Chapter 3

Isabella POV

Before stepping out into the freezing midnight air, I told Bianca I needed a moment to fetch my heavy coat from the parlor.

The sanctuary's main hall was swallowed in shadows, smelling of damp earth and extinguished beeswax candles. On a mahogany side table sat an empty bourbon bottle, likely left behind by one of the night guards. I wrapped my hand in a thick velvet napkin and struck the base of the bottle against the stone edge of the fireplace. *Crack.*

The sound was sharp but muffled by the storm outside. I sifted through the wreckage with clinical precision, selecting a jagged, triangular shard of glass. It was heavy and lethal. I slid it up the sleeve of my wool coat, the razor-sharp edge resting dangerously close to my own pulse.

When I finally walked out to the gravel driveway, the black Lincoln Town Car was idling in the dark. Its exhaust plumed like dragon's breath in the biting wind, and the vehicle itself looked less like a sanctuary and more like a polished hearse.

Francesca stood by the open rear door, her face pale but her eyes gleaming with a frantic, nervous energy.

"Isabella, thank God," Francesca breathed, her voice dripping with manufactured relief. "We must hurry. Lady Rosalie sent word that the main highway is compromised. Rival families are clashing near the borders."

I paused, pulling my coat tighter around myself. "Perhaps we should wait until dawn, Francesca," I murmured, feigning a naive tremble. "The dark is so... unpredictable."

"No," Francesca insisted too quickly, her eyes darting toward the driver's seat. "The secluded canyon road is much safer at night. We won't draw any attention under the cover of darkness. Trust me, Isa."

*Trust me.* The exact words she had used in my past life. The script was playing out flawlessly.

I gave a slow, obedient nod and climbed into the cavernous back seat. Bianca slid in beside me, her hands clasped nervously in her lap. Francesca took the rear-facing jump seat opposite us. The heavy doors slammed shut, sealing us inside a vault of black leather and tinted glass. The engine hummed, and the car lurched forward, plunging us into the pitch-black route Julian Bellini had meticulously designed for my demise.

The silence in the cabin was suffocating. The only sound was the rhythmic thud of the tires against the uneven asphalt as we ventured deeper into the desolate canyon.

I looked at Francesca's shadowed face, watching the way she obsessively checked her wristwatch.

"Francesca," I said softly, my voice barely rising above the hum of the engine.

She snapped her attention to me, forcing a tight smile. "Yes, Isa?"

"I was just thinking about my mother," I lied, my tone wistful and vulnerable. "Do you remember that lullaby she used to sing to me when I was frightened? The one about the Sicilian fisherman?"

Francesca blinked, clearly caught off guard by the sentimental question. She hesitated for a fraction of a second before a sickeningly sweet, rehearsed warmth flooded her features.

"Of course, *piccola mia*," she cooed, using an Italian endearment she had never once uttered in her life. "She sang it beautifully. It always brought you such peace."

My mother had never sung to me. She despised the ocean, and she certainly never sang about fishermen.

Francesca was reciting a script, playing the role of the caring guardian right up until the moment she delivered me to the slaughter. The absolute confirmation of her betrayal washed over me, freezing the last drop of mercy in my veins.

I leaned back against the cold leather seat and closed my eyes. Beneath the heavy wool of my coat, my fingers curled inward, the jagged edge of the glass shard biting deeply into my palm.