Chapter 1 1

Isabella Harrison POV

The scent of expensive bourbon and sharp winter air suffocated me.

I was trapped in the minimalist, monochromatic expanse of Damien Moretti's penthouse, the glittering skyline of Chicago mocking me through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The Don of the Chicago Outfit pinned me against the massive black leather bed, his grip an iron vice that bruised my wrists.

"Your husband," Damien's voice was a lethal caress, laced with ice and absolute authority, "that hypocrite from the slums who desperately wants to climb the ladder, handed you to my bed with his own hands. All for a chance to take down his political rival."

Tears of pure despair spilled down my cheeks. Barrett Bradshaw, the man I had vowed to love, had used me as collateral.

Damien's dark, hollow eyes traced my face with a ruinous, obsessive hunger. He didn't look at me like a prize he had won, but rather like a stolen possession he was finally reclaiming. When his weight crushed down on me, claiming what he believed was always his, the scream tore from my throat.

I jolted awake, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

My bedroom in the Harrison estate was bathed in the soft morning light, the silk sheets clinging to my sweat-drenched skin. It had been ten days since I woke up in this timeline, yet the phantom touch of the Don still burned on my skin. That nightmare was my daily reminder. I would rather burn this city to the ground than let Barrett Bradshaw drag me back to hell.

A timid knock interrupted my racing thoughts. My assistant stepped in, her hands empty and her face pale.

"Miss Isabella... I went to the vault for the Harrison Sapphire Brooch, but..." She swallowed hard. "Karly's maid snatched the velvet box right out of my hands. Her mother was there, and the Head Butler... he just looked away."

A cold smile touched my lips. I stood up, letting her clasp a simple, inferior string of pearls around my neck instead.

When I stepped out into the upstairs hallway, the thick Persian carpet muffling my steps, Karly was already waiting. The heavy steel door of the family vault loomed behind her. Pinned to the collar of her dress was the heavy, glittering Harrison Sapphire-the undeniable symbol of the eldest legitimate daughter.

"I want more than the brooch, sister," Karly sneered, her eyes flashing with a venomous, knowing light. "Your fiancé, your future... I'm taking it all."

I stared at her, the final puzzle piece clicking into place. The sudden change in her behavior over the last ten days, the orchestrated "accidental" meeting with Barrett at the charity gala. She remembered the past life, too. She thought she was stealing my crown, completely unaware she was stealing my executioner.

"Keep it, Karly," I said softly, walking past her. "Let's see if you can bear the weight of it."

By the time I descended into the formal drawing room, the air was already thick with the scent of Earl Grey tea and the faint, lingering aroma of cigars. Elia Harrison, the Matriarch of our family, sat in her velvet armchair with the rigid posture of a queen holding court. She looked at Barrett Bradshaw with a calculated gleam in her eye, viewing the ambitious Assistant District Attorney as a useful pawn to solidify our family's standing.

Everyone in the room, from Karly's mother standing quietly in the corner to the servants by the door, knew why he was here. A strategic alliance. A proposal for the eldest daughter.

Barrett stood tall, his handsome face masking the ruthless opportunist beneath. Beside him, his family lawyer cleared his throat, breaking the heavy silence.

"Madam Harrison," the lawyer began, his voice echoing off the wood-paneled walls. "Mr. Barrett Bradshaw formally requests the honor of a union with your family. He asks for the hand of the second daughter, Miss Karly Harrison."

The silence that followed was absolute, deafening in its shock.

Karly touched the sapphire on her chest, shooting me a look of triumphant arrogance. But I didn't look at her. I kept my eyes lowered, hiding the profound, intoxicating wave of relief that washed over me. I was free of him.

I glanced up just enough to see my great-grandmother. Elia Harrison's face had drained of all color before hardening into a mask of absolute, glacial fury. The blatant disregard for tradition, the public humiliation of the main branch-it was an unforgivable insult. The temperature in the drawing room plummeted, the polite facade of high society shattering into jagged pieces.