The vow and the vendetta

Chapter 1

Love Amidst Chaos

The sun rarely shone kindly on the highlands of San Merida. A remote village nestled between ragged peaks, it was a place beauty could not save from war. Civil conflict had reduced the lush terrain into bloodied soil, where bullets whispered across broken roofs and silence fell too quickly after each gunshot.

Isabella Sanchez grew up knowing the sharpness of grief. Her mother died in childbirth, and her father, Javier Sanchez, a retired schoolteacher, became her world. He was the kind of man who greeted strangers with warmth, who believed in justice even when the laws bent to men in power. That belief, however, would cost him his life.

Before the tragedy, before her world crumbled, Isabella knew love. She met Damian Philips at a journalist forum in the city-a quiet gathering organized by Hernandez Lopez, a relentless truth-seeker. Isabella was attending as a translator. Damian, the son of a powerful businessman, Raphael Philips, came under the pretense of support but stayed because of her. His dark eyes didn't flinch when she argued about political injustice. His lips curled into a smile when she quoted banned poets.

Their love was not immediate-it burned slow, like embers gathering heat. They met again in the mountains when Raphael Philips sent Damian on a covert mission to retrieve stolen supplies meant for displaced villagers. Isabella volunteered to guide him. For two weeks, they hiked through rain and bullets. They shared stories, meals, and finally, a sleeping bag on a night when the rain broke their tent. Their first kiss was under thunder. Their first night together came two days later, after a soldier they were sheltering died in his sleep. Grief cracked them open. Love stitched them together.

She remembered every touch. The softness of his fingers tracing the scars on her shoulder. The way he whispered "you are stronger than this war" in the dark. Their bodies learned each other's rhythms like music-urgent, tender, raw. They made love not out of lust, but as a desperate plea against a crumbling world.

But love was a luxury San Merida couldn't afford.

One afternoon, Isabella's father stepped outside their city home. She followed him to the gate, arguing about a stubborn chicken who refused to eat. She still remembers how his laugh trailed off when the sound of a motorcycle roared down the street. Two masked gunmen pulled up. One raised a rifle. She didn't scream. She froze. And then the shots came-three of them-buried deep into Javier's chest.

He collapsed at her feet, blood soaking her sandals. Her screams came too late.

No one claimed responsibility. The government blamed rebels. The rebels blamed the army. Isabella blamed them all.

That night, Isabella didn't sleep. Damian held her, but she was unreachable. Her soul had cracked. In the morning, she left his bed and stood before her father's grave and swore: "They will pay. I don't care how long it takes."

That was the last time she kissed Damian.

Isabella Sanchez, now 26, is more than a grieving daughter. She is a woman forged by grief and sharpened by vengeance. But her connections run deep, tangled in the web of war and legacy.

Damian Philips, her former lover, is the only man she's ever trusted with her truth. Son of Raphael Philips-a tycoon with alleged secret dealings with both the government and rebel factions-Damian walks a tightrope between loyalty and disillusionment. He loves Isabella but cannot betray his father without risking everything.

Raphael Philips, though charismatic and philanthropic in public, is suspected of bankrolling both aid and arms. Some say he funds relief missions; others whisper about shipments that end up in rebel hands. He claims neutrality. But Isabella knows better.

Hernandez Lopez, the journalist, was once close to Javier Sanchez. A crusader with a pen, he's investigating ties between powerful businessmen, government troops, and rebel insurgents. He believes Javier was killed for something he discovered-something that threatened to expose the real puppeteers behind the war.

Ander Thomas, the policeman who arrived moments after the shooting, is torn between duty and corruption. He's an old student of Javier's, but he now serves a police force riddled with compromise. He gave Isabella the gun she now carries-a silent pact made in a dark alleyway.

Taylor Martin, leader of the rebel group "Ashen Wings," is a fierce woman with a ruthless code. Some say she was once a victim of the army's cruelty. Now, she strikes without mercy. Rumor has it that Taylor once dealt directly with Raphael Philips, trading stolen artifacts for medical supplies. She is both threat and possible ally to Isabella's cause.

Rachel Sanchez, Isabella's sister, is a successful lawyer in the capital. Known for her cold logic and flawless record, she is the opposite of Isabella-controlled, precise, unyielding. The sisters rarely see eye to eye. Rachel believes justice belongs in courtrooms, not alleys. Still, she quietly funds Isabella's movements, perhaps out of guilt, perhaps out of hope.

Isabella walks a line between these characters-some bound by blood, others by fire. Each one is a piece of the truth she seeks. Each one holds a secret that could shatter her quest.

It was an ordinary morning. The birds chirped, children played down the street, and the scent of boiling cassava drifted from the Sanchez home. Isabella and her father stood at their front gate, bickering about chickens.

"You spoil them too much," Javier said, smiling through his silver mustache.

"And you don't feed them enough!" she countered, tugging at his sleeve.

He laughed. "You always did have your mother's stubbornness."

Then came the sound-the growl of an engine. A black motorcycle, two men in black helmets. Her father turned, eyes narrowing.

"Isabella, go inside."

She didn't move.

The man on the back of the bike raised his rifle. Three shots. Sharp. Precise. Her father fell, his blood painting the stones red.

The world slowed. Her knees hit the ground. The motorcycle roared away.

And everything changed

Isabella stopped sleeping. The house smelled like death and silence. She replayed the scene over and over, trying to understand.

Why her father? Why that day?

Damian begged her to stay in the city, said he could protect her. But she could see the fear in his eyes-not for her safety, but for the truth she might uncover. She began asking questions. Too many. Hernandez warned her to be careful. Ander avoided her calls. Rachel flew in for the funeral but returned to her courtroom before the last candle burned out.

One night, Isabella found a folded note under her door: "He knew something. Let it go." No signature.

She didn't cry. She loaded the gun Ander had given her and packed a bag.

She wasn't looking for justice anymore.

She was looking for war.