Tears slid down Isadora’s face for a long while as she sat there, staring blankly at the door Dante had walked through.

The soft sound of her quiet sobs was the only thing filling the silence, broken now and then by her shallow, uneven breaths. The room still smelled of him — the sharp, masculine scent of his cologne mixed with the faint trace of smoke that always lingered wherever he’d been. It clung to her skin, to the sheets, to the air itself, like a cruel reminder she couldn’t shake off.

She couldn’t help it.

Her chest felt tight, as though something inside her had cracked open. She had bent her back just to satisfy him — swallowed her pride, endured the pain done everything she could to please him — only for him to toss it right back in her face. And worse, to tell her that all she showed was weakness.

Weak.

The word rang in her head, sharp and humiliating, until her tears burned hotter against her cheeks.

It pissed her off.

Her jaw clenched as she sat upright, wiping at her cheeks with the back of her hand, her eyes red and swollen. The sheets beneath her were tangled and messy, the faint traces of their encounter still visible. She glanced down at her own body — her bare skin flushed and marked, a painful reminder of how he had touched her, how his hands had been inside her only minutes ago.

The thought alone made her stomach twist.

Anger flared again. Her heart pounded as she snatched a pillow from the bed and hurled it across the room with all the strength she could muster. It hit the closed door with a dull thud and slid to the floor, uselessly.

But in her mind, it was him she was throwing it at.

"Ass!" she hissed under her breath, glaring at the door as if he were still standing there, smirking the way he always did.

She muttered other words under her breath — words she hadn’t been brave enough to say while he stood in front of her. The kind of words that burned at the back of her throat now, spilling out only when it no longer mattered.

Her body trembled as she sat there, glaring at nothing. The anger slowly melted into exhaustion. She fell back onto the bed, the soft sheets cold beneath her. The scent of him still surrounded her, clinging to the pillow, the blanket, even her skin. It was suffocating.

Reaching for her phone, she unlocked it with shaky fingers and opened her browser. Her breathing steadied just enough for her to start typing.

"IVF procedures."

The words looked foreign on the bright screen, almost mocking.

She began scrolling through the pages, wanting to watch videos and read explanations about what she would have to do since she had no intention of touching him again.

’I’ll get pregnant, have the baby, and leave,’ she told herself, her thoughts bitter but determined.

If she could find a way to carry out the contract without ever having to let him touch her again, she would. That was all she wanted now — a way to fulfill her part of the deal without letting him near her.

But barely five minutes into her research, the fragile calm she’d managed to build shattered.

New tears welled up and spilled over. The images on her screen blurred as she scrolled through the diagrams — the endless injections, the thick needles, the hormonal treatments, the uncertainty of it all. The medical videos felt like torture.

Her throat tightened as she bit back a sob, but it escaped anyway.

"Motherfucker!" she swore under her breath, her voice breaking.

She threw the phone across the room with a furious cry. It hit the marble floor hard, the sound of glass cracking echoing sharply through the silence.

Her body shook as angry tears poured down her face. Her chest heaved as she gasped for air between sobs, pressing her palms against her eyes.

She didn’t care that her phone screen was probably broken.

Everything about this situation — about him — made her feel cornered, powerless, and furious.

Wiping her eyes roughly, she sat upright again and forced herself to breathe.

In, out. In, out.

Her reflection in the mirror across the room looked like a stranger — her hair messy, her cheeks blotched from crying, her lips trembling slightly.

He had pissed her off beyond reason, yet she knew deep down that she’d still have to be the one to go and apologize.

The realization made her chest ache even more.

"I hate this," she muttered weakly, voice trembling as she pressed her hands to her face again.

It took her another ten minutes — maybe longer — to calm herself down.

When she finally did, she wiped the remaining tears from her face, pulled her hair back, and reached for her phone again. The screen was cracked across one corner, spiderwebbed and dim, but it still worked.

"Good," she whispered under her breath, relief washing over her in a small wave.

She scrolled through her contacts until she found the number she needed and pressed it.

"Llara," she murmured as it began to ring, her voice small.

It didn’t take long before her best friend picked up.

Llara’s familiar voice came through the speaker, calm and warm, and before she could even greet her, Isadora started speaking — words tumbling out one after another as though holding them back any longer would break her.

She told her everything.

Every single detail.

