Chapter 4

I never really slept after finding the note on Vincenzo's phone.

I only lay still beside him and listened to the rain.

Lying beside Vincenzo felt like sharing a bed with a loaded gun.

Every time I closed my eyes, those six words came back.

Isabella  Russo the game has begun, and suddenly my own name felt cursed.

By the time the sky began to pale, I could not bear the bedroom anymore.

I slipped out from under the covers and left without making a sound.

The penthouse was quiet  and I went straight to my studio and shut the door behind me.

My unfinished canvas waited under the soft lamp in the corner.

I sat in front of it for a long time without touching a brush.

The note had cracked something open inside me.

Now every memory of Vincenzo felt wrong when I held it up.

I did not know how long I had been sitting there.

At some point, I heard movement in the bedroom down the hall.

Then his voice came from the studio doorway, “Isabella, you can fight with that canvas later, breakfast is ready.” he said with a quiet smile.

My whole body tightened before I looked at him.

When I finally turned around, he was leaning against the doorframe.

He had already dressed for the day in dark trousers and a white shirt.

His sleeves were rolled to his forearms, and his tie hung loose around his neck.

There was a softness in his face that would have fooled me yesterday.

Today it only made my stomach twist harder.

“You have been in here since dawn, haven’t you?” he asked quietly.

“You should eat something before your headache gets worse.”

I stood up slowly and tried to make my voice sound normal.

“I lost track of time and could not sleep.”

He crossed the room and stopped in front of me.

Then he bent and kissed my forehead like he always did.

“Come on,” he murmured against my skin.

“Breakfast first, then you can come back and pretend to work.”

I forced myself to smile and walked out with him.

Breakfast was already laid out on the dining table with precision.

There were pistachio pastries, sliced fruit, and the coffee I liked the most.

Everything looked exactly the way it always looked every morning.

Vincenzo pulled out my chair and waited until I sat down.

Then he took the seat across from me and watched me over his espresso.

His gaze was steady, soft, and almost unbearably attentive.

He looked at me like I was the center of his life.

“You remember everything I like without ever needing reminders,” I said.

My spoon clicked softly against the porcelain cup in my hand.

He smiled. “How could I forget anything that matters to you, Isabella ?”

I looked down at the dark surface of my coffee.

“Your memory must be frighteningly good, then.”

"That is my job as your husband," he said easily.

"If I do not remember you, then what kind of man would that make me?"

I lifted my eyes and held his gaze,“ I wonder sometimes,” I said carefully, my heart pounding so hard I was certain he could hear it. “The things from fifteen years ago —do you remember all of those clearly too?”

His smile paused slightly for a moment before returning. He reached out for my hands and his fingers closed over mine.

“Isabella , we did not even know each other fifteen years ago,” he said.

“What exactly would I be remembering from that time?”

His touch was warm, but my skin felt ice cold beneath it.

I fought the urge to pull away from him immediately.

Instead I lowered my lashes and gave him a faint smile.

“You are right, I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s probably because I didn’t sleep enough.”

He rubbed his thumb across my knuckles.

“Then stop thinking so much and eat before your meal gets cold.”

I forced myself to drink the coffee and swallow two bites.

I could not taste any of it though.

After breakfast, he went to finish dressing for work upstairs.

I remained in the living room and listened to his footsteps move overhead.

My eyes drifted toward the corridor.

His office door stood half closed at the far end.

A thought rose inside me and would not leave.

If the note existed, then other things existed too.

There had to be more than six words on one phone.

I stood up and walked toward the office before I had fully decided to, because I knew this was my oppurtunity, his office door was never opened unless he was in there. My hand closed around the brass handle.

“Isabella .”

His voice came from behind me.

And I went completely still. Every muscle in my body locked at once.

I turned around slowly and found him standing a few feet away.

He had finished dressing completely now, and the effect was different.

The softness from breakfast was gone beneath the sharp lines of his suit.

He looked like what he really was at that moment.

Not a gentle husband, but a Marchetti.

His tie was dark, his family ring catching the light, and his face revealed nothing.

There was something deep in his eyes that I could not read.

"I wanted one of the photography books from your shelves," I said.

"Tell me which one, and I will bring it to you myself," he replied.

He moved closer until his shadow covered the door and my hand fell away from the handle.

Cedar, rain, and expensive soap clung to him like another kind of warning.

"Forget it, the headache is making me restless," I said, keeping my voice quiet.

"Then stay away from work and rest today, amore, because I do not like seeing you push yourself."

Then he lifted a hand and tucked my hair behind my ear.

I flinched before I could control it.

The movement was small, but I knew he felt it.

Still, his voice remained gentle when he answered me.

"Be good for me while I am gone," he murmured near my temple. He locked his office door and walked toward the elevator.

The private elevator doors closed behind him a minute later.

I waited until I was certain I could not hear the elevator anymore before I let myself slide down against the wall and sit on the floor.

My hands would not stop trembling.

He had almost caught me and I had been standing right there in front of him with nothing but a flimsy excuse between us, and he had let it go, which meant either he believed me or he had chosen, for now, to pretend he did.

I did not know which possibility frightened me more.

Outside the front door, I knew without looking, two of his men were standing in the hallway.

I was not going anywhere.

This penthouse that I had spent a year calling home had never been a home at all. It was a cage, carefully built and beautifully furnished.

And I was still trapped inside it.