ISABELLA
The sound of Rafael’s car pulling away felt final. Like a door slamming shut on whatever was left of my old life.
I stood frozen in the grand marble entrance of the villa, staring at the heavy wooden door that had just closed behind me. The butler, Esteban hovered politely a few steps away, holding my small duffel bag like it was made of glass.
“Miss Reyes,” he said gently, “shall I show you to your suite? Dinner can be prepared whenever you wish.”
I barely heard him.
This was my house now, according to Rafael. A sprawling, luxurious prison perched in one of Barcelona’s most exclusive neighbourhoods. Crystal chandeliers hung above me. Expensive art decorated the walls. Through the tall windows, I could see the illuminated gardens and the distant lights of the city twinkling
