Substitute Bride: Trapped Her In His World

"Get the doctor in here to check her. Now. I won't risk catching some disease from her."

Benedict Arrabal's words still echoed in Isabella Murano's head as she stared, eyes swimming with tears, out the top-floor window at the grounds of the Arrabal mansion.

Her stomach was a tight knot of dread-not from hunger, but from the cold, dismissive way he'd spoken about her, as if she were a piece of merchandise being checked for an expiration date. What kind of woman did he think she was? One of the prostitutes who warmed his bed?

The door swung open, and Isabella flinched, her heart hammering against her ribs, her nerves already in shreds. Two women and two men entered the room. One of them was him-her husband, Benedict.

Though they had never met, she had seen his photograph once in a business magazine, and she had certainly heard the stories.

They hadn't met at the courthouse, either. Isabella had been left utterly alone in a sterile room for hours, until a clerk finally appeared with the document she was required to sign. Once her signature was on the paper, she was left alone again. She had just started to think they'd forgotten about her when two grim-faced men arrived to bring her here.

Isabella didn't dare lift her gaze from the floor. It was obvious that Benedict did not tolerate disobedience. The authority rolling off him was a palpable force, so powerful it stole the air from her lungs.

"Lie down, ma'am. The doctor is here to examine you."

The order came from the other man, Benedict's right hand. Isabella recognized him instantly. He was the one who had brokered the marriage deal with her uncle three months ago-the marriage that was supposed to be for Alessia.

Her fingers tightened on the white fabric of her dress. It had belonged to her grandmother. They had given it to her to wear today.

Trembling, she walked to the bed and sat on the edge.

Benedict shoved her down onto the mattress and yanked her dress up, baring her for everyone to see. A choked gasp of shame escaped her lips.

Through her half-shut eyes, Isabella could see the cruel smirk spreading across his face. He was humiliating her. And he was enjoying it. A cold dread washed over her. Her life here would be no better than it had been in her uncle's house.

"Ashamed to have us see you like this?" he mocked. "Don't tell me Ricardo Murano's only daughter is still a virgin."

Isabella clutched the sheets as if they were her only lifeline.

Her uncle's warnings echoed in her head. "Endure it. It's your duty."

The family's well-being, their honor-it all depended on her now. She couldn't fail.

The doctor positioned herself beside the bed and forced Isabella's legs apart. Isabella let out a low whimper as a sharp itch flared deep inside her. For a few minutes, the doctor examined her, jotted something on a clipboard, and then straightened up.

"As I suspected, Mr. Arrabal, she is not a virgin. I'll be taking samples to the lab for a full panel. It's highly likely she has a sexually transmitted infection. Once we have the results, we can begin treatment. I'll also schedule a full physical at the clinic. Best to be thorough and rule everything out. We don't want any future complications."

A sexually transmitted infection?

Isabella stared, stunned by the casual cruelty in the woman's voice. How dare she say such things in front of everyone? She didn't even know her.

Isabella scrambled to pull a blanket up to her chin.

Benedict gave a curt nod, dismissing them all with a flick of his wrist. She remained on the bed, clutching the blanket like a shield. The sound of her quiet sobs seemed to grate on him.

"I'm curious," he began, his voice dangerously soft as he moved to the edge of the bed. "What are you crying about?"

He brushed a few strands of hair from her damp forehead, his touch anything but gentle.

"Is it because I've discovered you're not the pure bride you're pretending to be? Or is it because you're terrified I'll find out you're nothing but a vile impostor?"

Terror stole her breath. Isabella's mouth fell open. She gasped, but no words came out. Nothing she could say to save herself.

"I..."

"Should I call you Isabella? Or Alessia?" Benedict interrupted, a single brow arched in mock confusion.

He opened a nightstand drawer and pulled out a folder.

The folder contained her entire life. Her real life. It went all the way back to when she was three, when her mother was still alive. The father she never knew-the man who'd abandoned her mother the moment he learned she was pregnant. The last she'd heard, he had married some woman from his own social circle and moved abroad.

When cancer took her mother, Isabella was only ten. A judge had ruled she was to live with her uncle-her mother's brother-and his family.

From that day forward, her life had been a living hell. She became their servant, surviving on scraps and leftovers, enduring their cruelty just to have a roof over her head.

The memories were a fresh wave of pain, and new tears streamed down her face.

Benedict started reading fragments from the pages, his voice laced with contempt. With each one, he ripped the sheet from the folder. He crumpled each page into a tight ball and threw it in her face.

She sat frozen, each crumpled paper hitting her like a stone, each word a fresh stab to the heart.

