The Revenge He Regretted

Chapter 4

POV: Isabella Moretti

By nine in the morning, I was standing outside my father’s office, repeating the same words in my head.

He had promised.

I held on to that thought as though it could protect me from whatever waited behind the glass doors. My mother had seven days. I had no money to cover the treatment, no certainty that anyone else would help, and no intention of leaving without making Victor understand what his refusal would mean.

I had spent most of the night calculating figures that never changed, rearranging expenses that could not be reduced any further, and imagining conversations that ended with my father agreeing to help.

In every version, he listened.

In every version, he remembered his promise.

I should have known better.

The receptionist looked up as I approached her desk.

“Good morning. I need to see Mr. Moretti.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No. Please tell him Isabella Moretti is here.”

She glanced at her computer, then back at me.

“Mr. Moretti has a very busy schedule this morning.”

“I understand, but this is important.”

“I am afraid you will have to wait.”

I wanted to ask whether she would say the same thing if I had arrived carrying a business proposal worth millions. Instead, I pressed my lips together and nodded.

“Fine. I will wait.”

She gestured toward the seating area.

I chose a chair facing the corridor, placed my bag on my lap, and tried to remain patient.

People came and went. Some greeted the receptionist by name. Others were escorted through the doors without waiting at all. Every so often, I checked my phone, hoping for a message from the hospital that would somehow change everything.

There was nothing.

I wondered how long my father intended to make me sit there. Perhaps he was genuinely occupied. Perhaps he had already been told I was waiting and had decided that ignoring me was easier than speaking to me.

Neither possibility surprised me.

What unsettled me was the thought that I might leave this building with nothing.

I had not come to ask him for a gift or to demand a share of his wealth. I had come because he had given me his word, and I had believed him.

That belief had cost me more than I could explain.

Finally, the receptionist picked up her phone. She spoke quietly, listened, and replaced the receiver.

“Mr. Moretti will see you now.”

I stood so quickly that my bag slipped from my lap. I caught it before it reached the floor and followed her down the corridor.

My father’s office looked exactly as I remembered it. The polished desk, the spotless glass walls, the neatly arranged documents and expensive furniture all reflected the same careful order. Nothing was out of place.

Not even the man sitting behind the desk.

Victor Moretti glanced up as I entered.

“Isabella.”

“Father.”

He pointed toward the chair opposite him.

“Sit down. I have a meeting shortly.”

I remained standing for a moment before taking the seat.

He returned his attention to the document in front of him, leaving me to decide when to begin. I watched him sign a page, turn it over, and place it on another stack.

My mother had spent another night in a hospital bed, wondering whether her condition would improve.

My father was concerned about his schedule.

“Thank you for seeing me,” I said.

He placed his pen down.

“You said it was important. What is it?”

I drew a breath.

“Mama needs further treatment. Her condition has worsened, and the doctors want to proceed with the next stage of care.”

His expression barely changed.

“And?”

I had prepared myself for indifference, but hearing that single word still hurt.

“The hospital says there is an outstanding payment that must be settled within seven days for the treatment to proceed as scheduled. I have asked about instalments, but nothing has been confirmed. I cannot raise the full amount by myself.”

I paused, waiting for him to respond.

He did not.

“I need your help,” I continued. “You promised that you would take care of her treatment after I cooperated in Adrian’s case. I did what you asked me to do. I am asking you to keep your promise.”

For the first time since I entered, he leaned back and looked at me properly.

“I remember the arrangement.”

Relief flickered through me.

“Then you understand why I am here.”

“I understand that you want money.”

“For Mama’s treatment.”

“Yes, Isabella. I heard you.”

His tone made it sound as though I were repeating a question he had already answered several times.

I clasped my hands together to stop myself from fidgeting.

“I am not asking you to take responsibility for everything in my life. I am asking you to help your wife receive the treatment her doctors have recommended.”

“The arrangement we discussed concerned your cooperation in the case.”

“And you promised to help her.”

“The case is over.”

I stared at him.

“What does that have to do with her treatment?”

“It means that the arrangement has been concluded.”

I shook my head slowly.

“No. That is not what you told me.”

“Be careful about how you speak to me.”

The warning was quiet, but it immediately took me back to the conversations I had tried so hard to forget.

I remembered how I had pleaded with him to find another way. I remembered his insistence that I had a choice to make, even though every option he offered led to the same terrible outcome.

I remembered asking what would happen to my mother if I refused.

He had known exactly which fear to use against me.

And I had believed that, after everything I sacrificed, he would at least honour the promise that had made my decision bearable.

“Father, please,” I said, forcing my voice to remain steady. “The doctors are concerned about her condition. Seven days is all I have. I have a job, but my salary cannot cover this amount, and I cannot make the money appear simply because I need it.”

“Then you will have to find another solution.”

I looked at him, waiting for the words to make sense.

“Another solution?”

“You are an adult. You work. You should be capable of managing your affairs.”

