⭐ 4
2366 Words
WAIT, YOU'RE GETTING ENGAGED !?
Arisa’s voice cut through the ambient jazz playing in the background, sharp with disbelief. Her perfectly manicured hand paused mid-air, halfway to her glass of plum wine. Her expression said it all—pure horror, with a sprinkle of Are-you-insane?
I stirred my coffee slowly, the ice clinking against the sides like a clock ticking in reverse. “Technically, it’s already arranged.”
“You’re joking,” she said flatly.
I gave her a look.
She groaned. “You’re not joking.”
I hadn’t meant to tell her. Actually, I’d avoided it for weeks. Arisa had enough on her plate—balancing her role as the heir to one of Kyoto’s oldest families, dodging her parents’ constant demands, and still managing to look like she stepped out of a fashion editorial. I didn’t want to add my mess to her already overflowing plate.
But the words had slipped out—maybe because I needed someone who wouldn’t pretend it was normal.
“Don’t worry about me,” I said softly, offering her the closest thing to reassurance I could give right now. “I’m managing.”
Arisa’s gaze searched mine for a second longer, then she sighed, leaning back in her chair. “You always say that when you’re falling apart.”
I didn’t answer.
Instead, I asked, “How’s everything going on your end?”
Her expression shifted, the worry softening into something more familiar. “Kyoto politics are the same. Cold and suffocating. My father wants me back next month. He thinks I’ve been ‘resting’ too long here.”
“Will you go?”
She nodded, her gaze drifting toward the window. “Eventually. But I’m not leaving before your wedding. Someone has to be there to stop you from pulling a disappearing act mid-ceremony.”
I raised an eyebrow, the corner of my mouth twitching. “Please. If I ever run, it’ll be before the dress fittings. Silk and suffocation don’t mix.”
Arisa leaned in, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “If you’re going to run, at least do it with flair. Grab a hot waiter, whisper something sinful, and disappear into the night like a scandal in red stilettos.”
I blinked. “Arisa.”
“What?” she asked innocently. “If you’re going to blow up your life, you might as well look good doing it "
I snorted, shaking my head. “You’ve planned this, haven’t you?”
“I have backup outfits in my trunk and a burner phone with no SIM card. Try me.”
That pulled a laugh from me—God, I’d missed this.
Just being seen—without the contracts, the headlines, or the weight of my last name.
Even for a moment, it was enough.
But it didn't last long.
Arisa’s phone lit up on the table, screen flashing. She glanced at it and stood, smoothing her blazer. “Hold on, darling. I need to take this.”
She didn’t even touch her plum wine—her favorite—and that alone told me the call wasn’t casual.
She stepped away, heels whispering against the marble floors as she made her way to the café doors. Just before they swung closed behind her, I caught a snippet of her voice.
"うん、***くよ。**まで*っていて。"
(Yes, I’ll be there next month. Please wait for my arrival.)
[Note: The wording may vary slightly, but the meaning remains the same. Better English was used.]
Her words disappeared with her, leaving behind the subtle echo of power and restraint that always seemed to follow her.
I leaned back, wrapping my fingers around the warm coffee cup. The café glowed with gold lights and dark wood. It wasn’t my usual type of place—too fancy, too perfect. But Arisa liked it. Not to show off, but because she grew up with this kind of luxury. It was the only peace she understood.
And for her, I didn’t mind the velvet chairs and the ten-dollar lattes.
She made the luxury feel less suffocating.
More… grounding.
And maybe, just maybe, having her here—now—was the only reason I hadn’t fallen apart yet.
I stared down at my untouched drink, but all I could see was the past.
♡
It was three years ago.
I remember the exact night, down to the scent of burnt coffee and printer ink. Everyone else had gone home hours ago, but I stayed behind like always—still in heels, still pretending exhaustion didn’t matter when you had something to prove.
I’d just finished it. The proposal that could’ve reshaped our Asian market strategy. The numbers were clean, the forecast strong, the entire concept sharp enough to slice through the competition.
I placed the final file on my father’s desk. Aligned to the edge. Crisp. Proud.
It was 2:12 a.m. when I left the boardroom.
I still remember because I looked at the clock, smiling to myself, thinking—maybe this time, he’ll see me.
The elevator dinged behind me.
My father’s voice.
Gabriel’s laugh.
So I stayed still. Hidden behind the doorway. I didn’t even know why at first.
Until I heard it.
“This is solid,” my father said, flipping through the papers I had poured myself into. “Good work. You’ll lead with this at Monday’s board meeting.”
I smiled. My chest tightened in that awful, hopeful way.
Finally.
Finally.
But then—
Gabriel’s voice, low and casual. “I’ll make a few tweaks. But yeah, I can handle it.”
My blood went still.
“You’re sure you understand the numbers?” my father asked.
Gabriel laughed—charming and careless, like he always did. “It’s already laid out. Isabella did the heavy lifting. I’ll just be the face.”
Silence.
Then my father’s voice again. Unbothered. Dismissive.
“She’s good for that.”
My ears rang.
Good for that.
That.
Not the room. Not the credit.
Just... the lifting.
I stood in the dark, the hum of the hallway light buzzing above me like a scream I couldn’t let out. My hands were cold. My mouth was dry. And something inside me—something small and hopeful—died so quietly I didn’t even realize it was gone.
I didn’t confront him.
I didn’t crash into that office and scream at Gabriel.
I didn’t tell my father I had stayed for forty-two straight hours, running projections until my eyes stung and my back ached.
I just walked out.
And that night, for the first time in my life, I understood exactly who I was in my father’s eyes.
A name on the paperwork. A shadow behind a desk.
Not a daughter.
Not an heir.
Just something useful.
♡
Back in the café, the jazz played softly in the background, but it might as well have been white noise.
