Page 1 of Marriage of Revenge

CHAPTER 1 – ISABELLA

"His dark eyes lock onto mine. “Mine.” The possessive growl sends a bolt of heat through me. “So wet for me, mon amour,” he breathes, slipping another finger inside me. A moan escapes—helpless, endless—as my body clenches around him. Lost, claimed, found. “You’ve always been mine,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear. “I love you.”

I want to believe those words. That love could be mine. That somewhere, someone might see me as more than a Moretti. More than a broken ballerina who still can’t dance without losing her balance.

More than me.

Snapping the book shut, I let out a slow breath. Maybe that’s asking too much. Maybe fairy tales are for girls who don’t have blood on their hands.

Through my open window—a luxury after months of sterile hospital air—honeysuckle and wet grass carry the scent ofpossibility. Of everything I desperately want to believe still waits for me.

“You’re a Moretti, Isabella. You make the world yours. Never forget that,” my father used to tell me.

Before.

When he used to talk to me. Before I messed everything up.

So yep, maybe the fairy tale isn’t in the cards for me. But screw it, I’ll take whatever happily-ever-after I can get.

Hope.

It’s all I’ve got left, and it’s probably foolish. But whatever. Pity-party officially over.

If romance novels are the only love story I get, then so be it. I’ll devour every last one.

Sliding my well-worn copy ofHate To Love Youunder my pillow, I stretch and yawn, my hand accidentally brushing against the pill bottles on my nightstand, sending one scattering to the ground.

Pavarotti the Cat glances up at me with that patentedWhat-Are-You-Doinglook and proceeds to meow so loudly he might wake up the entire mansion.

"Pssttt, don’t tell them I’m going to dance," I murmur. He responds by plopping himself down and starting a bath, without a care in the world.

Must be nice.

Dancing before anyone wakes up is one way to get back to it. I avoid the pity-stares and the leery ones and I get to do what I want.

Turns out spite is a hell of a motivation for getting back torelevé.

Which is good since my latest physical therapist had to mysteriously “relocate”—like the three before him.

I tip toe outside of my room, knowing that I have one more hour until the guards start making their rounds in this wing.

“Good morning, Miss Isabella.” My father’s bodyguard’s nasal voice makes me want to jump out of my skin. He’s lounging against the wall, like he’s been here all night, like he knows the books I’ve been reading and wants to audition for the role of villain.

He should know there’s a long list of contenders.

His slow smile makes my stomach turn. “Early start today?” His gaze travels down my body, lingering in places that make me want to wrap my arms around myself. To disappear into the oversized Juilliard sweater I didn't think I needed at five in the morning.

“Yep,” I reply, refusing to look down, to let him see how uneasy he makes me. “Don't worry, I know the rules. No dancing past eight.”

He nods as if he's giving *me* permission. He's not my father, not my ballet teacher, not my doctor.

“Good girl,” he says, the smirk deepening. As if I need his approval. As if I belong to him.

The words crawl over my skin, making me want to scrub them off. If my father weren’t his boss, I’d be in real trouble—he wouldn’t hesitate, and we both know it.

I force myself to walk past him, not run (because tripping right now would really not help).

But the second I round the corner, my breath whooshes out. It’s not enough, though. I can still feel his eyes on me, crawling down my spine like he’s waiting for the day I’m no longer untouchable.

---