Arranged Bride

Arranged Bride
Isabella’s POV

The day dragged like an open wound.

I woke to sunlight pouring through the curtains, harsh and unforgiving. Giovanni’s side of the bed was cold, the pillow untouched. He hadn’t come back last night. Not after he’d fled the room, leaving me naked and broken on the sheets.

I lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, tears slipping silently into my hair. My body still remembered his touch—tender, reverent. My heart remembered the name he’d called. Monalisa.

By the time I forced myself out of bed, the clock read nearly noon. I showered slowly, letting the hot water scald away the evidence of last night, but it couldn’t touch the ache inside. I dressed in soft leggings and an oversized sweater, something that felt like armor against the world.

The mansion was silent. Too silent. No footsteps in the hall. No low voice giving orders. Just the distant clatter of staff in the kitchen and the tick of clocks marking every empty minute.

I tried to eat. Sat at the breakfast table with coffee and toast I couldn’t swallow. Picked at lunch in the sun room—salad that tasted like nothing. Wandered the gardens in the afternoon, the December air crisp against my skin, but even the lemon trees couldn’t lift the weight on my chest.

He was avoiding me.

I knew it with every hour that passed. Every time I passed the closed study door and heard nothing. Every time I caught a servant’s pitying glance.

By four o’clock, I curled on the library sofa with a book I didn’t read. The words blurred. My mind replayed everything—his horror when he’d said her name, the way he’d bolted like I burned him.

Five o’clock. Six. The sky darkened outside the tall windows.

I waited. Hoped he’d come find me. Say something. Anything.

Seven o’clock. The house lights came on automatically, warm and golden, but they felt cold.

Seven-thirty. My chest hurt from holding everything in. The silence was suffocating.

I couldn’t take it anymore.

I stood on shaky legs, walked the long corridor to his study. The door was closed, but light glowed beneath it. He was there. Hiding behind work, behind walls.

I didn’t knock. Just turned the handle and stepped inside.

Giovanni was at his desk, papers spread in front of him, whiskey glass half-empty. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up, hair messy like he’d been running his hands through it all day. He looked exhausted. Beautiful. Untouchable.

He glanced up when the door opened. His expression shuttered instantly.

“Isabella.” My name was quiet. Careful.

I closed the door softly behind me. My voice came out small, not hard like I’d imagined. “You’ve been avoiding me all day.”

He leaned back in his chair, eyes guarded. “I had work.”

“All day?” I stepped closer, arms wrapped around myself. “Not even a word. Not even a glance.”

He looked away, jaw tight. “I needed time.”

“Time for what?” My throat ached. “To pretend last night didn’t happen? To pretend you didn’t call me her name while we—”

“Don’t.” His voice was low, warning.

I stopped a few feet from his desk. Tears pricked my eyes, but I blinked them back. “I can’t pretend, Giovanni. I can’t just… forget. I need to understand.”

He stood slowly, hands braced on the desk. “There’s nothing to understand. It was a mistake. An old reflex.”

“An old reflex?” My voice cracked. “You were wide awake. You looked right at me when you said it.”

He flinched, dragging a hand down his face. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Sorry. The word hung between us, thin and useless.

“Who is she?” I asked softly. “Please. Tell me.”

He was silent for a long moment. Then, “Someone from before. Someone who mattered once.”

“Mattered.” I swallowed. “More than me?”

His eyes met mine—stormy, conflicted. “It’s not the same.”

“But she’s still there.” I took a small step forward. “In your heart. In our bed.”

He didn’t deny it.

The silence stretched, painful.

I wrapped my arms tighter around myself. “I thought… after the hospital, after everything with Ricardo… I thought we were becoming something real.”

“We are,” he said roughly.

“Are we?” My voice trembled. “Or am I just… convenient? The wife you were forced to take?”

His face hardened. “You know why we married.”

The words hurt, but I needed more. Needed truth. “Yes. Duty. Contract. Heir.” I looked at him, eyes pleading. “But it changed, didn’t it? For me, it changed. I started to—”

“Don’t.” He cut me off, sharper this time.

I froze.

He rounded the desk, stopping a few feet away. His voice was low, controlled, but something dangerous flickered beneath. “You’re my wife. That’s what this is. That’s all it can be.”

My breath caught. “All?”

He looked at me—really looked—and something cold settled in his eyes. “You were an arranged bride, Isabella. You should know your place.”

The words landed soft, but they struck like a blade.

I staggered back a step, air leaving my lungs in a rush.

Your place.

Arranged bride.

Nothing more.

My vision blurred with tears. My heart—foolish, hopeful heart—shattered quietly in my chest.

I stared at him, waiting for him to take it back. To soften. To reach for me.

He didn’t.

Just stood there, jaw locked, regret flickering too late in his eyes.

I turned blindly for the door.

“Isabella—”

His voice broke on my name, but I didn’t stop.

I ran.

Out of the study, down the hall, bare feet silent on the cold marble. Tears streamed hot down my face. Sobs built in my throat, but I held them in until I reached our bedroom—his bedroom—and slammed the door behind me.

Then I slid down the wood, knees to chest, and let them out.

Quiet, broken sobs that shook my whole body.

He’d said it.

Finally.

The truth I’d always feared.

I was just the arranged bride.

And I’d fallen in love with a man whose heart still belonged to a ghost.