Mafia king and demon, Noah Gabriel is everyone's fear, and the very mention of his name makes one shudder.
Everyone adores Isabella Rose Robinson, who is known as an angel, and she has her unique style of speaking.
After they meet, Noah forces her...
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Noah's POV:
"The workers will be repainting your room today," Daniel announces from across the office, his tone nonchalant.
"Do you have a color in mind?" Rowan asks, his voice curious.
"He'll paint it dark, of course," Daniel replies with a smirk. "As usual."
"No," I interject, surprising them both. "I want the wall across my bed painted ocean blue. The others will be the usual dark grey."
They exchange a look but wisely say nothing. After discussing my father's latest scheme—an absurd 'ceremony' in Milan meant to court the Romanian clan—I dismiss them. I know his real agenda: to forge alliances under the guise of honoring me. It's all a charade, a calculated move that I'll play along with—for now.
As soon as the door closes, I shut my laptop and head to my room, needing space to think. But as soon as I step inside, a knock echoes through the room.
Who could it be? Daniel and Rowan left moments ago, and Leila has been gone for hours. "Come in," I call out, half expecting one of the guards. Instead, my heart skips a beat as *she* walks in.
Isabella.
I'll admit it—I like her more than I should. I want to hold her, keep her close, inhale the scent of her hair, and never let go.
"It's time for your last pill," she says softly, stepping closer with a bottle of water and a pill in hand.
"For the pain," she adds, her eyes searching mine.
I stare at the pill. "It doesn't work," I mutter, thinking more of the emotional agony my father causes than the physical pain. He's pushed me to my limits before, but trying to kill Isabella—*my* fiancée—was a line I never thought he'd cross.
"Don't judge too quickly," she says gently, holding the pill out. "Take it."
I swallow the pill, washing it down with the water she hands me. She lingers for a moment before instructing me to shower and change, then leaves without waiting for a response. I'm left standing there, feeling a strange comfort at the thought of her returning soon.
After showering, I dress in grey sweatpants and a tight black shirt, my hair still damp from the water. I sit at my desk, pulling out a piece of paper and a pencil. Drawing has always been my secret outlet, a way to channel my anger and frustration. Tonight, I find myself sketching a pair of eyes—warm, lively, yet tinged with madness. Eyes that are all too familiar.
Another knock interrupts my thoughts. I quickly hide the drawing. "Come in."
Isabella enters, carrying a tray with orange juice, cupcakes, and the first aid kit. "I brought you something to eat, and it's time to replace your bandages," she says, her tone brisk but caring. I was expecting something different, but I'm not disappointed.
