Chapter 4 Taste of Betrayal

Isabella’s POV

Morning light lanced through my skull as I staggered from the Uber, each ray like a white-hot needle behind my eyes. The throbbing in my temples came equal parts from last night's vodka and today's devastating reality check.

Twenty-four fucking hours.

That's all it took to detonate my life.

First, Damon—five years of promises and plans—dropping to one knee for Giana while I stood there like a discarded toy. Then, drowning my humiliation in bottom-shelf martinis until a dangerous stranger with ice-blue eyes became my terrible decision. Now my skin still carried the memory of his hands, my muscles ached in deliciously shameful places, and my dress smelled like expensive sin and regret.

And Alan—sweet, brave Alan—leaving that voicemail that shattered what was left of my heart: "Hey Belly... stage two. But I'm tough, yeah? Don't you worry."

The lie burned worse than the liquor. I knew exactly what the treatment cost was. Knew the orphanage's meager funds would vanish faster than Damon's loyalty.

Which explained why I'd slipped from Moretti's thousand-thread-count sheets at dawn. Every penny I'd scraped together for grad school would now buy something far more precious—Alan's chance.

I shoved open the door to our rundown apartment, the familiar scent of stale coffee and lemon cleaner hitting me. My roommate, Melinda, peeked out from the kitchen, her eyes widening.

"Bella! God! You're finally back today—" Her eyes dropped to my wrinkled dress, the bite mark peeking above my collar. "Oh my!"

I'd chosen this cramped apartment precisely because it was all I could afford on my own. The day I turned eighteen, I walked out of the Sanchez mansion with nothing but my pride and a determination to stand on my own two feet. No more Sanchez handouts. No more blurred lines between love and financial dependence.

Melinda had become my roommate out of necessity six months ago, though we'd barely shared more than a handful of nights under the same roof—Damon had always whisked me away to his apartment, his voice honeyed with promises of "our place" if I'd just give up my lease.

Thank God I had kept my name on that lease.

"Just grabbing some things," I muttered to Melinda, brushing past her toward my room. She shifted uncomfortably. "Isabella, wait—Damon's here. He's been—"

My blood turned to arctic sludge.

Of all the arrogant, hypocritical—after his betrayal, after last night—he dared to plant himself in my home? The bedroom door swung open before I could turn the knob.

There he stood, having swapped his engagement-party tux for the soft cotton shirt I'd painstakingly picked out last February—the one he'd claimed to love because it "smelled like me." The sentimental bastard actually thought that would work now?

"Where the hell were you?" The demand cracked through the apartment like a whip.

I strode past him without breaking pace. Alan needed me. I wouldn't waste another second on this—

"Isabella!" His fingers clamped around my bicep, spinning me roughly. "Answer me! You didn't come home last night!"

A bitter laugh escaped me. "Funny," I said, shaking free of his grip, "I seem to recall you forfeiting all boyfriend privileges when you put a ring on Giana's finger."

His jaw twitched, that telltale tic he could never control when anger simmered beneath his polished surface. "It's a temporary arrangement, Bella. You're the only one I want."

A hollow laugh tore from my throat. "How fortunate—because you're the last man I'd ever want again."

Damon's gaze turned predatory as it swept over my disheveled appearance—the wrinkled dress, the marks barely hidden by my collar, the lingering trace of Matteo's bergamot and sandalwood cologne. His nostrils flared. "So this is your revenge? Spreading your legs for—"

CRACK.

My palm struck his cheek with enough force to send a shockwave up my arm. The sound reverberated off the walls like a champagne cork popping on New Year's Eve.

Silence. Deadly silence.

Damon slowly turned his head back, the red imprint of my hand stark against his golden skin. When he spoke, each word dripped with venom. "You'll pay for that."

In three heartbeats, he had me pinned against the wall, his fingers digging into my arms hard enough to bruise. My ribs protested as the impact knocked the air from my lungs.

"You think some nameless bastard can fuck me out of your system?" His breath scalded my lips, whiskey and rage. "Every inch of you belongs to me. Those moans? Those shivers? They're mine. They'll always be—"

"Go to hell!" I twisted violently, my nails scraping his wrists. "You threw us away when you—"

His mouth crushed mine in a kiss that was all punishment—no tenderness, only possession. The Damon I'd loved would never have—

I bit down.

He recoiled with a guttural curse, copper blooming on his lip. "You littlebitch—"

Three sharp raps at the door froze us both.

"Bella?" Melinda's muffled voice filtered through the door. "You alright?"

Damon's grip slackened just enough. I twisted free, scrubbing my mouth with the back of my hand until my lips burned.

"Try that again," I hissed, brandishing my phone with trembling fingers, "and I'll have you arrested before you can say 'pre-nup'." The whisper that followed carried more pain than threat: "Please don't make me."

We stood locked in silence—his breathing ragged, my pulse pounding loud enough to drown out reason. Then came that smirk, the one that used to make my stomach flutter. Now it just turned my stomach.

"You'll come back," he said, straightening his cuffs like he hadn't just assaulted me. "You never last long without me."

The door clicked shut. My legs folded beneath me.

Cold drywall pressed against my spine as I slid down, gasping. Copper and salt—the twin flavors of betrayal—coated my tongue.

Melinda materialized instantly, her hands warm anchors on my shoulders. "Sweetheart, did he—"

"Alan." The name shredded my throat. I lurched upright, the room tilting. "I need my savings account."

Fumbling with the locked drawer, I overturned stacks of overdue notices and faded Polaroids until my fingers closed around the navy passbook. The embossed gold lettering gleamed mockingly under the lamplight.

$328.47

The numbers swam. That couldn't—I'd scrimped for years. There should've been enough for—

The watch. Memory sucker-punched me. That damned Patek Philippe with its mother-of-pearl dial. Damon's eyes had lit up when I presented the velvet box last anniversary. "You shouldn't have," he'd murmured, already fastening it around his wrist.

The hospital's line connected before the first ring finished. "Oncology billing."

"Alan Chen's treatment costs." My voice wasn't my own—all fractured glass and frayed wire.

Keyboards clacked. "Uninsured minor... initial chemo cycle..." A beat. "Eighty-two thousand, including—"

The number exploded behind my eyes. Melinda's hand steadied me as the floor dropped away.

Eighty-two thousand.

I had three hundred.

Three. Hundred. Dollars.

And Alan—sweet, stubborn Alan who'd shared his last cookie with me when we were eight—was going to die because I'd been stupid enough to buy a traitor a fucking watch.