to no one, tracing the rim of my glass. "All poets until they get what they want."

The room tilted as I shoved off the stool. Before I realized what I was doing, I'd climbed onto the DJ's platform. "Enough with the romance crap!" My voice echoed through suddenly silent speakers. "Play something that doesn't make me want to vomit!"

A sea of shocked faces blinked up at me. Then a meaty hand clamped my waist. "Someone's feisty," a beer-breath voice leered. The stench of cheap liquor hit me like a slap—rotten hops and bad decisions.

Reality came crashing back. Even at rock bottom, I refused to be some drunk's consolation prize.

"Touch me again," I said, sweet as poison, "and you'll lose your ass."

The drunk's grip tightened painfully on my waist. "Don't be like that, sweetheart," he slurred, his whiskey-sour breath washing over me as his other hand descended toward my backside. "Let me show you a good—"

"I said DON'T! You asshole!" I shoved at his chest, but my drunken movements lacked force. His face twisted in anger as he raised a meaty fist—only to have it caught mid-air by a powerful, tanned hand.

"The lady declined." The voice was deep, calm, and utterly lethal.

I blinked up at my unexpected savior, and for the first time that night, my breath caught for an entirely different reason.

He stood like a fallen angel carved from marble—towering over six feet with shoulders that blocked out the neon bar lights. His tailored black shirt stretched taut over a warrior's physique, every muscle defined as if chiseled by the gods themselves. The air around him crackled with dangerous energy, silencing the room with just his presence.

"Who the f—" The drunk's bloodshot eyes focused, then widened in terror. "M-Mr. Moretti! I didn't—I wasn't—"

"Leave." A single word, delivered with quiet finality. "Now."

I barely registered the drunk scrambling away. All I could see were those glacial blue eyes locking onto mine—eyes that held storms and secrets and something that sent electric currents straight to my core.

Moretti. The name resonated through me like a struck bell. Dangerous. Powerful. And currently studying me with an intensity that made my pulse stutter.

Who was this man who commanded rooms with just a glance? And why did every instinct in my body scream for his attention?!