Chapter 3

The tray tipped in my hands. Hot broth splashed onto my skin—a red welt immediately blooming on my hand.

I didn't feel a thing.

I turned around, found a corner, and poured the entire thermos down the sink.

Just then, Liliana appeared in that butchered gown. She saw me dumping the soup and smirked.

"Isabella, Vincenzo said the master bedroom has better lighting—it'll be better for my health. He wants me to move in tonight. So... you might want to clear your stuff out of there."

The master suite. I'd lived there for five years. Every corner held a memory of him.

I looked at her smug face and nodded.

"Sure. I'll go pack."

I walked into the room. I didn't touch the jewelry. Didn't touch the designer bags. I grabbed a black duffel bag, stuffed it with a few changes of clothes, my passport, and my ID.

My phone buzzed. A text from my father:

"The process of erasing 'Isabella' from all public records is complete. The girl you were is gone."

I zipped the bag, slung it over my shoulder, and walked out of the master suite.

I moved into the smallest, dustiest storage room in the north wing. It smelled like mold and forgotten things.

I set the bag on the narrow cot and didn't touch anything else.

Twelve hours to go.

By evening, a blizzard had rolled over New York.

Vincenzo came back from a high-level meeting, shaking the snow off his coat. He scanned the main hall—and his face darkened.

The butler stuttered, "Don, Miss Isabella moved to the storage room in the north wing."

Vincenzo's jaw tightened. He stormed through the corridors and kicked the door open.

I was sitting on the cot, watching the snow fall.

He took in the cramped space, the bare walls—then his eyes landed on my duffel bag.

"Isabella, what the hell is this stunt?" His voice was a whip. "Liliana mentioned she liked the master bedroom. She didn't say you had to move into a damn closet. Are you trying to guilt me?"

I stood up, meeting his eyes.

"All the other guest rooms have Liliana's things in them. This was the only empty space. It doesn't matter to me where I sleep."

My lack of reaction infuriated him.

He grabbed my wrist—hard. My sleeve rode up, exposing the jagged, foot-long scar on my arm.

Three years ago, I'd taken a knife for him. Almost bled out on an operating table.

He stared at the scar. And there was no tenderness in his eyes. Only disgust.

"What, you keep flashing that thing around like you expect a medal? You think taking one hit for me means you get to run this house? Liliana saw it today and couldn't even eat her lunch. A woman who makes guests uncomfortable isn't fit to be a Donna."

"Starting tomorrow, you wear long sleeves. If you can't manage that, you can move to the gatehouse. Stay out of her sight."

He was baiting me. Trying to crack me. Trying to see me break down and beg.

I looked at his twisted, furious face. And I felt nothing.

I pulled my arm free, grabbed my bag, and walked past him toward the door.

"Fine. I'll go to the gatehouse."

He snapped.

My submission—my calm—was like gasoline on a fire. He lunged after me, ripped the bag from my hands, and threw open the front doors.

The blizzard roared into the foyer.

He hurled my bag into the snow and pointed at the gates.

"Isabella, if you want to play games so bad, then get the hell out of my house! And don't come back!"

"Let's see how long a homeless orphan like you lasts out there without me! Without me, you're nothing—less than a stray dog!"

I stood in the doorway in my thin sweater, the frozen wind cutting through me like shards of glass.

I looked at my bag lying in the snow.

And without a moment's hesitation, I stepped out into the storm.

I didn't look back.

The heavy doors slammed shut behind me.

I walked to my bag, picked it up, brushed off the snow.

My phone lit up. My father's voice crackled through the line.

"Isabella. The Castello convoy has entered New York City limits. I'll be at the gates in thirty minutes. I'm taking you home."

The snow fell harder. The wind howled, driving ice into my face. My legs went numb, my joints aching with every step.

But I didn't stop. And I didn't look back at the black iron gates of the Moretti estate.