Chapter -3 (Welcome Home)
1822 Words
Five days had passed since Isabella opened her eyes.The pain was still there.
Every breath reminded her of her broken ribs. The stitches along her shoulder burned whenever she moved too quickly, and the headaches came without warning, leaving her dizzy and exhausted.
Yet, the fear of not remembering was worse than any injury.
That morning, she was sitting propped against the hospital pillows, a blanket covering her legs. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, pale and soft.
Salvatore stood near the window.
Not close.
Never too close.
One hand rested in his pocket while the other held a cup of untouched coffee.He had been there for almost an hour, speaking very little.
Watching her.
Always watching her.
A knock sounded at the door.
A nurse entered with a warm smile and a clipboard pressed against her chest.
“Good morning, Mrs. Bellamonte.”
The title still felt strange.
Isabella forced a small smile.
“Good morning.”
The nurse glanced at Salvatore respectfully before looking back at Isabella.
“You’re doing much better today. The doctor has approved your discharge, but we’ll need a signature on these papers if you’d like to leave the hospital.”
She placed the clipboard gently on Isabella’s lap.
Isabella stared at the paper.
Lines.
Forms.
A blank space waiting for a signature.
Her fingers tightened around the blanket.
“I…”
Her voice faltered.
“I can’t.”
The nurse’s expression softened immediately.
“It’s alright. Take your time.”
“No, I mean…” Isabella looked embarrassed. “I don’t remember how I signed my name.”
Silence filled the room.
The nurse nodded with surprising understanding.
“That happens sometimes after severe head trauma,” she said gently. “You don’t need to force yourself.”
Isabella looked down helplessly.
“What if I do it wrong?”
Before the nurse could answer, Salvatore spoke from the window.
“You won’t.”
His voice was calm, steady, and reassuring.
He crossed the room slowly and stopped beside the bed.
The nurse looked between them.
“If the patient is uncomfortable signing, a spouse is allowed to sign on her behalf.”
Isabella turned to him.
For a moment, she looked very young, very lost.
“What is my full name?” she asked softly.
Salvatore held her gaze.
“Isabella Bellamonte.”
The name settled into the room like something that had always belonged there.
She repeated it quietly.
“Isabella… Bellamonte.”
It sounded beautiful.
Complete.
Like a person she wanted to become.
The manipulation was so gentle that it almost felt like comfort.
She tried to take the pen.
Her hand shook violently.
Pain shot through her shoulder, and she winced.
Salvatore immediately reached forward and took the pen from her fingers.
“That’s enough,” he murmured. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
The nurse smiled kindly.
“You can let him do it, Mrs. Bellamonte.”
Isabella hesitated only for a second before nodding.
Salvatore signed with smooth, practiced strokes.
His signature was confident.
Permanent.
As if he had every right to decide things for her.
And in that moment, Isabella felt grateful that someone was deciding for her at all.
That was the most dangerous part.
A few minutes later, another knock came.Two women entered carrying elegant garment bags.They were not hospital staff.
They wore the black-and-white uniforms of Bellamonte household maids.
Isabella blinked in surprise.
Salvatore noticed immediately.
“I asked them to come.”
“You brought your maids to the hospital?”
“I didn’t want you leaving in hospital clothes.”
The answer was simple.
Thoughtful.
Possessive.
The maids bowed politely.
“May we help you, Mrs. Bellamonte?”
Isabella looked at Salvatore uncertainly.
He gave a small nod.
“You’ll be more comfortable.”
Inside the bags were soft cream-colored clothes, a long cashmere coat, and flat shoes that would not strain her injuries.
Nothing flashy.
Nothing inappropriate.
Everything chosen with careful attention.
The maids helped her change while the other gently brushed her hair.
When Isabella finally looked in the mirror, she barely recognized herself.She still looked pale and fragile.But she no longer looked like a patient.She looked like someone being taken home.And somehow, that made her more nervous.
Leaving the hospital was harder than she expected.The corridor seemed endless.Her legs felt weak after days in bed.
As soon as she swayed, Salvatore was beside her.
His hand settled carefully at her waist.
“Easy, Princess.”
The nickname came naturally from him.
Too naturally.
She leaned on him before realizing she had done it.His body was warm and solid, and for a brief moment, she felt safe.
The realization frightened her.
Outside, rain had just begun to fall.A black Rolls-Royce waited at the entrance.Guards stood nearby, but none of them moved.
Salvatore opened the rear door himself.
He helped her sit down slowly, adjusted a cushion behind her back, then pulled the seatbelt across her carefully so it wouldn’t press against her ribs.
Only after making sure she was comfortable did he sit beside her.
Not across from her.
Beside her.
Close enough that she could feel his presence.
Far enough that he never touched her again.
Control.
Everything about him was control.
The city faded behind them.Neither of them spoke for several minutes.