"What do you have to say for yourself, now that I know exactly who you are? Liar! Impostor! Are you that greedy? Did you really think you could take a place that wasn't yours and enjoy the Arrabal fortune? Or is this the Murano family's little scheme? Trying to defraud me by sending the wrong girl?"

Isabella bit her lip. No. She couldn't tell him the truth-that her uncle had forced her to take Alessia's place after her cousin refused to marry Benedict. She had never wanted this, but she'd been given no choice.

"Please, I- I swear..." she stammered, the words lost between sobs she couldn't control.

Benedict took a few steps back, a twisted smile never leaving his face. He looked at her with such raw contempt that Isabella felt herself shrink under his gaze.

He hadn't always been this way. But the accident that had killed his pregnant wife, Pamela, had carved out his heart, leaving behind a cruel, empty shell incapable of sympathy or love. Nothing touched him anymore.

"You'll never measure up to her."

Isabella didn't understand. Who was he talking about? Was he talking about her cousin? Or did he mean his late wife?

"I am a Murano," she insisted, her voice trembling. "I swear it. No one tried to deceive you. I'm a blood daughter of this family."

Isabella pushed herself up from the bed, struggling to face him. Her mind raced, scrambling for a solution, but she came up empty.

She didn't know what to do or say, but she couldn't be sent back to the Murano estate. If that happened, the fate awaiting her-and everyone else-would be terrible. Everyone knew the power of the Arrabal clan. To be rejected by its leader was to be cast out, a pariah for life.

"And you expect me to believe you?" he sneered. "A woman like you? What is your word worth? Your life is a pathetic joke. Someone with your past isn't fit to be the wife of the heir to one of the most powerful clans in the world."

Benedict walked toward the door. He paused with his hand on the knob, glancing back over his shoulder.

"When I return, I don't want to find you here. You had better disappear-you and every trace of your ridiculous existence. Or I will make you disappear. Permanently."

A desperate gasp tore from Isabella's throat. She couldn't catch her breath. She couldn't leave. He couldn't throw her out. Her entire family would suffer the consequences.

Her uncle's warning echoed in her mind. He'd been blunt: she could not afford to fail. Her family's company was bankrupt. If Benedict rejected her, they would lose everything.

She scrambled toward him and, in a final, desperate act, fell to her knees at his feet. He thought her proud, conceited? She had never been either. But if begging was what it took to survive, she would beg.

"Please, you can't throw me out," she pleaded, tears streaking down her face. "I know I'm not the bride you expected, but I can be a good wife. I can be whatever you need me to be. I'll do anything you ask. I'll stay out of your way. You won't even have to see me unless you command it. It's an arranged marriage anyway. Does it really matter which of us is the bride? You were forced into this, just like me. We don't have to despise each other. We just... we just have to get through it."

The deep scowl that settled on Benedict's face told her he hated what he was seeing.

Benedict was used to people begging for their lives, for second chances, but seeing her do it filled him with a unique disgust. She had no spine. Her groveling repulsed him. For a fleeting moment, he'd thought she might have enough dignity to walk away. Now he saw the truth: she would do anything for a taste of money and status.

With a sudden, violent movement, he grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her to her feet.

Isabella's back slammed against the hard wood of the door. A sharp jolt of pain shot through her, jarring but bearable. She bit down hard on her lower lip, refusing to whimper.

Against her better judgment, she forced her gaze up to meet his-to meet those feral eyes that were tearing her apart. The blue eyes of the man who was now her husband bored into hers, searching for the lie, the angle, the self-interest in her words.

Benedict cornered her, his tall, massive frame completely dwarfing hers. His cologne, the sheer heat of his presence-it was all suffocating. The room seemed to tilt, and she thought she might pass out.

How could a man she'd met only ten minutes ago have this kind of effect on her?

Her strength evaporated. Her arms fell limp at her sides as his hand closed around her throat, applying pressure.

"What are you willing to do to stay?" he asked, his face so close to hers she could feel the heat of his skin. His whisky-laced breath made her head swim. "What can you offer me that another woman can't?"

"I'll... do... anything."

The words were a strangled whisper, forced past the tightening grip on her throat.

Benedict's fingers constricted further, just enough to steal her breath. Her face flushed a deep, suffocating red. The air grew thin. She fought for a breath that wouldn't come.

In the next second, he dragged her to the bed and shoved her down onto the mattress, bracing his weight above her.

"So, you're willing to do anything?" he purred.

Isabella could only manage a faint, terrified nod.

