Saving Isabella

Chapter 27: Arthur vs Dylan

POV DYLAN ROSSI:

After Isabella leaves with Arthur and Alex, I excuse myself from the table and retreat to my room. Closing the door behind me, I flop onto my bed and let out a heavy sigh. I don't want to deal with anyone right now. Pulling out my phone, I start mindlessly scrolling through TikTok, trying to escape reality for a little while.

A sudden, sharp knock on my door makes me jump. My heart races as the sound echoes through the room.
"Come in!" I call, reluctantly setting my phone aside. My surprise doubles when the door opens and Arthur steps inside. His expression is stony, his jaw tight.
"Get up," he says flatly.

I blink at him, confused. "Why?"
"Because I said so," he replies, his voice cold and commanding.
"That's not an answer," I mutter, folding my arms over my chest.

Arthur's expression darkens, his patience clearly wearing thin. "Don't play smart with me, Dylan. When I tell you to get up, you get up. It's ten in the morning. You can't just lay around all day, scrolling on your phone. You're supposed to be in school, not wasting your life in bed."

I groan, dragging my feet as I get up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. His sharp tone leaves little room for argument, but I can't stop myself from muttering, "Why aren't you in school?"
"Because Roger said I could stay home—"
"Roger is not the boss!" Arthur's voice rises, his frustration spilling over. "I am! Do you understand that? I own you!"

My face falls at his words. I open my mouth to protest, but the weight of his anger leaves me frozen.
"If I tell you to go walk outside naked, you're going to do it. Got it?" he continues, his voice sharp and unrelenting. Tears prickle at my eyes, and despite my best efforts to hold them back, one slips down my cheek. I clench my fists, feeling anger and humiliation swirl together in my chest.

I can't find the words to respond. My mind is blank, stuck in a cycle of shock and helplessness. Arthur steps closer, his towering figure making me feel impossibly small.
"I know what your problem is," he says, his voice quieter now but no less biting. I instinctively take a step back. "Your problem is gratitude. Maybe if I take everything away from you—one by one—until you have nothing, then maybe you'll finally appreciate what you have."

Without warning, he snatches the phone from my hand.
"Hey!" I reach for it, but he shoves it into his pocket, glaring down at me. His eyes sweep over my figure, and for a moment, his expression twists into something almost like disgust.
"Why do I even waste money on you?" he mutters, more to himself than to me. "Look at your clothes!"

I glance down at myself—baggy black sweatpants and a green hoodie that's a little oversized but comfortable. I suddenly feel very small against his towering figure.
"You dress like a fucking immigrant," he spits. "I really messed up raising you, didn't I?"

His words make me feel as though I've been punched in the gut again and again. I feel like a burden...useless...

"You didn't raise me!" I yell, my voice breaking under the weight of everything I'm holding back. "Alex did! You're always locked in your office, working, working, working! You don't care! You're an asshole!"

Arthur's hand lashes out before I can even process what's happening. The slap is fast, the sting radiating across my cheek like fire. I stumble backward, my hand flying to my face as tears pour freely now, the pain and shock too much to hold back.
"Quit crying," Arthur snaps, straightening the cuffs of his shirt as though nothing just happened. "I barely touched you."

His words only make it worse. I clutch my cheek, my chest heaving with quiet sobs as I try to process what just happened.

Something inside me snaps. "Fuck you!" I scream.

Arthur's eyes narrow, his face darkening. "Excuse me?" His voice is icy, his tone more a warning than a question.

Before he can say anything else, I lunge at him. My body moves faster than my brain, and I slam into him with everything I have. The impact sends both of us sprawling to the floor, a chaotic tangle of limbs.

We hit the ground hard, and for a brief, wild moment, I'm on top. My fists swing, uncoordinated and desperate, but Arthur deflects them easily. We roll across the floor, grunting and struggling, my hands clawing at his shirt, his arms locking mine down in return.

It doesn't last long. Arthur twists, flipping us over with ease, and suddenly he's above me, his weight pressing down like an immovable force.

"Enough!" he growls, pinning my arms to the floor. His knee drives into my stomach, and a sharp, crushing pain erupts in my ribs. My breath leaves me in a single, choked gasp. I can't get air, and panic floods my body.

I thrash beneath him, crying and screaming, but it's useless. He's too strong, his grip unyielding. My fists beat weakly against his sides, and my legs kick out, but it feels like I'm fighting a steel wall.

"Get off me!" I sob, the words tearing from my throat, but they're garbled, almost incoherent. My vision blurs with tears as I claw at his arm, desperate for freedom.

And then, suddenly, he lets go.

But then the first kick lands.

It slams into my chest with the force of a battering ram, knocking the wind out of me. I gasp, the pain spreading through my ribcage like fire. Another kick follows, harder than the first. I try to get up, to push myself onto my hands and knees, but my arms buckle under me.

"Stop!" I cry, but my voice is drowned out by the pounding of blood in my ears and the sound of his boot striking my ribs again.

I can't take it. The pain is too much, his strength overwhelming. I curl into myself, wrapping my arms around my head, pulling my knees to my chest.

"Please," I whisper through sobs, but it's barely audible.

Through the blur of tears, I see the door fly open. A figure rushes in, moving fast—too fast for me to make out who it is. Suddenly, the kicks stop, replaced by muffled shouting.

I uncurl slightly, just enough to see someone pulling Arthur away from me. His face is flushed, his chest heaving as he struggles against the hands dragging him back. The rage in his eyes is still burning, but he doesn't fight the intervention for long. Whoever it is—Ezra, maybe?—manages to shove him back, creating a safe distance between us.

I'm left on the floor, a broken, sobbing mess. My body feels like it's on fire, every nerve ending screaming in protest. Tears stream down my face, mixing with the spit and snot that I can't seem to control.

I want to move, but I can't. My body won't respond. I can only lie there, trembling, gasping for air, my vision swimming with tears and the dull ache of pain radiating from my chest.

I close my eyes, shutting out the light, the voices, the world. All I can do is lie there, curled up on the floor, waiting for the tears to stop.

A/N

Happy Christmas guys, I hope yall have a nice holiday. I hope you liked this update. Bye