Isabella watched the rain slide across the windows.
Then she whispered, “Were we happy?”
Salvatore turned his head slightly.
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
No pause.
Just another perfect lie.
Nearly forty minutes later, the gates opened.Isabella’s breath caught.The mansion rose from the darkness like something built for royalty rather than ordinary people.White stone walls.Towering windows glowing with warm golden light.Fountains shimmering in the rain.Armed guards standing at every entrance.
“This is our home?” she asked.
Salvatore looked at her.
“Yes, Princess.”
The way he said it made the house sound less like a place and more like a promise.
As the car stopped, the front doors opened immediately.Two rows of servants stood waiting.
Maids.
Butlers.
House staff.
Behind them, several of Salvatore’s men stood with their heads slightly lowered.
The moment Isabella stepped out of the car, every servant bowed.
“Welcome home, Mrs. Bellamonte.”
The words were perfectly synchronized.Not rehearsed enough to seem fake.Not spontaneous enough to be natural.
Isabella froze.
No one looked surprised to see her.
No one questioned her presence.
For one overwhelming moment, it truly felt as if she had always belonged there.
Salvatore’s hand rested lightly against her back.
“Come home,” he said softly.
And she followed him.
The mansion was quieter than she expected.
Not cold.
Not empty.
Just… controlled.
As they reached the staircase, Isabella stopped.
A large portrait hung in the soft golden light beside the stairs.
Not in the entrance hall.
Not displayed for visitors.
Displayed for the family.
She stared at it.
In the painting, Salvatore stood beside her in a black suit while she wore a deep emerald gown.
His gaze was fixed on her.
Her hand rested on his arm.
The portrait looked years old.
The colors were slightly faded.
The frame carried tiny marks of age.
Nothing about it suggested it had been created recently.
“We look real,” she whispered.
Salvatore’s eyes remained on the painting.
“We were.”
The answer was quiet.
Almost sad.
And for the first time, doubt slipped into Isabella’s heart — not about him, but about herself.
What if the memories were gone forever?
What if this life had truly been hers?
There were only a few photographs in the mansion.
One on a hallway table.
One near the library.
And another waiting in the room prepared for her.
Just enough to suggest a shared life.
Not enough to feel staged.
Every image carried the same slightly aged appearance as the portrait.
Carefully crafted history.
Carefully planted memories.
Salvatore led her to the second floor and stopped outside a pair of double doors.
“This is your room.”
Isabella looked at him in surprise.
“My room?”
“Yes.”
“But… we’re married.”
For the first time that evening, his expression softened.
Not with warmth.
With calculation hidden inside tenderness.He opened the door and let her step inside.The room was beautiful.Soft cream walls.Fresh flowers.A fireplace burning low.Rain tapping against the balcony windows.On the bedside table stood a single framed photograph of her smiling alone.Near the bookshelf was another photograph of her standing beside Salvatore at a formal dinner.
Nothing excessive.
Nothing obvious.
Just enough to make the room feel inhabited by a woman who had once lived there.
Isabella turned slowly.
“If I’m your wife, why are we sleeping in separate rooms?”
Salvatore was silent for a moment.
Then he stepped closer, but not too close.
“You don’t remember me,” he said gently.
His voice was low, careful, almost protective.
“And I won’t force you to accept a marriage you can’t remember.”
Her throat tightened.
“I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
The words sounded selfless.
They were not.
He was giving her distance so she would trust him for offering it.
“I know you’re confused,” he continued. “I know your mind is trying to protect itself.”
He looked directly into her eyes.
“But whether you remember it or not… you are my wife.”
The certainty in his voice made her chest ache.
“I remember enough for both of us,” he said softly. “And until your memories return, I’ll take care of you.”
Something inside her almost broke.
No one else had come for her.
No family.
No friends.
Only him.
Salvatore saw the exact moment her fear weakened.And he hated himself a little for being relieved.
He moved toward the door.
“My room is across the hall.”
Close.
But not beside her.
Not sharing her bed.
Not demanding anything.
The restraint made him seem safer than he was.
“Why?” she asked quietly.
He paused.
“Because before we begin our life again…” He looked back at her, his grey eyes unreadable. “I want your trust, Isabella.”
The words wrapped around her like comfort.
Like patience.
Like love.
And that was what made them so dangerous.
After he left, Isabella stood alone in the quiet room.
Rain whispered against the windows.
The photograph beside the bed smiled back at her.
The portrait downstairs waited in the golden light.
Every detail of the mansion seemed to say the same thing:
You belong here.
She pressed a hand against her ribs and closed her eyes.
“Who am I?” she whispered.
No memory answered.
Only the distant sound of thunder.
And somewhere across the hall, a man who had built an empire on blood and silence…
Waiting for her to trust the lie that would destroy them both.
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