ISABELLA

Chapter 1

“No… no, no, no…”

My voice cracked as I reached for her hand, my fingers shaking uncontrollably.

“Stay with me, baby. Please. Don’t you dare leave me.”

I tried to pull her closer, but my strength was slipping fast. Every breath burned through my chest, and the world around me was starting to tilt. Our hands were slippery, warm, and I felt her going still in my arms.

Her eyes were closed. Her chest wasn’t rising.

My vision blurred as I pressed my forehead to hers, a broken sound tearing out of me.

“Not you. Not again…”

My mother’s face flashed through my mind, the loss, the helplessness — the nightmare repeating itself.

“I can’t lose you too, Isabella,” I whispered, voice barely there. “I can’t…”

My arm dropped beside her. My body began to give out, the weakness dragging me under.

The last thing I saw before everything faded was her face — the girl I loved, the only light I had left — lying motionless beside me.

And then darkness swallowed me whole.

6 months earlier.

Isabella POV

Two coffins. Side by side.

My parents.

People whispered that it was a miracle I survived the crash. A miracle?

That word gnawed at me, because miracles weren’t supposed to feel this cruel.

If there was truly mercy left in the world, why did it choose me and not them? Why did I get to live with lungs that still filled with air, while the two people I loved most lay silent in polished wood boxes?

I sat in the front pew, my black dress suffocating against my skin. My hands trembled as I clutched the rosary I’d stolen from my mother’s jewelry box.

It smelled faintly of her perfume. My father’s wristwatch was strapped on my left wrist, sliding down my arm because it was too big for me. They were my anchors, but they felt like weights pulling me under.

People I didn’t recognize came up to me, their words blending into one long, meaningless chant: “I’m so sorry for your loss… They were such good people… You must be strong…”

Strong?

As if strength could sew back broken hearts.

I kept nodding, bowing, whispering “thank you,” even when every muscle in my face ached from holding back sobs. Inside, I was screaming. I wanted to tear the rosary apart, throw it at the altar, and demand answers from God. Why them? Why not me too?

The priest’s voice rose above the silence, speaking of eternity, of heaven, of rest. But his words slid right past me. My eyes stayed fixed on the coffins.

My mother’s was smaller, ivory with gold trim, elegant—just like her. My father’s was darker, heavier, solid like the man he had been. They didn’t belong here.

They belonged in our kitchen, bickering over coffee. They belonged in the garden, laughing as my father watered the roses too much, and my mother scolded him for it.

They belonged anywhere but here.

When the service ended, I stood on shaky legs as the coffins were carried out. My knees nearly gave way, but Gabriella caught my arm. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t need to.

Her presence was enough. We walked behind the coffins together, step by step, as if each step was carrying me further away from the life I once knew.

At the graveside, the sky threatened rain. The priest spoke again, his hands raised, his voice calm and certain. I wanted to hate him for being so steady when my entire world was collapsing.

“Do you wish to say something, Isabella?” he asked gently.

All eyes turned to me.

My throat burned. My lips trembled. Words clawed inside me, fighting to be spoken. I wanted to scream about unfairness, about how nothing made sense, about how I wasn’t ready to be alone. But instead, I pressed my nails into my palms and shook my head.

The silence that followed was heavier than the rain-soaked clouds above us. Gabriella slipped her hand into mine, squeezing tightly, waiting for me to crumble. But I didn’t.

I couldn’t. My parents had always taught me to keep my head high, no matter what. If I allowed myself to fall apart here, I wasn’t sure I’d ever put myself back together.

So I stood still, my face calm, my tears locked away behind glass walls no one could break. I nodded once at the coffins as they were lowered into the earth, the rain finally beginning to fall.

And as the first drops hit my skin, I realized something: my life had split into before and after. And I was standing in the ruins of after, holding my grief inside like a secret no one would ever see.

At home, it felt hollow without them.

Every room carried their echoes — the faint smell of my mother’s perfume in the hallway, my father’s books still stacked unevenly on his desk, his reading glasses folded neatly on top.

The silence pressed down on me as I walked into the sitting room where the lawyer was waiting.

Black suit. Thin-framed glasses. A briefcase on the table. His face was professional, but his eyes softened when they landed on me.

People had been doing that a lot lately — looking at me as if I might shatter if they breathed too loudly.

My aunt, Sofia, sat beside me. She was my mother’s sister, elegant and kind, her dark hair pinned back in a way that made her look stricter than she really was. She had flown in from Rome the day of the accident and hadn’t left my side since.

The lawyer cleared his throat and opened the folder. His voice was steady as he read.

“Your parents, Dominico,Elena Rossi, leave their estate, properties, and all financial assets to their only daughter, Isabella Rossi.”