He continued, "Then you'll be my slave. You will do exactly as I say. You will be at my beck and call at all times. And you will refuse me nothing."

He traced a single finger over her lips.

Isabella squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the worst. But the weight above her vanished. A moment later, the door clicked shut, and her husband was gone.

Isabella woke with a splitting headache. She barely managed to focus on the window, where sunlight bled through the gaps in the poorly drawn curtains.

She had slept little, a fact announced by the dark circles bruising the skin beneath her eyes, which were swollen from crying. The weight of the past few days was crushing her.

She grabbed her phone from the nightstand and sighed at the time glowing on the screen. It was just past six in the morning. There was no sign of Benedict. He probably couldn't stand the sight of her, which was why he'd stayed out all night.

With a stifled sigh, she forced herself out of bed. She had to go downstairs and face whatever came next.

She walked over to her small, worn suitcase in the corner and opened it. Her choices were limited. A couple of plain dresses and four skirts with blouses were all she owned. She took one of the dresses and went to the bathroom to shower.

When she came down the stairs, a gray-haired man, every bit as intimidating as her husband, was raking his eyes over her from head to foot.

"Ah, you must be Alessia." The man, dressed in a tailored navy suit, stood and offered her his hand.

Isabella gave a slight nod, the new name still feeling foreign and wrong.

"My name is Antony. I'm your husband's stepfather. We didn't get a proper introduction yesterday, but I hope we can be good friends."

"Hello." Isabella took his hand for a brief, hesitant moment, but just then the front door opened and Benedict walked in.

"I see you've already met my stepfather. You don't waste any time, do you?" he murmured in her ear, but the cold smile on his face made his meaning perfectly clear: he was thinking the absolute worst of her.

"Yes, we were just introducing ourselves. I don't know anyone in this house. It makes sense to introduce myself," she explained.

"Or to look for your next source of money," he replied before striding toward the stairs.

Isabella felt herself shrink under his stare as he ascended. His words always found a way to cut her. It was already painfully clear that he saw her as a schemer, and he never missed an opportunity to remind her.

Benedict took the stairs two at a time, while his right-hand man, Blas, remained in the living room.

"Good morning." An older woman, impeccably elegant, emerged from one of the rooms and glided over to Isabella.

Nora possessed the same commanding aura as Benedict, and a familiar intimidation washed over Isabella. Her very bearing radiated arrogance and power. "Alessia, come with me to the study. I need to speak with you."

Isabella knew this was Benedict's mother. She had heard plenty about Nora Arrabal, and none of it was good. She knew Nora was a woman capable of anything to keep her clan at the apex of power.

Everyone suspected she'd had a hand in the deaths of Benedict's brother, Egil Arrabal, and his entire family. Though no proof ever surfaced, the rumors were unforgiving. This was a woman Isabella had to be careful around, lest her own secrets be discovered.

Isabella followed her to the study as commanded.

"You are my son's wife," Nora stated, settling into the large chair behind the desk. She held herself like a queen on her throne.

Her eyes swept over Isabella, a clinical assessment, just as Antony's had been. "I chose you for him because I believe you are the only one who can play this part perfectly. As you know, two years ago his pregnant wife died in a car accident on her way to the airport. She was returning home. A great pity."

The ghost of a smile that touched Nora's lips sent a chill through Isabella, but she kept her expression blank.

"Since the head of the clan cannot be without a wife and an heir, we made an arrangement with your family for this marriage. From today on, your responsibility is to remain by my son's side at all times. You will attend to whatever he demands. Not only in this house, but at the company as well. You will accompany him and serve as his assistant."

Isabella's mouth opened to protest, but the words died on her tongue. It was pointless. Since she had arrived in this house, they had done nothing but issue orders. She had no idea how she would get close to Benedict without him wanting to kill her, but she would have to find a way.

She nodded. "I will, ma'am."

"Perfect. You may go now." Nora dismissed her with a flick of her wrist.

Isabella gave a brief nod and left.

Benedict took a quick shower before getting dressed for work.

"Sir..." Norma, one of the maids, opened the door without knocking.

He shot her a sharp, frowning glance, especially since he was only half-dressed. "What do you want? Can't you see I'm getting dressed?"

"Sorry. Since your wife is already having breakfast, I thought you were ready. Mrs. Nora Arrabal asks that you go to the study before leaving for the office," the woman said, her gaze lingering on Benedict's bare torso.

He waved a dismissive hand at her. Norma scurried out.

Benedict could guess what his mother wanted. Forcing this marriage on him hadn't been enough; now she intended to control every aspect of his life. He'd see about that.