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1238 Words
LUCA’S POV
The knife lay on the desk where I’d left it, its blade glinting in the soft morning light spilling through the curtains. It was a relic of last night’s little drama—Isabella’s pathetic attempt to kill me.
I picked it up, running my thumb along its sharp edge. Sleek. Clean. Deadly. A knife suited for quick, efficient work. I imagined her holding it, her hands shaking but her eyes filled with fire. She wanted to kill me, and she had come so close.
Too close.
The skyline stretched before me as I stood by the window, turning the blade over in my hands. My penthouse was a fortress, impenetrable, just like me. Isabella thought she could challenge that—challenge me. But this wasn’t a fairy tale where defiance would save her.
Breaking her wouldn’t just be satisfying; it would be art.
A slow, sharp smile curved my lips.
Her hatred wasn’t misplaced. The Morettis had stolen from me long before her father shot my brother. Adrian’s death had destroyed more than my family—it had destroyed the boy I used to be. Trust wasn’t a gift anymore; it was a liability.
This marriage wasn’t about love or unity. It was revenge. Her father’s debts had bought me the chance to ruin what little was left of her family, and Isabella was my prize. The bitterness in her eyes made it all the sweeter.
But she didn’t know the whole story. Not yet. I turned to make my way out of the bedroom wondering what games she had planned out today.
I found her in the dining room, sitting stiffly at the long glass table. She was dressed, but her hair was loose, tumbling over her shoulders like a wild storm. Her hands rested near a steaming coffee cup, her expression cold and distant.
“Good morning, wife,” I said, settling into the seat across from her.
She didn’t answer. Her hazel eyes stayed locked on the coffee cup as if I wasn’t worth looking at.
Silent treatment. Cute.
I poured my own coffee, the liquid swirling in the porcelain cup. I stirred slowly, enjoying the tension radiating off her like heat. “Nothing to say after last night?” I asked, my voice light. “I thought we’d moved past the whole ‘knife to the heart’ phase.”
Her gaze snapped to mine, sharp and cutting. “Don’t flatter yourself, Luca. If I had another knife, I wouldn’t miss.”
I gigled,low and amused. “And if I wanted you dead, Isabella, you wouldn’t have woken up this morning.”
Her fingers tightened around the coffee cup, her knuckles white. Her fury lit up her face, and I couldn’t help but admire it. She was dangerous, even if she didn’t realize how much.
“Drink your coffee,” I said, nodding toward the untouched cup in front of her. “It’ll help with the headache. I had the butler prepare something special for us.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she lifted the cup. Pride glimmered in her eyes as she took a small sip, refusing to let me think she was afraid.
Good girl.
I leaned back, watching her as the silence stretched. It didn’t take long. The first signs were subtle—a twitch of her fingers, a shadow of confusion, the darkening glint in her eyes. Then she set the cup down, her breathing suddenly shallow.
“Luca,” she whispered, her voice shaking.
I stood, crossing the room in slow, deliberate steps. By the time I reached her, she was gripping the edge of the table, her body trembling.
Her wide hazel eyes met mine, filled with rage and fear as realization set in. “What did you do?”
“Relax,” I said, crouching beside her. “You’re not dying. Yet.”
Her legs buckled, and she slid to the floor, gasping for air. I caught her before she hit the ground, lowering her . Her breaths came in ragged bursts, her fingers clawing at my jacket as tears filled her eyes.
I let her struggle for a moment, her desperation a bitter satisfaction. Then I pulled a small vial from my pocket. The liquid inside shimmered faintly, the antidote she so desperately needed.
“This is the cure,” I said, holding it just out of reach.
Her hand shot out, trembling but determined. She crawled forward, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, but I stood taller, the vial just beyond her grasp.
“You tried to kill me last night,” I said, my voice calm, almost conversational. “Did you really think there wouldn’t be consequences?”
“Bastard,” she hissed, her voice barely audible.
I tilted my head, smiling faintly. “That’s one word for me. But let’s make one thing clear. If you cross me again, you won’t get the antidote next time. Do you understand?”
Her lips moved, but no sound came out. She was pale now, her body weak, her breaths shallow.
For a moment, I watched her, savoring the moment. Then I sighed, uncapped the vial, and tilted it to her lips.
She drank greedily, clutching at my arm as the antidote worked its way through her system. Her body convulsed once, twice, before her breathing evened out.
I held her steady until she regained her strength.
When she shoved away from me, it was with all the fire of a cornered animal. She staggered to her feet, bracing herself against the table, her eyes blazing with hatred.
“You poisoned me,” she said, her voice trembling with rage.
I straightened, brushing invisible dust from my sleeves. “Consider it a warning.”
“A warning?” she spat, her fists clenched. “You’re insane. You’re a psychopathic freak!”
“No,” I said, stepping closer. “I’m in control. And you? You’re alive because I allow it. Remember that the next time you point a knife at me.”
Her breath hitched, but she didn’t back down. “You think you can break me?” she said, her voice sharp and defiant. “You’ll have to try harder than that.”
I leaned in, lowering my voice to a deadly whisper. “Breaking you isn’t the goal, Isabella. Ruining you? That’s worth my time.”
Her slap came fast, her palm striking my cheek with surprising force. The sound echoed in the room, sharp and jarring.
For a moment, I didn’t move. I let the silence hang heavy between us, tension thick like smoke. Then I laughed—a low, dangerous sound that made her flinch.
“Good,” I said, my voice cold. “Hate me, Isabella. Hate me enough to survive. You’re going to need it.”
I turned and left her standing there, her body trembling with rage.
--
In my study I picked up the phone and dialed.
“She’s a tough one,” I said when the line clicked. “But she’ll break eventually.”
A cold voice replied, “Do whatever it takes. The Morettis still owe us blood.”
I hung up, my fingers brushing the scar along my jaw. Isabella didn’t know the whole truth—not yet. Adrian’s death wasn’t just a memory; it was a wound. And she was the key to finishing what her father had started.
- Writer
