Shattered Vows

Shattered

The next morning, I awoke feeling disoriented and drained, the events of yesterday still fresh in my mind. The injection had left my arm aching, a constant reminder of the cruel reality I found myself in.

A knock on the door startled me, and a maid entered, carrying a tray of breakfast. She placed it on the small table beside the bed with a practiced efficiency. "Good morning, Miss Isabella," she said, her tone devoid of warmth. "Mr. Marco requests that you be down in the dining room by lunchtime. Please wear something appropriate."

I stared at her in disbelief, tears of frustration welling in my eyes. "I'm not going anywhere!" I snapped. "I refuse to participate in this charade. I don't care what he demands."

The maid's expression remained impassive. "I'm afraid you must comply. Mr. Marco has instructed me to inform you that if you don't come down on your own, he will come up to ensure your attendance."

The threat was clear and chilling. "Why is he doing this?" I demanded, my voice trembling. "What does he want from me?"

The maid offered no explanation, simply nodding politely before leaving the room. Alone, I felt a surge of helpless anger. The idea of being forced to change my clothes was almost unbearable, but the threat of Marco's personal intervention made it clear that defiance might not be an option.

As lunchtime approached, I clung to my rebellion, deciding to wear the same outfit from the previous day—black tight jeans and a white top that now felt like a second skin. I wasn't going to give in to his demands. My defiance was the only control I had left.

When I arrived at the dining room, the opulence of the setting felt more oppressive than ever. The table was set with fine china and silverware, and Marco was already seated, his gaze fixed on me with a mixture of curiosity and disdain.

"Good afternoon, Isabella," Marco greeted, his tone smooth but laced with cold authority. "I see you haven't changed your clothes at all."

I took a seat at the table, trying to ignore the way his eyes assessed me. "I'm not here to impress anyone," I said defiantly. "I'm wearing what I want."

Marco's eyes narrowed slightly, a smirk playing on his lips. "I see. While I appreciate your determination, I must remind you that your attire is not suitable for the dining table. We will address your wardrobe situation after the marriage."

My heart sank at his words. "Marriage?" I repeated, my voice barely a whisper. "What do you mean by that?"

Marco's smile remained steady but devoid of any real comfort. "Yes, marriage. It's a necessary part of your new life here. We'll discuss the details in due course. For now, let's focus on making you feel more at home."

The cold reality of his words settled heavily on my shoulders. The idea of being forced into an arranged marriage with someone who had already shown me nothing but cruelty was almost too much to bear. My mind raced with the implications, each thought more terrifying than the last.

As the meal progressed, I couldn't bring myself to eat. The sight of the lavish food, the very thing that symbolized my imprisonment, made my stomach turn. I pushed the food around on my plate, trying to ignore Marco's indifferent gaze.

Unable to contain my shock and anger, I finally stood up, my chair scraping loudly against the floor. "I won't marry you!" I shouted, my voice breaking. "This isn't my life! I refuse to be a part of this!"

Panic surged through me as I struggled to grasp the reality of my situation. I felt my breathing become ragged, and my vision blurred. "Dad!" I cried out, my voice cracking with desperation. "Dad, please help me!"

Marco's expression remained unchanging, his demeanor cold and detached. "Isabella, this is not a matter of choice. You will adapt to your new life here."

The panic attack overwhelmed me, my chest tightening as I struggled to breathe. I tried to move toward the door, but the guards blocked my path. In a state of sheer terror, I fought against them, but their grip was unyielding.

Marco's voice cut through my frantic cries. "Get her to her room," he ordered the maid, who had reappeared. "Lock the door from the outside to ensure she can't leave."

The maid stepped forward, and with the help of the guards, they forced me out of the dining room. I fought against their hold, tears streaming down my face. "No! Please, let me go! I don't want this!"

Ignoring my pleas, they escorted me back to my room. My struggles only grew more intense as I was pushed inside. The maid swiftly locked the door behind me, the sound of the key turning in the lock echoing ominously.

Desperation clawed at me as I pounded on the door, my fists bruising from the force. "Let me out, you bastard!" I screamed. "You can't do this! I won't marry him! I refuse to be a part of your sick game! Let me out, you son of a bitch!"

My curses echoed through the empty hall, but the only response was the cold silence of my imprisonment. The realization that I was utterly alone, with no escape from this nightmare, left me feeling more trapped than ever.

Exhausted and defeated, I sank to the floor. I curled into a ball, my body trembling with sobs. I tried to think of happier times, the moments when my mother was still alive—her comforting presence, her soothing words. I clung to those memories, hoping they would bring some comfort.

But as I wept, the absence of her warmth was palpable. Her comforting embrace and gentle voice were gone, leaving only a void that deepened my despair. The reality that she wasn't here to help me, to guide me through this torment, only made my sorrow more acute. The tears continued to fall, and I could do nothing but cry, feeling more alone and lost than ever.