Saving Isabella

Chapter 6: Defying them

A/N

This chapter might be triggering as it contains a detailed description of self-harm so I've signaled where it starts and where it ends.

I'm so exhausted from today's events that I'm starting to drift off on this cushy, soft, warm, and far too inviting—No, Bella, stop! Focus, you can't sleep! If I fall asleep, Lorenzo might do something, and if I have a nightmare, my cover will be blown. I press gently on my ribs, the surge of pain jolting me awake. I spend the next 30 minutes or so fighting off sleep, desperately trying to keep my eyes open. Thankfully, my torture ends as the plane lands in who-knows-where.

I grab my backpack and practically sprint down the steps. "Where are we?"

A large hand clamps down on my shoulder—the left one, thankfully—making me jump. Lorenzo leans in, his voice a low, angry whisper. "Slow down, Isa! Planning to run away again?"

"It's Bella," I snap back, "and no, I was just trying to figure out where the hell we are!"

"Welcome to Los Angeles," he replies, sarcasm dripping from every word.

I try not to wince as his hand slides down to grip my forearm, right over the fresh burns. I instinctively try to pull away, but he tightens his grip, dragging me toward a sleek black BMW parked on the far side of the lot, clearly distant from the main airport. I'm actually surprised to see Lorenzo driving himself—I half-expected some chauffeur in a suit. I settle in the back, my backpack wedged protectively between my feet, too immersed in my thoughts to bother looking out the window.

The car jolts to a stop, snapping me back to reality. I step out and my jaw drops. The mansion in front of me is straight out of a movie—massive, with towering columns and an expansive, perfectly manicured lawn. The exterior is a blend of old-world grandeur and modern elegance, with ivy creeping up the stone walls and large windows reflecting the last light of the day.

"Is this your house?" I whisper, half in awe.

"Yeah" Lorenzo responds, as if it's the most normal thing in the world. He doesn't even glance at it, like he's seen it a million times before.

I follow him across the pristine driveway, the interior of the house even more impressive than the outside. Everything inside gleams—polished marble floors, sparkling chandeliers, and art that probably costs more than my entire existence. I'm almost afraid to breathe, worried I might break something just by being here.

Lorenzo leads me up two flights of stairs to the third floor, where we step into a carpeted corridor. Twelve doors line the walls, six on each side.

"On the right side, starting from the back," Lorenzo begins, his tone detached, "you have Alex, Ryan, Nick, Dylan, and your room." He points to each one in turn. "On the left side, there's Arthur's, mine, Ezra's, Elijah's, and Dominic's rooms. The others are guest rooms." His voice is clinical, like he's reciting a grocery list. "The rooms are ordered by age. Arthur's the oldest, then Alex, me, Ryan, Ezra, Nick, Elijah, and the twins, Dylan and Dominic. Want to see your room?"

"No, I'd rather sleep on the floor," I smirk, earning a sharp glare from Lorenzo.

"Over here," he says, ignoring my sarcasm as he opens a door, and turns on the light. "I hope you like it. Alex had to guess what you'd prefer. There's a new laptop for you on the desk. The TV has Disney+, Netflix, and Amazon Prime. And over here is your bathroom."

I step inside and nearly gasp. The room is nothing short of luxurious. In the center, there's a massive bed draped with rich purple sheets that look so soft it's like they're made of clouds.