CH 12

**Isabella's POV**

 

The elevator doors slid shut and I pressed myself against the wall, breathing through my mouth so the metallic taste of blood wouldn't make me gag again. My reflection in the polished steel was a stranger: left eye swollen almost shut, purple blooming across the cheekbone like spilled ink, lower lip split and crusted. 

 

"Oh my goodness! Oh my goodness!!" 

 

Every heartbeat throbbed in my face. I blocked Ethan 's number before the elevator even reached my floor-thumb shaking so hard I almost missed the button.

 

'I don't want to die . I don't want to die like this! Not now!!'

 

Pass the street. The road. Even getting into my building no one asked. It was like the world had gone void. No one gives a hoot unless it happens to them. Not even the sight of a freshly-beaten crying woman. What was I expecting? They owe me nothing.

 

Inside the apartment I locked the door, deadbolt, chain, then leaned my forehead against the wood and let the tears come. Silent at first. Then choking sobs that hurt my bruised ribs. I slid down until my bottom hit the floor, knees to chest, black dress still clinging to me like a cruel joke.

 

Mateo had been here. The note on the kitchen counter said so: 

I called. I came by. You were out. 

It's not bad to have "friends" so soon-just be careful. Get home before dark. 

You'll see me another day.

 

No questions. No worry. Just... mild disappointment. Like I'd missed a casual coffee, not been tricked, trapped, and beaten by my ex in a hotel room he'd arranged.

 

I stared at the message until the screen went dark.

 

He didn't ask if I was safe. Didn't ask why I'd hung up on him mid-sentence. Didn't sound angry-just detached. Did I mean so little to him?

 

Maybe he really didn't remember that night in New York. Maybe all of this-the spa, the clothes, the kisses-was just repayment for a debt I never asked to owe. Maybe Ethan was right. Maybe I was just another woman Mateo fucked and forgot.

 

Or maybe...maybe I was just too delusional.

 

I dragged myself to the bathroom. The mirror fogged from my ragged breathing. I wiped it clear with a trembling palm.

 

'Gosh. Get yourself together your pathetic bitch ' I scolded myself.

 

The left side of my face looked like raw meat, not an exaggeration. Eye socket blackening, lid puffed, a thin cut under the brow still seeping blood. Lip split in two places-inside and out. Bruises already spreading down my jaw. I touched it gently. Winced. 

 

'Perfect' I chuckled.

 

I wrapped ice in a dish towel. Held it to my face until my fingers went numb. Tried to eat. Couldn't. Showered in scalding water, letting it burn away Ethan 's hands, his mouth, his voice whispering "I love you" while he hit me. When I crawled into bed the ice had melted, soaking the sheets. I didn't care. I cried until exhaustion took me.

 

Sunday morning came with a knock.

 

I jolted awake-heart slamming, face throbbing worse than last night. The bed was damp and cold. My left eye had crusted shut overnight; forcing it open sent fresh tears streaming.

 

Another knock. Harder. More insistent.

 

"He can't see me like this," I whispered to the empty room.

 

Yes. I was still worried about Mateo. Could not yet place my fingers on what I really felt for him.

 

Could it be the way he made me feel perfect? Or his fatherly charm? I don't think his money had any effect on me–alright. Not so much.

 

I stumbled to the bathroom. Mirror still merciless. Purple had deepened to near-black around the socket. The whites of my eye were bloodshot. Lip scabbed and swollen. I tried to cover it with hair-long waves falling over the left side-but every movement pulled at the bruises.

 

The knocking turned to pounding.

 

"Miss Hartley?"

 

Not Mateo. A woman's voice.

 

Pffff! A relief.

 

I cracked the door an inch, keeping the damaged side hidden.

 

A courier in a neat brown uniform held a mid-sized box.

 

"Delivery for Isabella Hartley."

 

I took it without opening the door fully. Mumbled thanks. Closed and locked.

 

Inside: a brown teddy bear, my old black hair tie (must've fallen out yesterday), and a folded note.

 

Ethan 's handwriting.

 

Bell, 

I apologized. You should've already forgiven me. 

Put ice on your face-it looked bad. 

I called but you blocked me. 

Unblock me. Accept the gift. It won't happen again. 

Ps: Your boyfriend, 

Ethan 

 

Boyfriend. What did I just read?!

 

The word made bile rise. I carried the box-teddy, note, hair tie-straight to the building's trash chute. Shoved it in. Watched it disappear.

 

Back inside I tried makeup. Concealer caked. Foundation looked like war paint. Nothing hid the swelling or the deep purple. I gave up. Changed into jeans and an oversized hoodie-hood up, hair down to shield the left side.

 

I walked to the nearest mall. Bought rubbing alcohol (no ID check-thank God), antiseptic wipes, arnica gel. No money for a security camera. Not yet.

 

When I returned, another woman waited at my door. Mid-thirties, brown suit, black block heels, hair in a sleek ponytail. Professional. Tired.

 

"Miss Hartley?"

 

I kept my head angled-good side forward.

 

"From Mr. Rossi. He asked me to pick you up."

 

My stomach dropped.

 

She stepped closer. Smile faltered when she caught the edge of my bruises.

 

"What happened to your face?"

 

I backed up. Slammed the door in her face. Locked it. Leaned against it. Shaking.

 

She knocked again-gentler.

 

"Rosella," she called through the wood. "I'm Rosella. I just followed the driver. I was bored and begged for something to do. You don't have to worry about the dress-we can stop somewhere and-"

 

"I'll call him," I said through the door. "GO AWAY! Please?" I added in a trembling voice.

 

Silence. Then retreating footsteps.

 

I slid to the floor again. Hood up. Knees to chest.

 

My phone rang.

 

Mateo.

 

I stared at the screen until it stopped. Then rang again.

 

I answered on the fourth round.

 

"Isabella." His voice was low. Surprised. "You rejected my invitation?"

 

I stayed silent.

 

"Can I call you back?" I whispered. "I've been... pooping. It's not nice right now."

 

I forced a weak grunt for effect.

 

He chuckled-soft, warm, completely unaware. Did he really brought that or found it funny?

 

"Call me when you're done."

 

The line went dead.

 

I laughed once-hysterical, broken-then cried harder.

 

He didn't know. 

He didn't know I had been tricked. 

Didn't know I had been beaten. 

Didn't know I was sitting on the floor hiding half my face because his best-friend status and his "gifts" had painted a target on my back.

 

I pressed the ice pack to my eye again.

 

"I can deal with it," I whispered to the empty apartment.

 

But the lie tasted like blood.