The coffee in front of me had gone cold. My hands were clenched in my lap—tight enough that my nails dug half-moons into my palms. I hadn’t even noticed.
I exhaled slowly and forced myself to relax.
But inside, the memory lingered like a bruise I couldn’t stop pressing.
Gabriel would be at the wedding. Of course he would. Front and center, in his tailored suit and that effortless smirk he wore like a weapon.
He’d pretend to be proud.
Like he hadn’t stolen everything I worked for.
Like he hadn’t buried my worth beneath his name—and smiled while doing it.
My jaw tightened.
I pressed two fingers to my temple, willing the memory to retreat, but it stayed there. Heavy. Familiar.
Gabriel hadn’t thought twice.
Neither had my father.
And I was still here—still carrying the consequences of a seat at a table I was never meant to sit at.
“Sorry,” Arisa’s voice floated back as she slid into her chair. “That took longer than expected. Apparently ‘on break’ isn’t a real phrase anymore.”
She smiled, light and warm, but her wineglass was still untouched.
“Everything okay?” I asked, trying to smooth the edges in my voice.
She nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Just family things. You know how it is. They pull you in like you’re a limited edition product about to expire.”
I gave her a tired smile. “Yeah. I know the feeling.”
We didn’t speak for a while.
But it wasn’t awkward.
It was full. Thick with everything we both weren’t saying.
Arisa finally broke the silence. “I used to think our lives would be different.”
I looked up.
“How so?”
She swirled her glass slowly, her gaze distant. “I thought we’d be the ones making the rules. Starting companies. Traveling the world. Falling in love with whoever we wanted, whenever we wanted.”
Her eyes found mine again. “Not… this.”
I didn’t answer.
Because what could I say?
“You okay, Isa?”
She asked it softly. Gently. Not like someone digging for a story—just someone who would stay, even if I didn’t answer.
“I don’t know,” I whispered. “Some days, it feels like I’m watching my life happen through glass. Like I’m screaming and no one hears it.”
Arisa didn’t say anything. She just reached across the table and curled her fingers around mine.
It was enough.
♡
My phone buzzed against the table, flashing with a message that yanked me back to reality.
Mother:
Meet me at the Marlowe House in one hour. Pre-engagement arrangements. Be presentable.
Presentable. Right.
Like that was ever optional.
I stared at the message for a beat longer than I needed to. Then I slipped the phone into my bag and stood.
“Duty calls,” I said quietly, my smile gone.
Arisa looked up, concern flickering across her features. “Text me after, okay?”
I nodded. “I will.”
And then I left.
♡
The Marlowe House was exactly what it was designed to be—beautiful, expensive, hollow.
White-washed stone. Blooming roses. Chandeliers that sparkled like they could distract you from everything else. The kind of place that existed purely for appearances.
My mother stood at the far end of a marble table, flipping through fabric swatches like she was finalizing a contract—not planning her daughter’s engagement.
“You’re late,” she said, without looking up.
“There was traffic,” I replied, voice flat.
“There’s never traffic when you leave on time.”
Always the same cold efficiency.
I sat down in silence, the weight of everything pressing against my chest.
Not because I didn’t have words—
But because I knew they wouldn’t matter here.
“You do realize how insane this is, right?”
Her hand paused mid-page. Then resumed.
“Isabella, this is not the time for theatrics.”
“Theatrics?” I blinked. “You’re arranging florals while I’m being handed off like a signed check. And I’m the one being dramatic?”
She looked up, finally. Her gaze was cool, practiced.
“You’re not being handed off,” my mother said coolly, still flipping through a catalog of overpriced centerpieces. “You’re being secured.”
I let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh.
“No,” I said, voice low. “You’re securing everyone else’s future. My father’s legacy. Gabriel’s birthright. The Moretti name. I’m just the pawn dressed up in white to make it look clean.”
Her gaze flicked up, sharp and fast. “What I’m doing is ensuring my daughter doesn’t end up with nothing. This marriage is an opportunity. I expect no further complaints, Miss Moretti.”
Miss Moretti.
Like I was her employee.
Like I wasn’t the child she’d once rocked to sleep.
I stared at her, disbelief twisted in my chest like a knife, cruel and sudden.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
Her eyes narrowed, ice settling behind every syllable. “Is that how you speak to your mother?”
“No,” I snapped, standing. “But you don’t get to hide behind that title when all you’ve ever done is stand there and let him destroy me.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Watch your tone.”
“Why?” My voice cracked. “Because I’m embarrassing you now instead of the other way around?”
A beat of silence.
"You think I haven't seen what this marriage is really about?” I continued. “You think I don’t see how easily you gave me up so Father could clean up his empire?"
Her jaw clenched. “You’re being dramatic.”
“No,” I whispered, stepping closer. “I’m being honest. And for once, I won’t apologize for it.”
Her hands clenched around the edge of the table. “You don’t understand what’s at stake.”
“Then explain it to me,” I snapped. “Tell me why marrying a man who looks at me like I’m a contract is better than standing alone.”
She didn’t answer.
Because she couldn’t.
Because the truth was, she had chosen survival so long ago that she'd forgotten what it felt like to live for something more.
I stared at her, heart breaking and burning all at once.
“I hope one day you look at me and realize what you helped destroy.”
She blinked. Once.
And I turned.
Because if I stayed a second longer, I’d fall apart in front of the one person who’d never catch me.
♡
Outside, the sunlight felt too warm.
Too bright for a day that had left me colder than I’d ever been.
I walked away, I didn’t look back. There was nothing behind me worth seeing.
The dull ache of betrayal pressing into my ribs like a blade I couldn’t pull out.
I kept walking.
Because if I stop, I’ll break—and there’s no putting me back together.
God..... help me.
END OF CHAPTER 4.
- Writer
