The days that followed took Isabelle on a wild ride, as she was suddenly thrown into the luxurious, confining world of the very rich.
Liam did not hesitate to show her to his wealthy associates and business partners at various social functions like a precious gem and did not miss any chance to do so.
"This is my fiancée, Isabelle," he would say, putting his arm around her waist, but his smile was not at all genuine. "Isn't she exquisite?"
And Isabelle would, in her oh-so-practiced way, line up her smile, nod, and make friendly small talks with the sharks who were staring at her with eyes of hope and jealousy.
It was all part of the game, she soon discovered a perverse dance of power and wealth, where every move was a well-thought-out calculation and every word was a double entendre.
Liam, the pool master, was in the middle of it all, using his iron fist to pull the strings.
One night, after the most tiring party yet, Isabelle disappeared into her huge bedroom suite, aspiring to be alone for a while.
She sank into the plush chaise lounge, leaving her designer heels on the floor and massaging her aching feet.
A gentle bump on the door made her grumble inside her.
"Go in," she said, preparing herself for another round of Liam's mental games.
However, it wasn't her husband-to-be who walked in.
On the contrary, a well-known person enters the door, her hair perfectly styled and the clothes she wore were a designer outfit, thus contrasting the different life of Isabelle.
"Mother." She said, half anxious and half relieved.
Gina suddenly entered the room and her eyes scanned the undone look of Isabelle.
"Is that the kind of way Mrs. Callahan should be to the future?"
Isabelle clenched her teeth and muttered a retort, her muscles contracting. "What are you here for?"
Gina gesticulated a handoff to the objects. "Is that a correct way to greet your mother? I just came to see how you are doing in your new environment. "
"Are you done settling?" Isabelle said in disbelief. "You are saying that I'm trying to fit in like I'm being sold off like a piece of property?"
Gina's lips were flawlessly painted and her eye-smile made her smile not reach her eyes.
"Don't be so exaggerative, Isabelle. I just did what was necessary to make our future bright. "
"Our future?" Isabelle scoffed. "Or yours?"
The words seemed to touch a nerve, and Gina's mask of coolness slipped for a short time.
"You are the not-so-nice little brat," she hissed. "Do you know what I have given up to provide you with this chance?"
Isabelle's eyes narrowed. "Opportunity? You mean being traded to an unknown person like a cow is an opportunity?"
Gina's nails, which were immaculately painted, could be seen digging into the velvety cushions of the chaise.
"Liam Callahan is one of the richest, most powerful men in the city. Any woman in her right mind would want to be in your position." Gina stated firmly.
"Well, I'm not just any ordinary woman," Isabelle snapped back, her voice on the verge of exploding with anger. "I'm your daughter, or have you conveniently and secretly forgotten that?"
A silence that was tense for many years stretched between them which was filled with years of resentment and unspoken pain.
At last, Gina regained composure, and then she smoothed her hands over the material of her designer dress.
"You'll ever be happy, Isabelle," she said calmly. "When you are living a luxurious lifestyle, knowing that you have everything you want, you will understand that I did the right thing. "
Isabelle was ready to object when Gina raised a flawless hand, signifying the principles of masculinity they require daily.
She forcefully stated, "I don't want to hear another word about it. You will have all the rights and privileges that accompany being Liam Callahan's wife. Accept it or face the repercussions."
Isabelle felt a shiver go down her spine as the implied threat lingered heavy in the atmosphere.
The person who was meant to cherish and protect her... her mother, had turned into her jailer.
Isabelle slumped against the luxurious cushions and her head spun as Gina swept out of the room, her shoes tapping on the polished marble floors.
The same individuals who were supposed to be her supporters had imprisoned her in this golden cage.
She also couldn't get rid of the impression that the real danger was only getting started as the walls began to close in around her.
A distinct kind of danger was simmering in the slick, contemporary headquarters of Callahan Enterprises across town.
Liam's main business opponent, Damien Russo, walked the length of his lavish office, his handsome features contorted into a frown.
"You're sure about this?" With a deep, low voice, he demanded.
Rachel, his severe-looking aide, gave a stiff nod. "Good news, Sir. Liam Callahan is planning a wedding."
Damien's eyes flashed with barely controlled rage, his jaw clenching.
"To whom? Certainly one of his shallow socialite conquests."
Rachel paused, looking at her tablet.
" The woman seems to be... not really that important, sir. Just a struggling artist from the Lower East Side."
Damien's eyebrows furrowed in perplexity. "Nobody? That sounds nothing like Liam."
He was silent for a while, his thoughts racing over the possible consequences of this unexpected turn of events.
At last, his lips curled into a slow, predatory smile.
"Perhaps this is an opportunity, after all."
Rachel gave him a cautious look. "Sir?"
A menacing glimmer sprang into Damien's gaze.
"We can take advantage of Liam Callahan's foolishness if he lets an outsider into his inner circle."
He looked up at the floor-to-ceiling windows, his eyes getting narrower as he absorbed the glittering cityscape outside.
He uttered the poisonous words, "Learn everything you can about this woman. Every vulnerability and secret. We intend to subdue Liam Callahan, and his adorable little wife will help us accomplish this."
Rachel walked out to obey his orders, and Damien grinned.
The contest had begun, and he was committed to winning at all costs.
The austere world of the elite was no place for mercy or emotion.
There would be only the strongest, and Damien Russo intended to be the last person standing.