Fake Destiny

Isabella's POV I stand there in front of him, my body trembling. The rhythm of the music pulses through the room, but it feels more like a cold wind, biting at my skin. I’m wearing nothing but my underwear, the lace fabric clinging to my skin as I sway, feeling every bead of sweat, every tear that threatens to spill. Young master watches me from his chair, his eyes dark and predatory. His gaze is heavy, suffocating, like a weight pressing against my chest. I cry, but not out of sadness. I cry because I have no choice. The tears are a reflex, not something I can control. They come without permission, just like the ache that never leaves me, an ache I’ve carried since that day my life shattered. "Dance," he commands in that cold, calm voice of his. The kind of voice that gives no room for disobedience. I obey, stepping into the rhythm, though my legs feel like lead. My body moves mechanically, each sway of my hips a cruel reminder of what I’ve become. I used to be something else, someone else, someone with dreams, with plans, with freedom. But now? Now I’m just a puppet, a broken doll, dancing on strings I can’t cut. He doesn’t care about me. He never did. And yet here I am, doing the one thing I’ve been forced to do, time and time again. “Strip,” he orders, his voice sharp as a blade. My heart stutters. The words sting like a slap to the face. I want to protest, to scream at him, to tell him I can’t… but I know better. I’ve learned to know my place in his world. Resistance means punishment, and I’ve seen enough of that to last a lifetime. So, I do as he says. Slowly, painfully, I remove the last shred of dignity I have left, the fabric slipping off my skin, leaving me exposed and vulnerable in front of him. I wish the music would drown out my thoughts, my pain, but it’s as if the beat only amplifies the crushing reality of what I’ve become. I’m nothing more than a toy for his amusement, a plaything for the wicked young master. He doesn’t speak. His eyes follow my every movement, dark and calculating. His gaze slides over my bare skin, assessing, judging. And I wonder for the thousandth time how much longer I can take this, how much longer I can pretend I’m still human in his eyes. I want to scream. I want to run. But instead, I stand there, letting the tears slip down my face, the music swirling around me like a cruel mockery. He’s not even looking at me like I’m a person. He’s looking at me like I’m something to be used, discarded, and then thrown away when he’s done. It hasn’t always been like this. No… it didn’t start out this way. Suddenly, I’m not in that room anymore. The music fades, and the sharp smell of whiskey and cigars vanishes. Instead, I’m back in my father’s house, the day everything changed. Three years ago, everything was different. I was different. I still had a life, a future I could hold in my hands, a future that didn’t involve being a captive in a world of darkness and despair. It was my father who sold me, not because he wanted to, but because he had no other choice. My father, Matteo Romano, was a man who lived by the old codes of debt. He believed in paying his dues, no matter the cost. And when the mafia came knocking on his door, when his debts became too much to bear, he didn’t hesitate. He offered me up, his own flesh and blood in exchange for clearing those debts. I remember the look in his eyes as he handed me over to them. He told me I’d be safe. He told me it would be a temporary arrangement. He lied. And that’s how I ended up here. With him. Damian DeLuca. The name that makes everyone in this world quake. The name no one dares speak aloud, not even in the darkest corners of this mansion. He is Young Master, and that’s all he will ever be called. No one dares to add his name to that title, because his name is power. It’s terrifying and to utter it is to invite death. He wasn’t always the man he is now. When I first met him, he was a cold, calculating man, a ruthless Mafia boss who ruled over everything in his path. He didn’t care about me, not at first. I was just another pawn in his game, another tool to be used and discarded when he was done with me. But that all changed after the night he took me. I remember the first time he touched me, the first time he showed me what kind of man he was. His fingers were cold, his grip tight. He didn’t ask for my consent. He didn’t care. I wasn’t allowed to scream. I wasn’t allowed to fight. Every resistance I gave was met with punishment, and every cry for mercy fell on deaf ears. For three years, I was his prisoner. His captive. His plaything. I learned to endure, to survive, to become invisible when I could. I learned to hold my tongue, to never speak out of turn, to never show weakness. But most of all, I learned that there was no escape. No escape at all The music blares in the background, but I can barely hear it anymore. My thoughts are too loud, too chaotic, too full of fear. I feel his gaze on me, burning through my skin, and I know he sees the change in me. I can’t hide the truth anymore. “You’ve grown soft,” he says, his voice low, dark. “But I see the same fear in your eyes. The same weakness.” I lift my chin, trying to stand tall, though I feel like I’m crumbling inside. “I’m not afraid of you.” He laughs, a cruel, mocking sound that sends a chill down my spine. “You should be.” I want to argue. I want to scream at him that I’m not the same scared girl I was three years ago. But the truth is, deep down, I am. I still fear him. I always will. Because in this world, no matter how much I try to escape, the truth is that he owns me. He always will. And now, he’s back for what’s his. And am his, and there will be no escape.