CHAPTER THREE :ABSENCE

Maria arrived with breakfast, Isabella was still sitting in the same place.

"You should eat something," the housekeeper encouraged.

Isabella looked at the tray.

"Is Mr. Moretti awake?"

"Which one?"

She hesitated.

"Alessandro."

Maria placed the tray on the table. "I'm afraid he left early this morning."

Isabella's heart sank.

"Where did he go?"

"Business, I believe."

"When will he return?"

Maria paused before answering.

"Mr. Alessandro doesn't always have a fixed schedule."

That was all she said.

Isabella stared at the breakfast tray long after Maria had left. She had hoped Alessandro would explain the arrangement, tell her what was expected of her, or at least give her some indication of how long she would remain there. Instead, he had disappeared before she could ask another question.

She spent the rest of the day wandering between the bedroom and the window, afraid to leave the suite without permission. When evening came, she heard men's voices downstairs and rushed to the door, thinking Alessandro had returned. But the footsteps passed, the voices faded, and nobody came to look for her.

The next morning, he was still gone.

By the third day, Isabella had begun counting the hours.

She woke early, dressed carefully, and waited for news that never came. Maria brought her meals, the staff changed her sheets, and someone left fresh clothes in the wardrobe, but nobody explained why she had been brought to the mansion. Whenever Isabella asked about Alessandro, the answers were always the same.

He was away on business.

He would return when he could.

She should be patient.

Patience was something Isabella had learned to practice long before she arrived at the Moretti estate. She had learned to wait for her father's attention, to wait for Claudia's anger to pass, and to wait for Bianca to finish humiliating her before she could return to whatever task she had been doing. But this was different, because she didn't know whether Alessandro's absence was a blessing or a warning.

On the fourth morning, she finally ventured downstairs.

She had spent half the night listening to the silence of her bedroom, and the walls seemed to be closing in around her. She needed fresh air, even if only for a few minutes, and she had noticed a garden from her balcony that looked peaceful enough to make her forget where she was. After asking Maria which corridor led outside, she made her way down the stairs with hesitant steps.

Two guards stood near the main entrance.

They straightened when they saw her.

"Good morning, miss."

"Good morning," Isabella replied softly.

She approached the door, but one of the guards moved slightly into her path.

"I'm sorry, miss. We can't allow you outside without authorization."

She stopped.

"Authorization?"

"Mr. Moretti's orders."

"Which Mr. Moretti?"

The guard looked uncomfortable.

"Mr. Alessandro."

Isabella's hands tightened around the fabric of her dress.

"But I only want to walk in the garden."

"I'm sorry, miss."

She stared at him, trying to understand how a simple walk could require permission. The mansion had seemed like a place of safety when she first arrived, but now the high walls and guarded doors looked different. They weren't just keeping dangerous people out.

They were keeping her in.

"Can you please call Lorenzo?" she asked.

The guard hesitated, then reached for his phone.

Several minutes later, Lorenzo appeared in the hallway, looking as though he had just returned from somewhere important. He stopped when he saw Isabella standing beside the entrance, her face pale and her eyes full of questions.

"What's going on?"

"I want to go outside," she said. "They won't let me."

Lorenzo looked at the guard.

"She's allowed in the garden."

"Mr. Alessandro's instructions were"

"I know what his instructions were." Lorenzo's voice sharpened. "And I am telling you she can walk in the garden."

The guard stepped aside.

Isabella stared at Lorenzo.

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

He watched her for a moment, and something in his expression changed. Perhaps it was guilt, or perhaps he was beginning to understand how cruel the arrangement looked from her side. Whatever it was, he didn't try to defend his brother.

"Go and get some fresh air," he told her quietly. "I'll speak to the guards myself."

Isabella nodded and headed toward the garden.

For the first time since arriving, she felt the warmth of the sun on her face without a window separating her from it. She walked slowly along the stone path, passing rose bushes and a small fountain, trying to imagine what her life might have been like if her father had never borrowed money from the Morettis. Perhaps she would have found a job, saved enough to rent a tiny apartment, and eventually escaped the house where she had never truly belonged.

The thought made her chest ache.

She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn't notice the man standing near the far end of the garden until he spoke.

"You seem to have made yourself comfortable."

Isabella froze.

The voice was deep, controlled, and unmistakably familiar.

She turned slowly.

Alessandro Moretti stood beneath the shade of a tall tree, his black shirt open at the collar and his sleeves rolled to his elbows. His expression gave nothing away, but his cold grey eyes were fixed on her. Behind him, Marco De Luca, his trusted right-hand man, stood several feet away with a phone in his hand.

Isabella's heart slammed against her ribs.

For four days, she had imagined what she would say when she finally met Alessandro again. She had prepared questions, rehearsed pleas, and promised herself that she would be brave enough to demand an explanation. But now that he was standing in front of her, every word vanished.

"Good morning, sir," she whispered.

Alessandro glanced at the guards near the entrance.

"Who allowed her outside?"

Isabella's stomach dropped.

"I asked Lorenzo, sir. I didn't mean to cause trouble."

His gaze returned to her.

"Did I ask whether you meant to cause trouble?"

"No, sir."

"Then why are you explaining yourself?"

She lowered her head.

"I'm sorry."

Alessandro studied her for a long moment before speaking again.

"Four days in my house, and you still look as though someone is about to put a gun to your head."

Isabella's lips trembled.

She wanted to tell him that she had spent four nights imagining exactly that possibility. She wanted to tell him that she couldn't sleep, couldn't leave the mansion, and couldn't understand why her future had been decided without her consent. But the words caught in her throat, and all she could do was stand before him with her hands clasped tightly together.

Alessandro's expression hardened.

"I don't have time to stand here while you cry."

"I'm not trying to—"

"Then stop."

She pressed her lips together, fighting the tears that threatened to spill.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Alessandro turned toward Marco.

"Have the documents prepared for tomorrow."

"Yes, boss."

Marco walked away.

Alessandro looked at Isabella again.

"Tomorrow morning, you will come to my study at nine o'clock."

Her heart began to pound.

"Why, sir?"

His eyes narrowed.

"Because it is time you understood why you are here."

He stepped past her, leaving the scent of his cologne and the chill of his presence behind. Isabella watched him walk toward the mansion, trying to convince herself that tomorrow might finally bring some answers. But just before he disappeared through the doors, he stopped and looked back at her.

"One more thing, Isabella."

She turned immediately.

"Yes, sir?"

"Do not mistake my brother's kindness for permission to do whatever you please in my house."

Her face burned with humiliation.

"I understand."

"Good."

He disappeared inside.

Isabella remained beneath the tree, staring at the doorway long after it closed. She had waited four days to speak to Alessandro, only to discover that his first concern was making sure she understood who held the power in his house. She wiped her cheeks, took a shaky breath, and headed back toward the mansion, wondering what those documents contained.

That evening, she couldn't bring herself to eat.

She sat beside the window until darkness covered the garden, replaying Alessandro's words and trying to imagine what he would reveal the following morning. At exactly eight minutes past nine, a knock sounded at her bedroom door, and Maria entered carrying a small envelope.

"Mr. Moretti asked me to give you this."

Isabella took it with trembling fingers.

She read the first line, and the blood drained from her face.