He continued, listing numbers, accounts, deeds, things that didn’t feel real. Millions in assets. Houses in Florence, Naples, Rome. Their company shares. It was overwhelming — a lifetime of work and love, handed to me in words written on a page.

I sat perfectly still, my hands folded in my lap. No tears. No visible cracks. Only silence.

When the lawyer finished, he looked at me expectantly. My aunt placed her hand gently over mine. “Cara, this is your future. Your parents wanted you to have this.”

I shook my head slowly. “No.”

Their eyes widened. The lawyer adjusted his glasses, confused. My aunt frowned. “Isabella, what do you mean, no?”

I swallowed, my voice low but firm. “I don’t want it. Any of it. The money, the houses, the shares… it feels wrong. I don’t need their wealth to remember them. I just need their memory.”

The lawyer hesitated. “Legally, Miss Rossi, it is all yours. Unless you intend to—”

“I do.” My words cut through the silence. “Donate it. All of it. To charity. Every last cent. That’s what they would want.”

My aunt gasped softly. “Isabella, are you sure? This is everything they built—everything they left for you.”

“Yes,” I said, forcing my hands to unclench. “I survived that accident, not them. That has to mean something. If I keep all this wealth, it will only remind me that they’re gone. But if it goes to people who need it, maybe some good can come out of something so… empty.”

The lawyer looked stunned but nodded, already scribbling notes. My aunt stared at me as though I’d aged ten years in a single day.

When the papers were signed, I leaned back against the chair. My chest felt tight, but not with regret.

I turned to my aunt. “Stay with me, Zia (Aunt). Please. I can’t do this alone.”

Her eyes softened. “Of course, cara (Dear). I’ll stay for as long as you need me.”

I nodded, suppressing the sting in my eyes. Strength. I had to keep it. I had already lost my parents — I wasn’t about to lose myself.

But deep down, I knew this was just the beginning.

At night, I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the silent phone on my nightstand. My fingers itched. There was only one person I wanted to hear from, one voice I wanted to cut through this suffocating quiet.

Dante, my boyfriend.

I picked up the phone and pressed his name. The dial tone rang once, twice, three times. No answer.

I tried again. This time, it went straight to voicemail.

A frown pulled at my lips. Dante always picked up. Always. Even when he was busy, he would answer with a quick “I’ll call you back, bella.”

Something twisted in my chest. I opened our location app—the one he had insisted we download months ago, his way of keeping me “safe.” The little circle that usually pulsed with his location was gone. The words stared back at me like a warning sign: Location turned off.

“Strange,” I muttered under my breath. Dante hated turning it off. He said it made him uneasy not knowing where I was.

I dialed again, pressing the phone harder to my ear as though my determination could summon him. Voicemail.

I stared at the ceiling, my heart heavy with the kind of suspicion you don’t want to admit out loud. My room felt suffocating, like the walls themselves were closing in. I grabbed my coat, slipping quietly down the stairs so my aunt wouldn’t stop me.

The night air bit at my skin as I stepped outside. The streets were familiar, worn under my feet from countless walks. Without thinking, I let them guide me—past the little bakery where Dante used to wait for me after school, down the narrow cobblestone street that led to our place.

The piazza was small, tucked away from the noise of the city. Dante and I used to sit there for hours, talking about nothing and everything. It was the only place that ever felt like it belonged to us.

Or so I thought.

As I rounded the corner, I froze.

There he was. Dante. His tall frame was easy to spot, even in the dim glow of the streetlight. But he wasn’t alone. His arm was slung lazily around a girl I didn’t recognize, her laughter rising like cruel music into the night. His lips pressed against hers hungrily, shamelessly, as though the world around them didn’t exist.

For a heartbeat, I couldn’t move. My blood turned to ice, my pulse roaring in my ears.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t confront him. I didn’t run. I just stood there, rooted to the ground, my fingernails digging into the soft flesh of my palms until they stung. My face was expressionless—perfectly blank, like I’d been trained for this moment all my life.

Slowly, I lifted my phone and dialed his number again.

Across the piazza, I saw him pause. He pulled his phone from his pocket. My name lit up on the screen. For a second—just a second—I thought he might pick up. That he might explain. That there was some mistake.

Instead, a smirk spread across his face. He turned the phone toward the girl, his lips curling.

“Look at this b***h,” he muttered, loud enough for her to hear.

The girl giggled, her eyes flicking to the glowing name on the screen before she leaned into him. Dante laughed with her—low, cruel, dismissive. Then, without hesitation, he let the call go unanswered.

I lowered the phone from my ear. My chest ached, but my face remained calm, unreadable. To anyone watching, I was just a girl standing in the night, staring at nothing.

Inside, however, something inside me cracked—not in a way that made me collapse, but in a way that made me colder. Stronger. Detached.

I turned slowly, slipping my phone back into my coat pocket, and walked away without a word.