Isabella POV:

The day I was finally cleared to leave the medical wing, Marco was waiting for me, his face a mask of feigned concern. I walked right past him, my gaze fixed on the man standing behind him.

Luca.

He offered me a small, crooked smile. "Ready to escape, *principessa*?"

A weary smile touched my own lips. "More than you know, Luca."

Marco's jaw tightened. "I'll take her home, Luca. She's my responsibility."

"Doesn't look like she wants you," Luca retorted, his eyes glinting with challenge. "Besides, a Don's daughter deserves better than a glorified babysitter. She needs a man who will worship the ground she walks on."

I ignored the burning intensity of Marco's stare. I didn't have the energy for his possessive games.

"Let's go, Luca," I said, my voice quiet.

He offered me his arm, and I took it.

"There's a charity auction tonight," he said as we walked away, leaving Marco standing alone in the sterile white hallway. "A perfect distraction. My treat."

I raised an eyebrow. "And what does Marco Ricci's *consigliere* hope to gain by showering me with gifts?"

He chuckled, a low, confident sound. "I'm not his *consigliere* forever. I have my own ambitions. And they involve a queen who deserves a king, not a boy playing at being one."

For the first time in weeks, a genuine laugh escaped my lips. It was a small, fragile sound, but it was real.

"Fine," I said. "But we're not going for just any distraction. I want the Star of Sicily."

It was a legendary diamond, a flawless blue stone rumored to calm a troubled heart. It was exactly what I needed. My soul felt like a raging storm, and I craved the peace that diamond promised.

The ballroom was a sea of glittering jewels and false smiles. The air was thick with perfume and power. As I stepped through the doors on Luca's arm, a sudden chill washed over me. A cold premonition that crawled up my spine.

And then I saw them.

Marco and Angelia.

He was here to ruin this for me. I knew it as surely as I knew my own name. He would not allow me this one small piece of peace.

The auction began. When the Star of Sicily was presented, a hush fell over the room. It was breathtaking, a piece of the midnight sky captured in stone.

Angelia placed the first bid, a playful, innocent gesture. Then she caught my eye, saw the desperate longing on my face, and theatrically withdrew her bid. "Oh, no," she said, her voice loud enough for those around her to hear. "Isabella wants it. I couldn't possibly take it from her."

It was a perfectly executed move, designed to paint me as the villain.

Marco's eyes met mine across the room. They were hard, cold, and full of challenge. He would make me pay for wanting something for myself.

He raised his paddle. "One million dollars," he declared, his voice ringing through the silent ballroom. "For Angelia."

The humiliation was a physical blow. He was using my family's money, the Moretti fortune, to publicly shame me and reward the woman who had helped him betray me.

A wave of pitying glances washed over me. I could feel their whispers, see their smug smiles. I was the jilted fiancée, the fool.

I would not let him win.

Pride, sharp and fierce, rose up in me. "One and a half million," I called out, my voice shaking only slightly.

The bidding war had begun.

Isabella POV:

The bids escalated, a back-and-forth volley of pride and pain. The air in the ballroom crackled with tension. Finally, Marco lowered his paddle, a smug, satisfied smirk playing on his lips. He had pushed me to my limit, and he knew it.

"Sold!" the auctioneer cried. "To Miss Moretti for five million dollars!"

A bitter, fleeting sense of triumph washed over me. I had won. But it felt like a loss.

I walked to the payment table, my head held high, and presented my private account card, the one linked directly to the Moretti family trust.

The clerk swiped it. Once. Twice.

"I'm sorry, Miss Moretti," she said, her voice a hushed, embarrassed whisper. "The card has been declined. The account has been frozen."

Ice flooded my veins. Marco. He had anticipated this. He had cut off my access to my own family's fortune.

Luca stepped forward, his face grim. "Allow me," he said, sliding his own card across the table.

The clerk swiped it. "Declined," she murmured, looking even more mortified. "All accounts associated with the Ricci and Moretti families appear to be locked for this transaction."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Laughter, thinly veiled and cruel. I was standing there, the winner of a five-million-dollar diamond, unable to pay. A princess without a penny to her name.

Then, Marco's voice, smooth and condescending, cut through the noise.

"Perhaps I can be of assistance."

He strode to the table, tapped his personal signet ring against the payment console, and the transaction was instantly approved. He had locked me out, only to display his absolute control.

The velvet box containing the Star of Sicily was handed to him. For a heart-stopping moment, I thought he might give it to me, a twisted peace offering.

He walked past me, straight to Angelia. He knelt before her, opened the box, and presented the diamond like a holy relic.

"For you, Angie," he said, his voice filled with a devotion that shattered the last fragments of my heart. "Always."

The ballroom erupted in applause. The public humiliation was complete. I was a spectacle, a tragic sideshow in their perfect love story.

Luca's voice was a low growl in my ear. "He planned this, Bella. He wanted to break you in front of everyone."

Marco's voice, cold and sharp, cut in. "Stay out of this, Luca. What happens with Isabella is my business." He turned to me, his eyes devoid of any warmth. "This is what happens when you defy me."

A laugh escaped my lips. It was a raw, mirthless sound that turned heads. A sound of absolute, soul-crushing despair.

I didn't say a word. I just turned and ran. I fled the ballroom, the laughter and whispers chasing me like a pack of wolves.

I locked myself in my room, the darkness a welcome shroud. Shaking, I activated the listening device I'd hidden in Marco's study months ago. I needed to hear, to understand the depths of his cruelty.

I heard the voices of his soldiers, Enzo and Jax.

"She looked completely broken," Enzo said, a note of satisfaction in his voice. "Did you see her face?"

"Serves her right," Jax replied. "Acting like she's too good for him."

Then Marco's voice, cold and possessive, filled the speaker. "She is mine. She's just forgotten her place. I'll handle her."

I saw him on the security feed. He was picking up a small, velvet box from his desk—a cheap imitation of the diamond necklace he had just given Angelia. A pathetic consolation prize.

The words echoed in my mind. *She is mine.*

He didn't love me. He didn't even respect me. He saw me as a possession, an object to be controlled and punished.

I switched off the monitor. I couldn't watch anymore. I couldn't listen to the casual cruelty of the men I had once considered family.

I didn't see the flicker of unease on Luca's face as Marco claimed me. I didn't hear the way his heart broke for me in the echoing silence of the ballroom.

All I knew was the crushing weight of my own despair, and the sound of Marco's footsteps approaching my door. He was coming to "handle" me.