Strong-willed, badass and bounded by the chains of an arranged marriage, Isabela Arias dreams of the freedom to live and love as she chooses.
Being sold to the Italian mafia wasn't exactly on Isabela's to do list...
As she's forced to navigate the r...
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One hundred.
Where's my stress ball? I haven't used that shit since I was discharged from the military. My therapist suggested for me to relieve my outrage through a healthy method. But I'm starting to think Damien's face would be a lovely substitute for my stress ball. I want to fuck up this opportunity, but there's so much at stake.
I need the payments to keep her safe.
Isabela's black locks obscure her features, swaying in the air in the wind's direction. The air whistles. Concern washes over me. She hadn't moved an inch since Damien screamed at her. Things are always unfair in life. Someone has to be the predator, while the other gets to be the prey. I know that.
It just seems extremely cruel for Isabela to be in the latter category.
Running down the staircase, I pull out a handkerchief from my chest pocket and couch down to hand it to her. She doesn't see it. Her hair blocking her from the outside world. Cautiously, my pointer finger splits her hair open, placing the portion of her hair behind her ear.
"What?" she hisses. "Are you here to gloat? To say I told you so? Well, I get it, so fudge off!"
My jaw almost falls open. Have I done something to show her I'm just like the rest of the guys she knew? Yeah, I took the job, but I'm trying to help her. I want to help her. Silent rage emits from my pores. Dark red wine blood oozes out her split lip, smudging onto her straight teeth.
Damien's handprint on her cheek, the blood rushing to the scorching spot.
My voice softens. "What kind of person would I be if I said that to you?"
Isabela gingerly swallows. "You would be like every other person in my life-- a disappointment. Go ahead. Add yourself to the tally."
Rising to full height, I extend my busted hand to Isabela and observe her irises trade between my hand and the ground. There's a majestic aura around her. It's extraordinary-- once in a lifetime. She's on the floor, but her spirit remains firm. Today is just one horrid night. That doesn't mean all her days have to end on this note.
She sighs, about to grab my hand before her palm slams over her lips, and her eyes widen with despair-- her body jolts. Isabela stands on all fours, filling the air with the sounds of her aggressive vomiting. I lurch forward, bending on one knee to pull her hair away from her face and rub Isabela's backside.
The urge to vomit nearly transfers to me when I see the undigested grilled cheese on the concrete. See, this is why I don't drink. Drinking leads to mistakes and godawful hangovers. Isabela whines between the surges of puke, struggling to breathe through her vomiting nostrils.
After two minutes of silence, Isabela falls on her ass and screams at the world. "I hate fudging throwing up!"