How he had called her weak. How he had made her feel small. How she had tried to please him and ended up humiliated instead.

Llara didn’t interrupt once. She just listened, the occasional quiet sigh or hum showing she was still there as Isadora’s voice rose and fell — half crying, half cursing as she spoke.

Isadora’s words came in bursts, her voice shaking one moment and hard the next.

She needed someone to understand.

When she finally ran out of words, silence followed.

A heavy, thick silence that lasted several seconds before Llara finally spoke.

"He doesn’t sound like an ass," she said quietly.

Isadora blinked, caught off guard.

"What?" she snapped, her voice rising in disbelief. "He called me weak! He said I was—"

"Isadora," Llara interrupted softly, the tone of her voice enough to make her pause.

"You told me that on your first day there, a maid tried to kill you," Llara reminded her gently. "Do you really think that won’t happen again? All he’s saying is that if you don’t act stronger, if you don’t learn to be selfish, people will keep taking advantage of you."

Isadora frowned, her grip on the phone tightening.

"He—he didn’t say that," she said stubbornly.

"Yes, he did," Llara countered calmly. "He just said it like a man like him would. He’s a billionaire, Isadora. You’re his contract staff. Men like that don’t explain themselves. They expect you to be smart enough to read between the lines."

Isadora sat in silence for a moment, her mind replaying Dante’s words despite herself.

At that point, she didn’t know what to say.

She could only listen as Llara continued.

"I’m worried about you," her friend admitted, her voice softening again. "But honestly, after what you’ve told me, I feel a little relieved."

"Llara!" Isadora started to protest, but her friend quickly spoke over her.

"Hear me out," Llara said firmly before she could interrupt. "You’re going to be married to this man — married, Isadora! You don’t know him, and from that video we talked about, he’s dangerous."

Llara’s tone grew heavier, more serious with every word.

"Whatever he or his family is involved in, it’s going to involve you too. Whoever his enemies are, they’ll become your enemies the moment you take his name. And for him to be that rich, that powerful — it’s impossible he doesn’t have rivals."

Isadora’s eyes stung again as she listened, silent.

"If you’re weak, or even look weak, they’ll take advantage of that," Llara continued.

"The best thing you can do right now is go back to him and spread your legs."

Isadora froze. "What?" she whispered, but Llara didn’t stop.

"The faster you get pregnant and give birth, the better," Llara said with brutal honesty. "You’re nothing but a surrogate in that house. That’s how you need to see yourself."

Her words hit like a slap, but Llara’s voice was steady — not cruel, just painfully practical.

"No matter what he says," she went on, "you take it and swallow it. You need protection from Tiberio, remember? You think he’ll just give up and forget you? Mafia dons don’t act like that."

Llara’s voice sharpened, her tone rising with urgency.

"If before you were in a hard place, now the stakes are higher. The worst thing that could happen is if Dante Bellini changes his mind about you. Do you understand that?"

Though Llara wasn’t physically there, Isadora nodded silently, a sad, resigned expression settling over her face.

"Yes," she whispered faintly. "You’re saying I have to do my best to please him?"

"Yes," Llara said without hesitation. Right now, your body is the asset he values. If you can’t show that you understand your role, if you can’t take care of yourself—"

"Then I’ll definitely displease him," Isadora finished quietly, her tone dull but understanding.

She lay back against the bed again, staring up at the ceiling where the chandelier lights sparkled faintly. The elegant glow did nothing to comfort her.

Her bare skin brushed against the cool sheets, but she didn’t bother covering herself. Guila, the estate caretaker, was the only one who ever came to her door, and even she knocked first.

"I understand, Llara," she said softly after a long silence. "I do. I’ll do better."

"You will," Llara assured her gently. "You just need time."

There was warmth in her tone now, even though her words were laced with worry.

"I’m really busy right now," Llara added after a pause. "I’ve already taken more time than I should have to talk, but I’m glad you called."

Isadora nodded even though her friend couldn’t see her.

"Thank you," she whispered quietly before the line went dead, leaving her alone again with the faint hum of silence.

Her phone slid from her hand onto the bed, the cracked screen dimming as she exhaled a long, weary sigh.

The tears had dried, but the ache inside hadn’t.

She turned her face into the pillow, inhaling the faint scent of him still lingering there — hating it, yet unable to escape it.

And as her eyes slowly closed, all she could think about was how trapped she truly was.