The New York Romance: The Contract Bride

Chapter.5

"Isabella, 10 a.m., Lincoln Center." Leonardo slapped a gold-embossed course card in front of Isabella, as if challenging her to a duel, "Ballet class, you go."

Isabella was intently sketching jewelry designs, her pen flowing smoothly across the paper. This sudden noise startled her, causing her hand to tremble and a blob of ink to ruin the delicate lines. She looked up, her eyes clearly asking, "What is it?"

"Ballet class?" she repeated, with a hint of disbelief in her tone.

"Vivian was once a candidate dancer for the American Ballet Theater (ABT). "Leonardo casually leaned against the doorframe, his hands in his pockets, as he spoke those words. But those light and airy words were like an invisible ruler, ruthlessly measuring the gap between Isabella and the "perfect" Vivian.

Isabella put down the brush, gently rotating her sore wrist, again and again! Vivian's name is simply a haunting sound in her life, 3D surround sound, 24-hour non-stop playback, you can't even mute it!

"So, Mr. Leonardo, are you planning to turn me into Vivian 2.0?"

Leonardo didn't say a word, he just stared at her, his deep blue eyes as if to draw her whole being into them.

I felt like a duck that had wandered into Swan Lake.

"No bourrée! Cou-de-pied!" The stern voice of the Russian teacher echoed in the classroom, each syllable lashing at Isabella like a whip. She struggled to keep up with the rhythm, but was always half a beat behind, her hands and feet clumsy like a newborn baby just learning to walk.

"Stop!" a roar of anger exploded in the eardrums, the Russian old lady's roar of the lion almost sent Isabela away, "Miss Isabela Carter! My goodness! Look at your feet! Are they noodles?! Soft and mushy like a lump of paste! If Miss Vivian were still alive, the grass on her grave would be dancing with rage!"

Isabella felt a flame shoot up to her forehead, her cheeks instantly burning like the setting sun, red as if about to drip blood. It was not because she was cursed out, but because of Vivian! Again, Vivian! This name was like a tightening curse, just saying it made her explode in place! She bit her lower lip hard, her teeth almost drawing blood, her nails digging into her palms, leaving crescent-shaped red marks. Her chest was burning with rage, wanting to flip the table - no, flip the floor and leave! Blow up this cursed place! Make the three words "Vivian" completely disappear from Leonardo's dictionary! Preferably, send this noisy old lady packing as well! Never! Hire! Again!

Halftime, Isabella walked into the locker room alone. She opened the locker with her name, but in the corner, she found a pair of old ballet shoes. The shoes were yellow, the toe tips were badly worn, but their former elegance and grace was still visible. Isabella picked up the dance shoes, and on the inside, she saw a graceful handwritten note: "To my swan, L."

Leonardo.

Isabella, like a soulless puppet, returned to the classroom. The music seemed to come from a distant horizon, each beat striking her numb nerves. She mechanically repeated the movements, pas de bourrée, cou-de-pied... Her mind was like a tangled mess, unable to recall anything, yet unable to let go of anything.

A rotation, unstable center of gravity, feeling like walking on cotton, body uncontrollably tilting to one side. A sharp, piercing pain in the ankle, as if a needle had been driven in forcefully.

"Mmm..." Isabella let out a muffled groan, collapsing messily onto the cold floor, like a bird with broken wings.

Leonardo didn't know when he was standing at the classroom door, against the light, his tall figure almost completely enveloping her. He stepped over a few steps, crouched down in front of her, the usually neat and tidy black hair, now with a few strands falling on his forehead, adding a touch of messy sexiness to his stern brows. "How are you?"

Isabella slowly raised her head, her gaze meeting his. She didn't answer, just looked at him steadily, her eyes calm as a still pond, yet with a hint of stubbornness, as if silently asking: Are you satisfied? Is this what you wanted? She spoke softly, her voice hoarse as if it had been rubbed by sandpaper: "It's sprained."

Leonardo's thick, dark eyebrows furrowed into a "U" shape, and he didn't say a word, just turned his head and gestured to the assistant behind him. The assistant immediately understood, and as if by magic, pulled an ice pack out of the bag and handed it to him.

Isabella took the ice pack, but did not apply it to her ankle, instead she gripped it tightly in her hand.

"Let's go together to the charity gala next week," Leonardo said in a low voice, not asking but informing. "You'll need to wear seven-centimeter high heels," Leonardo added, leaving no room for discussion.

Isabella jerked her head up, two small flames ignited in her eyes. Seven centimeters? Did he think she was Barbie, and her sprained ankle was just for show?

"Mr. Leonardo," Isabella took a deep breath and made an effort to keep her voice calm, "do you think my foot injury is not severe enough?"

Leonardo looked at her, with a deep gaze, as if he could see through her.

"Isabella stared him down fearlessly, her eyes expressing 'I'm not putting up with this anymore'."

A few seconds of silence, like being stretched out infinitely.

Isabella was simply furious, she really wanted to pry open his head and see if it was filled with a CPU, and nothing else besides calculation and control.

"Mr. Leonardo, I will not go."

The air froze in an instant.

Leonardo narrowed his eyes slightly, and the air pressure around him suddenly dropped. He stepped forward, approaching Isabella, and his towering figure enveloped her completely.

"Isabella," he spoke slowly, his voice low and dangerous, each word like it was fished out of an ice cellar, "you'd better figure out who the boss is."

Isabella felt a chill running from the soles of her feet to the top of her head, but she still stubbornly straightened her back, not letting a single trace of timidity show. She knew she couldn't retreat. Once she retreated, she would forever be just his puppet.

"I am your employee, not your slave." Isabella's voice was soft, yet unwavering, "I have the right to refuse unreasonable demands."

Leonardo looked at her, his gaze complex and indecipherable, as if he was evaluating her, or perhaps rediscovering her.

"Unreasonable?" he repeated those three words, with a hint of playfulness in his tone, "Isabella, don't forget our 'contract'."

Isabella's heart sank, she knew he was going to use that damned "contract" to pressure her again.

"So what?" she suppressed the anger in her heart and coldly asked, "Is Mr. Leonardo is planning to let me live in Vivian's shadow for the rest of my life, even having to listen to you about what shoes to wear?"

Leonardo's face suddenly darkened, and he grabbed Isabella's wrist with such force that he nearly crushed her bones.

"Isabella!" he growled through gritted teeth, his voice suppressing his anger.

Isabella was in such pain that her face turned pale, but she still glared at him defiantly, with not a trace of submission in her eyes.

"Let me go!" she struggled, her voice slightly trembling with pain, "Leonardo, you're hurting me!"

Leonardo looked at her, with complex emotions rolling in his eyes, anger, bewilderment, and a touch of…

That night, Isabella did not go home, but went to a dilapidated community center in the city center. She picked up a paintbrush and the children of the community, and began to paint graffiti on the walls. She drew a group of children, some dancing, some singing, some painting...each child's face was filled with pure and happy smiles.

She was deeply immersed in her painting, completely oblivious to the person approaching behind her.

"Click," the flash lit up.

Isabella was startled, and when she turned around, she saw the paparazzi with a camera constantly snapping "click click" at her.

"What are you doing?!" Isabella scolded.

"The paparazzi said with a mischievous smile: 'Mrs. Rhein secretly met with community children late at night, this is big news!'"

The headline of the gossip column in the "Daily News" the next day: The wife of the president of the Rhine Group was spotted in a poor neighborhood late at night, allegedly interacting with a mysterious child. The accompanying photo shows Isabella painting a mural at a community activity center, wearing a simple t-shirt and jeans, her hair casually tied back, her face spattered with multicolored paint, looking... actually quite cute.