Chapter 141 Chapter 141

Chapter 141 Chapter 141
Chapter 141

Psychiatric facility, three days after the court case, four days before the wedding.

Isabella was in her room, small, white, sterile. A bed was pushed against the wall, a desk in the corner, a window with bars on it. A prison by a different name, but better than a real prison, better than a cell, better than what she deserved according to everyone else.

She sat on the bed, staring at the television mounted on the wall. The news channel played at low volume, but she heard every word anyway.

Then a story came on that made her freeze, made her stop breathing, made everything stop.

“Breaking news,” the anchor said, smiling as if it were good news, as if it were something to celebrate. “Landon Callahan and Sienna Blake wedding of the century coming up this Saturday.”

Saturday. Four days away. Just four days.

The screen showed pictures of them together. Landon, in a suit, looking handsome, looking happy, looking everything he had never looked with her. And Sienna beside him, smiling, glowing, beautiful, alive despite everything Isabella had done to her. Despite the kidnapping, despite the torture, despite everything.

“The ceremony will take place at the historic Saint Thomas Church,” the anchor continued, details pouring out like knives in Isabella’s heart. “Followed by reception at the Plaza Hotel. Sources say over five hundred guests are expected to attend.”

Five hundred people watching him marry her, watching Isabella lose everything, watching the world move on without her.

“This will be one of Manhattan’s most anticipated weddings,” the anchor said. “With both families being prominent in business and society.”

Isabella grabbed the remote and threw it at the television, hard and fast, angry. The remote bounced off the screen, fell to the floor, breaking nothing, changing nothing, not stopping the news from playing.

She stood up and paced the room like a caged animal, which she was. Trapped here while he married someone else, while life went on, while everything happened without her.

Images flooded her mind, unbidden, unwanted, but coming anyway. Landon at the altar, waiting, looking nervous, looking excited, looking in love—but not with Isabella, never with Isabella. With her, always with Sienna.

The bride walked down the aisle in a white dress flowing behind her, veil covering her face. Everyone stood, everyone watched, everyone celebrated.

It should have been her. Isabella thought, violent, possessive, certain. It should have been her walking to him. It should have been her he was marrying. It should have been her he loved.

She closed her eyes and envisioned it differently, envisioned it right, envisioned it how it was supposed to be. Her in a white dress, perfect, made for her body, for her beauty, for her. Walking down the aisle slowly and gracefully, everyone looking at her, admiring her, envying her.

Landon at the end, watching her come to him, smiling at her, loving her, choosing her finally, completely, forever. Vows exchanged, rings given, kiss sealing everything, making it real, making it official, making it theirs.

Mrs. Landon Callahan—her name. The name she was meant to have, the name she deserved, stolen from her.

Her eyes opened, and reality crashed back. No white dress, no aisle, no Landon waiting. Just the facility room, bars on the windows, guards outside the door, trapped, alone, losing.

“No,” Isabella whispered, to herself, to the universe, to everything wrong. “No. This isn’t how it ends. This isn’t over.”

She went to the window and looked out at the grounds below, at the fence surrounding the facility, at the guards patrolling, at everything keeping her in.

But nothing was impossible, nothing unbreakable. Nothing could stop her if she wanted something badly enough. And she wanted this. Wanted him. Wanted to destroy the wedding. Wanted to take back what was hers.

Her mind started to work, starting to plan, starting to calculate how to escape, how to get out, how to ruin everything.

Four days until the wedding, four days to plan, four days to find a way.

She studied the room in every detail. The door was heavy metal, locked from the outside. Guards checked every hour. Routine predictable, exploitable. The window was barred, but the building was old, maybe weak somewhere, maybe breakable if she tried hard enough.

She began observing the guards through the small window in the door, counting them, timing them, learning patterns. Three guards on the floor during the day, two at night, shift change at seven in the evening, chaos for fifteen minutes, opportunity, maybe. Meals were delivered three times daily, the door opening briefly, a moment of access, a chance, a possibility.

Medication was given twice daily, morning and night. A nurse came in to watch her swallow the pills, making sure she took them. But Isabella learned quickly how to hide them under her tongue, how to fake swallowing, how to spit them out later when alone.

She stayed clear-headed, sharp, ready for the moment when escape became possible.

Therapy sessions were scheduled daily. A psychiatrist came to talk, to evaluate, to determine if she was getting better. Isabella played the role perfectly, said the right things, showed fake remorse, showed fake progress.

“I understand now,” she told the doctor yesterday, lying smoothly, easily. “What I did was wrong. I was sick, but I’m getting better.”

The doctor believed her, writing positive notes, thinking the treatment was working, thinking Isabella was changing, thinking she was wrong.

Because Isabella wasn’t changing, wasn’t getting better, wasn’t sorry for anything except getting caught.

She went to the desk, found the pen they let her keep for journaling, for therapy, for processing emotions supposedly. She started writing, not feelings, not regrets, but plans, details, steps for escape, for revenge, for destroying the wedding.

Step one: get out of the facility somehow, anyhow, whatever it took.

Step two: get to the church Saturday morning, before the ceremony, before the vows, before it was too late.

Step three: stop the wedding, destroy it, make sure Landon never married Sienna, never had a happy ending, never forgot Isabella.

She didn’t write how, didn’t write details of violence or plans to hurt anyone, just in case someone found the journal, found the plans, found the truth. But in her mind, she knew exactly what she would do, exactly how she’d make them pay, exactly how she’d win finally.

Destroy Sienna first, maybe kill her this time, for real, no mercy, no hesitation, no leaving her alive, to steal Landon again. Then take Landon, force him if necessary, make him see that Isabella was the only one for him, the only one who truly loved him, the only one who belonged with him. Run away together, somewhere far, where no one could find them, where they could be happy, where Isabella could finally have what she wanted, what she deserved, what was always meant to be hers.

The television still played, still showing pictures of the happy couple, still talking about the wedding of the century. Isabella turned it off finally, unable to watch anymore, unable to hear their names together, unable to see his face looking at someone else.

She sat back on the bed, holding the journal, holding the plans, holding hope, twisted as it was. Four days. She repeated it to herself, a mantra, a goal, a deadline. Four days to escape, to get to the church, to stop the wedding, to get Landon back, to win.

She could do it. She would do it. Nothing would stop her, not the bars, not the guards, not the doctors, not anything.

Because Landon was hers, always had been, always would be, and no one, especially not Sienna, would take him from her. Not without a fight, not without blood, not without Isabella destroying everything first.

Outside her room, a guard walked past, routine check, seeing nothing wrong, seeing a patient sitting quietly on the bed, seeing no danger.

But inside her mind, Isabella was already gone, already planning, already preparing for war.

And Saturday was coming fast. The wedding was coming soon. Time was running out.

But Isabella smiled, knowing something they didn’t, knowing she wasn’t beaten, wasn’t finished, wasn’t done. Not yet. Not ever.