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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"Remind me why we didn't take the car again?" Isabela whines, leaning against the tree bark as she adjusts the straps on her six-inch heels.
"We didn't have time."
"Bullshark!" Isabela curses. Her weird combinations to substitute profanity as an interesting subject are precious. "It's going to take hours to get home, and my feet are killing me."
"No one said to wear high heels."
From the corner of my eye, I watch Isabela halt in her footsteps, her lips falling open in shock. "You did not! How was I supposed to know you were going to take us on the stroll of the town?"
I shrug my shoulders. "I expected you to read my mind."
"We aren't actually best friends, you know," Isabela states, her heels scraping against the concrete. "I can't read your mind when I barely know you."
I sigh.
Mild irritation washes over me. What does she want to learn about me? She gives me the cold shoulder daily. I deserve it, and I shouldn't give her a reason to soften around me. To let me in. We can't be a duo. We clash like Pepsi and milk-- a gut-wrenching concoction.
"It's better that way."
As soon as it leaves my lips, I wish I changed the subject.
Isabela yanks on my sleeve, holding me in place as her gaze clashes with mine. "For you or for me?"
My body tenses. "You're right, Miss Arias." Following my every step, Isabela backs away until she's up against a light post. "You wouldn't be able to read my mind because we know nothing about each other. You're nothing more than a client to me, Miss Arias. Get it through your head and stop trying."
Hurt swirls in her irises. A long stretch of silence hovers around us like fog before she slams her shoulder against mine and proceeds down the block. I briefly close my eyes, wanting to bash my head against the lamppost. My head and heart combat against each other for control. Bodily control. How can a person want two different things?
By the time I glance up, Isabela is already down two blocks, turning left towards a rural area. Groaning, I pick up the pace and reach her in no time. Rage emits her every step as she slams her heels on the concrete with her arms across her chest.
"Don't follow me," Isabela says through gritted teeth.
"I can't do that."
She spins around, her hair flying from the speed. "Actually, you can. If I'm your client, then I'm in charge of you, no? Fudge off and report to Damien like the good boy you are. I'll see you in the afterlife."
My mouth twitches.
Another trait I've received from my father-- the ability to ruin an entire night with a single statement. It's my fault. I'm letting myself follow in his footsteps. Mama would scold me for being so disrespectful to Isabela. She advocated her favorite motto.
