The Chosen Bride

Isabella

“Miss Isabella,” Mabel walked into the library where I had been sitting for several hours, lost in the book I was reading.

I looked up, I saw her hands on her hips, and smiled at her. She always scolded me about lounging sideways in my favorite reading chair, legs slung over the arm. She is old school and says it isn’t ‘ladylike.’

“Yes?”

Mabel shook her head, a small smile on her face, “Your father would like to speak to you,” she said, already turning to walk out before I could respond. Classic Mabel. I slid a bookmark into the pages, closed the book, and stood up, smoothing my skirt.

“He’s in his office,” she called out as she walked toward the kitchen- already yelling at the cook before she even got there.

I laughed because I love that old lady. She’s the mother I wish I had.

Shaking off the thoughts before they go down the path they do so often when I think about all the other ways my life could be better, I took a deep breath and headed down the hallway to my father’s office.

I knocked on the door and waited to hear him call out for me to enter. Shutting the door behind me, I smiled at my brother, Marco, as I sat in the chair beside him.

“My beautiful daughter,” Father beams at me.

 I gave him a big smile. That look—so full of pride and affection—only ever came out when we were alone, or when it was just the three of us. Never in front of Mother or Gianna.

“I wanted to tell you that I saw the dress you designed and made for Gianna, and it is just beautiful.”

“Thank you,” I can feel myself blush. I don’t get much praise around here, and I couldn’t lie and say that I made my sisters the dress because it was an honor. I made it because Gianna saw the drawing in my sketch book and decided that she had to have it for herself. She showed our mother, and she insisted that I get the best fabric and sewing immediately. No one spoke about the fact that she already had a dress, and I never said a word about the fact that I had imagined it for my own wedding.

None of this should even be a surprise to me, either. It happened all the time. I am like a maid around here in the eyes of my mother and Gianna. Only Father and show me even the smallest bit of respect. Along with Mabel, who loves me the most.

“I know that Gianna will look beautiful,” I force a smile.

Father nodded, but there was something more behind his eyes—something unsaid.

“Is something wrong?”

With a sigh, Marco leaned toward me, “He’s put a lot on Gianna marrying Aristide,” he rolled his eyes.

“What do you mean?” I frowned.

Marco opened his mouth, but before he could answer, the door swung open and my mother walked in.

“She is not marrying Aristide,” she announces, standing with her back to me, arms crossed. I knew that tone. She wasn’t just challenging Father—she was daring him.

She never had affection for him, or for anyone else. Only Gianna and Marco earned even a shred of it—and Marco only because she needed a son to take Father’s place one day. If she had another option, she would’ve tossed him out already. I’d heard her say as much.

Father jumped up to shout, “What? Why?”

Gianna strutted in behind her. “I deserve more, Daddy,” she said, flipping her hair like she was delivering a line from some soap opera.

I glanced at Marco. He rolled his eyes again. At least I wasn’t alone in my irritation.

“I deserve someone who can give me a glamorous and independent life,” she looked like she was posing for a camera. “Someone who will fit better with my social standing.”

I couldn’t help it, I snorted. My eyes widened and I slapped a hand over my mouth when everyone looked at me.

It would’ve been great if I could get along with my sister and not think that she was the most ridiculous person I had ever met. But that was just never in the cards, I guess.

Gianna looks back at our father and continues her rant, “I have three. Hundred. Thousand. Followers,” she told him slowly, emphasizing her words to try to get him to understand how amazing it is that a ton of guys want to look at her body in a tiny bikini on her I*******m. “And I’m gaining more every day. Aristide never smiles. If I’m going to get married, he has to be able to take photos for me. Post with me. Take me on trips to… everywhere.” She shrugged and folded her arms like she had just made the most logical argument in history. Marco snorted this time, and I focused on my hands so I wouldn’t join him.

“Gianna is right,” Mother said, turning to look directly at me. The smile on her face would have stunned a stranger, but not me. I knew what that look meant. She despised me.

“Isabella should marry him,” she said coldly. “Someone has to make a sacrifice, and I think for once it should be her,” she turns back to my father and continues, “she isn’t deserving of the role that she will be given, but he has to understand that he isn’t giving us enough to get the beautiful sister.”

Smile, I reminded myself. I know that I can’t say that she doesn’t mean it how it sounds, or well, nope, there just is no excuse, but I also know that nothing will make her take the words back or her change her mind. So, smiling is all I have.

“This isn’t how we should be conducting business, Father,” Marco said, his voice tight.

Father nodded, and for a second, I almost felt relief. Until I saw his face, the sadness in his eyes. I knew then: he was going to betray me.

“I need to make a call,” he said softly.

Gianna squealed and leaned in to kiss his cheek. Mother gave a firm nod, then turned and walked out the door.

“Good luck, Isabella Balena,” she mutters as she passes me.

I don’t cry. I swear to never give her that satisfaction.

“You have to stop letting her call you a whale,” Marco tells me when the door shuts behind the two of them.

“We’re sisters,” I wave a dismissing hand his way. He shakes his head.

“We have to call the Moretti’s and work this out,” Father interrupted my response as he picked up his phone.

I nodded, and he paused, the receiver halfway to his ear.

“I’m sorry, Bella,” he said. “I’ll work something out. I’ll make sure you’re safe.”

I nodded again, doing everything I could not to show it—that tiny flicker of excitement I felt. Everyone thought I should be afraid. And maybe I should have been. The stories about Aristide Moretti were enough to terrify anyone.

But I wasn’t scared. Not even a little. Because I knew more than any of them thought I did.