The Obsession

The Attempt

Chapter Twelve – The Attempt

The room was too beautiful to be a prison. The king-sized bed was draped in ivory silk, the balcony doors framed by sheer curtains that swayed with the sea breeze. A vase of roses sat on the table, their petals crimson as blood.

Isabella didn’t see beauty. She saw a trap.

The moment the heavy door clicked shut behind her, she pressed her ear against it, listening. Silence. Her pulse pounded in her throat. She grabbed the nearest object—a delicate glass vase—and smashed it against the floor. The shards glittered like knives in the moonlight.

She picked up the sharpest piece, clutching it in trembling hands. If anyone came through that door, she would fight.

But hours passed. The house was quiet, too quiet. She couldn’t stand it anymore.

The balcony.

She slipped through the curtains, her breath catching as she looked down. The drop was steep, stone walls leading to the gardens below. Her stomach knotted, but she had no choice. Gritting her teeth, she swung one leg over the railing, then the other, the night air whipping against her skin.

“Just one step,” she whispered to herself. “One step and I’m free.”

Her bare foot searched for a hold against the rough stone. She climbed, clumsy but determined, inching her way down.

Halfway there, a voice cut through the night.

“Going somewhere, bella?”

Her heart stopped. She looked up—Matteo leaned against the balcony above, hands in his pockets, watching her as though this were nothing more than a game. His voice carried down, low and calm.

“Careful. One wrong move and you’ll break that perfect neck.”

“Stay away!” Isabella snapped, pressing closer to the wall.

But within seconds, strong arms circled her waist. She gasped as she was lifted effortlessly, dragged upward. She fought, kicking, clawing, the shard of glass slashing through the air—only to be wrenched from her grip.

By the time she was back inside, breathless and shaking, Matteo had her pinned against the wall, his body a solid cage. His eyes burned, dark and dangerous, but his voice remained infuriatingly calm.

“You could have died,” he murmured, his lips brushing her ear. “And that, Isabella, is not allowed.”

She glared up at him, her chest heaving. “You can’t keep me here!”

He smiled then, slow and deliberate, his hand brushing down the side of her face—not tenderly, but like a claim. “I already am.”

Her fury broke into ragged sobs, but Matteo only stepped back, adjusting his cuffs as though nothing had happened.

“Tomorrow,” he said, his tone final, commanding. “You’ll learn the rules. For now, sleep. You’ll need your strength.”

The door clicked shut behind him, the lock sliding into place.

Isabella sank to the floor, her hands trembling, her throat raw with unshed screams. She had tried. She had fought. And she had failed.

The roses still glowed in the moonlight, red and mocking, as though the villa itself whispered: You are his now.