Saving Isabella

Chapter 9: Arthur

POV Ryan Rossi:

I wake up at six, the familiar chime of my alarm nudging me from sleep. I head straight to the gym, the early hour ensuring the space is mine alone. Today, I'm pushing myself to bench press 380 pounds. The clatter of the weights is satisfying as I complete each set, every lift a step closer to my goal. The final push leaves my arms trembling, but I manage to rack the weight. The sound of it crashing into place reverberates through the empty gym.

I move on to my back workout. It's the only way I know how to work—full throttle, with no room for excuses. When I'm done, I finish with pushups, my palms sweating and slipping against the cold floor. The sensation of sweat mingling with resolve is something I crave. It reminds me that I'm still alive, that I still have control.

After the workout, I head back to my room, thinking about tomorrow's run. Another fucking run. I hate running. The routine isn't for pleasure, it's for survival. I strip off my clothes, letting them fall in a heap on the floor, and step into the shower. The cold water hits me like a truck, washing away the sweat and fatigue. It wakes me up fully, reminding me that the day has barely begun.

I blow-dry my hair, style it quickly, and slip into a gray suit. I'm not going anywhere today, but Arthur insists we all wear suits. Professionalism, he calls it. I call it unnecessary, but I don't argue. It's not worth it. Besides, the suit feels like armor. It's a facade, one that says I'm in control, even when everything else is crumbling around me.

By the time I check my watch, it's 7:10. Record time. I head downstairs, where Elijah is already sitting at the table, his nose buried in a chemistry textbook. His focus is unbreakable, like always.

"Have you had breakfast?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

"Mhmm," he mumbles, barely glancing up from his book. His voice is a flat grumble, as if even speaking to me is an inconvenience.

I look around the room. "Where's Ezra? He's usually up by now."

Elijah's scribbling doesn't slow, but his response is laced with irritation. "Don't know. Apparently, he ran away again. Alex is pissed."

I pause, the words sinking in. "Ran away? Why? What happened?"

Elijah finally looks up, his eyes dark with annoyance. "I think he got mad at Isabella or something. Alex told him to go to his room, but he vanished instead. Classic Ezra."

"How the hell did I not know about this?"

He shrugs, flipping a page. "No clue. Now, can I get back to studying, or do you want to keep pestering me? I've got school soon, and I actually care about my grades."

I finish my oatmeal in silence, ruffling Elijah's hair as I leave the table. He swats my hand away, still too engrossed in his book to care. I make my way upstairs, my mind already focused on finding Ezra. He's a loose cannon, and if something happens to him, it's on me.

As I near my office, I spot Isabella, sitting cross-legged on the floor, her back pressed against the wall. Her eyes are wide and distant. Seeing me approach, she scrambles to her feet, her hands trembling slightly. She whimpers, just barely audible. Strange.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, my tone sharp. "You're not supposed to be on this floor."

She stares at me, blinking in confusion. "Who are you?"

I clench my jaw, my patience already thinning. Right. She doesn't remember me. "I'm Ryan, your fourth brother, now mind telling me, what are you doing sitting on the floor where you're not supposed to be?"