“My affairs?” I repeated. “We are talking about Mama.”

“And I have already explained my position.”

“She is your wife.”

His jaw tightened.

“Do not make this emotional.”

I almost laughed.

How else was I supposed to speak about the possibility of losing my mother? Was I supposed to present him with a neat list of figures, as though I were asking him to approve a business expense?

I swallowed the words gathering in my throat.

“You promised me,” I said again. “You told me that if I cooperated, you would make sure she received the treatment she needed.”

“And you cooperated.”

The simplicity of his answer silenced me.

For a moment, I could hear nothing except the faint hum of the air conditioning.

I had spent three years trying to live with what happened in that courtroom. I had endured Adrian’s hatred, the changes at work, and the constant knowledge that the man I had once cared about believed I had willingly helped destroy his life.

I had told myself that at least my mother would be safe.

Now my father sat before me, treating the very reason I had agreed to cooperate as though it were an inconvenience I had invented to trouble him.

“Mama was the reason I agreed,” I whispered.

Victor picked up his pen again.

“The matter is finished, Isabella.”

“She is still ill.”

“That is unfortunate.”

I felt the words strike somewhere deep inside me.

Unfortunate.

That was all he had to say about the woman who had shared his life and raised his daughter.

I leaned forward.

“Please look at me.”

He raised his eyes.

“I did what you asked. I have lived with the consequences every day since then. I am not asking you to undo what happened. I am asking you not to abandon her now.”

His expression hardened.

“I have a business to run. I cannot continue entertaining this conversation.”

I stared at him, struggling to understand how a person could be so unmoved by a problem he had once promised to solve.

“Are you refusing to help her?”

“I have made my position clear.”

I waited for him to soften, to offer even a fraction of the concern I had hoped to find when I walked through his doors.

He looked down at his documents.

The conversation was over.

I rose slowly.

For one humiliating second, I considered pleading again. I imagined lowering myself further, listing every sacrifice I had made, reminding him that I was his daughter and that Elena was his wife.

But I could already hear his response.

The arrangement was finished.

I had received what I had agreed to receive.

There was nothing more to discuss.

“Then I suppose I have my answer,” I said.

Victor did not reply.

I turned and walked out of his office.

The receptionist avoided my eyes as I passed her desk. I kept my head up until I reached the lift, where the doors closed and finally allowed me to stop pretending that I was all right.

My reflection stared back at me from the polished metal.

I looked tired.

Not simply from work or the long hours I had spent worrying about my mother, but from the effort of holding myself together when everything I had relied on seemed to be slipping away.

I pressed my lips together and looked down at my hands.

I would not cry here.

I would not give my father the satisfaction of imagining that his refusal had broken me.

When the lift opened, I stepped out and walked through the lobby without looking back.

Outside, the morning air felt colder than it should have.

I took out my phone and opened my banking application.

My balance appeared on the screen.

I stared at the numbers, then began calculating.

If I set aside what remained after transport and food, how much could I save before the deadline? If I requested an advance on my salary, would it be enough? Could I take additional shifts? Were there duties at the terminal that paid extra?

I worked through the figures twice.

The result remained the same.

Even if I spent almost nothing on myself, my salary would not cover the full amount in seven days.

I could ask someone to lend me the money, but I had no guarantee that anyone could afford to give me such a sum at such short notice. I could try to arrange smaller loans from several people, although that would create a different problem when repayment became due.

Every possibility came with uncertainty.

But uncertainty was still better than standing outside my father’s office and waiting for him to remember that he had a family.

I closed the application.

Adrian Rossi crossed my thoughts, and I immediately pushed the idea away.

I remembered his expression when he confronted me at the terminal. I remembered the anger in his voice and the way he had spoken as though the years between us had changed nothing about what he believed I had done to him.

He thought I had betrayed him willingly.

I could not imagine approaching him with a request for help and expecting anything other than contempt.

Whatever happened between us in the past, I was not ready to stand before him and ask him to save my mother.

Not yet.

I would find another way.

I opened my messages and searched for the contact responsible for scheduling shifts at the terminal. My thumb hovered over the screen as I considered how to phrase the request.

I would not tell them everything. My mother’s illness was not something I wanted to explain to people who barely knew me.

I would simply ask for work.

Any work.

I typed a message.

Good morning. I would like to request additional shifts this week, including any available overtime. I am willing to take on extra duties if needed. Please let me know if there is anything available.

I read it twice before sending it.

The message appeared beneath the contact name.

Delivered.

I slipped my phone into my bag and began walking toward the station.

I had no idea how much extra work I would be offered, or whether the money would arrive in time to make a difference. I only knew that I could not afford to sit still and hope for a miracle.

Seven days.

I had already lost one day searching for help from a man who had no intention of giving it.

Now I had to make the remaining time count.

And I was willing to work until my body could hardly carry me if that was what it took to give my mother a chance.