Isabella Returns

Cassandra didn't sleep in their bed.

She retreated to one of the guest rooms at the end of the hall—a small, cold space with plain white walls and a bed that smelled of lavender and dust. She locked the door behind her, her fingers trembling against the brass. Then she leaned her forehead against the wood and closed her eyes.

She could hear him on the other side. Dante. His footsteps. His breathing. His hand pressed flat against the door.

"Cassandra." His voice was soft. Broken. "Please. Open the door."

She didn't answer. She couldn't.

He stayed there for a long time. She stood on the other side, her palm pressed to the wood, matching his hand. They were inches apart. And yet it felt like miles.

Eventually, his footsteps retreated. She heard the door of their bedroom—his bedroom—close.

She slid down the wall, pulled her knees to her chest, and stared at the ceiling until the sun rose.

---

The next morning, Dante confronted his mother.

He found Elena in the conservatory, watering her roses. She looked up when he entered, a smile on her lips. The smile faded when she saw his face.

"You invited her," he said. His voice was quiet. Cold. "You invited Isabella."

Elena set down the watering can, her hands trembling. "I thought—"

"You thought what?" Dante stepped closer, his eyes blazing. "That I'd want to see her? That it would be good for me?"

"I thought you needed closure. I thought—"

"You thought wrong." His voice cracked. "You've been making decisions for me my whole life. And every single one of them has been wrong."

Elena's eyes filled with tears. "Dante—"

"Stay out of my life." He turned and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

---

Jane found Cassandra in the guest room an hour later.

She knocked softly, her voice gentle. "Miss Cassandra? I brought you some tea."

Cassandra didn't answer. She was curled on the bed, still in her dress from the night before, her hair tangled, her eyes red.

Jane tried the door. It wasn't locked. She pushed it open, her heart aching at the sight.

She set the tea on the nightstand. She pulled a blanket from the closet and draped it over Cassandra's shoulders. Then she sat in the chair by the window, silent, still.

She didn't ask questions. She didn't offer advice. She just stayed.

Cassandra was grateful.

---

Isabella showed up at the mansion that afternoon.

She walked through the front doors like she owned the place—heels clicking against the marble, chin high, eyes cold. Jane tried to stop her.

"Miss Moore, I'm afraid Mr. Moretti isn't receiving visitors—"

"I'm not here to see Dante." Isabella brushed past her. "I'm here to see Cassandra."

---

She found Cassandra in the garden.

Cassandra was sitting on a stone bench, staring at the roses. She didn't look up when Isabella approached. She'd known she was coming. She'd felt her presence the moment she stepped outside.

Isabella sat beside her, arranging her skirt with practiced grace.

"You're wondering why I'm here," Isabella said.

"No." Cassandra's voice was flat. "I don't care."

"You should." Isabella smiled. "I came to warn you."

"Warn me about what?"

"Dante." Isabella turned to face her, her eyes gleaming. "He's not who you think he is."

---

Isabella told her everything.

She reminded her about their relationship—how Dante loved her, how he promised her forever, how he made her believe she was the only woman in the world. She told her about the night he discarded her—threw her out like she meant nothing, like she was garbage.

"He'll do the same to you," Isabella said. "He always does. He loves you now, but he'll tire of you. He'll find someone younger, prettier, more exciting. And then he'll throw you away."

Cassandra's hands clenched in her lap. "You're lying."

"Am I?" Isabella tilted her head. "Ask him. Ask him what he did the night I left. Ask him why I really disappeared."

---

Dante found them there.

He stormed into the garden, his face dark with fury. He grabbed Isabella by the arm, yanking her to her feet.

"What are you doing?" His voice was ice. "I told you to stay away from her."

Isabella laughed. "I was just telling her the truth."

"Get out."

"Or what?" Isabella pulled her arm free. "You'll hurt me? You never could."

"Don't test me."

Isabella smiled—cold, cruel. She turned to Cassandra.

"Ask him," she said. "Ask him about the night I left."

She walked away, her heels clicking against the stone path. Dante watched her go, his chest heaving.

He turned to Cassandra.

She was standing now, her arms wrapped around herself. Her face was pale. Her eyes were empty.

"What did she say to you?" he asked.

"Nothing I didn't already know."

"That's not an answer."

She looked at him. "What happened the night she left, Dante?"

His face went pale. He didn't answer.

---

Cassandra retreated to the guest room.

She locked the door. She sat on the edge of the bed. She stared at the wall.

A note was slipped under the door—she didn't know when. She didn't know who.

She picked it up, her hands trembling.

Ask him about the night I left. Ask him what he did.