Bound to the Heartless CEO

Isabelle De Luca Moretti woke before dawn, as she always did. The penthouse was silent—too silent for a home that housed a married couple. Soft gray light slipped through the sheer curtains, brushing against her porcelain skin as she lay still on the edge of the bed that had never once been shared. The room was vast, elegant, and unbearably cold, much like the man who slept in the master bedroom across the hall. Marco Lorenzo Morreti—her husband. She rose quietly, her small frame barely making a sound against the marble floor. At four feet nine inches, Isabelle often felt like a child trapped in an adult world, swallowed whole by decisions she had never been allowed to make. Her reflection in the mirror showed a beautiful woman with flawless white skin, soft lips, and dimples that curved into her cheeks even when she wasn’t smiling. But her eyes—those gave her away. They carried exhaustion. Loneliness. Resignation. She dressed in a simple cream blouse and pencil skirt, tying her hair into a neat bun. No jewelry, no unnecessary softness. She had learned early that beauty did not protect a woman—it only made her more visible. As she passed the master bedroom, the door was ajar. Laughter drifted out. A woman’s laughter. Isabelle stopped. Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag as she glanced inside. A stranger lay tangled in silk sheets, her long legs wrapped confidently around Marco Morreti’s bare waist. He looked relaxed, satisfied, cruelly alive. His arm was draped around the woman as if this were his right, as if Isabelle did not exist at all. Marco caught sight of Isabelle in the doorway. Their eyes met. His expression hardened instantly. “Close the door,” he said coldly. “You’re letting the noise in.” Not you’re hurting me. Not this is wrong. Just—close the door. Isabelle obeyed. She always did. In the elevator down to the garage, her chest ached in that familiar, dull way. This was how her marriage began. This was how it continued. Every night, a new woman. Every morning, a reminder that she was unwanted. It’s fine, she told herself. This is temporary. She had a plan. At twenty-three, when her parents told her she would marry Marco Morreti, Isabelle had begged. She had knelt on the marble floor of the De Luca mansion in Florence, tears soaking into stone that had never known mercy. “I don’t want this,” she had whispered. “He loves Athena. He has his own life.” Her mother’s face had been sharp, furious. “You are adopted,” she spat. “Everything you have is because of us. And now, when this family is drowning, you suddenly want a choice?” They told her the truth that night—the business was collapsing. The Deluca empire needed the Morreti power to survive. And then came the final blow. “What will happen to Ara,” her mother had said softly, cruelly, “if we lose everything?” Ara. Her little sister. Ten years old. Innocent. The only person who ever hugged Isabelle without hesitation. Isabelle had broken then. She agreed to the marriage knowing Marco would hate her. And he did. At the clinic later that morning, Isabelle lost herself in work. Dentistry was the only place where she felt in control. Patients trusted her hands, her voice, her calm. She fixed what was broken, even when she herself remained shattered. “Bella,” Anya said gently, peeking into her office. “You didn’t sleep again, did you?” Isabelle forced a smile, dimples appearing automatically. “I’m fine.” Anya didn’t believe her. She never did. “You work too much,” Anya sighed. “And Ethan called again.” Isabelle stiffened. “What did he want?” “He asked if you’d like to have dinner. I told him you’re busy.” Isabelle nodded, relief and guilt mixing in her chest. Ethan was kind. Wealthy. Gentle. Everything Marco was not. But Isabelle’s heart had never learned how to move on. It had been stuck on a boy from Florence who once smiled at her while eating gelato by the river Arno. Marco thought Ethan was her boyfriend. The idea made him angrier. He thought she was greedy. A gold digger. A woman who married him for money while entertaining another man. If only he knew the truth. That every dollar she saved was hidden away carefully. That every extra shift she worked was for one purpose only. That one day, she would give Marco his freedom. And walk away with nothing. That night, Isabelle returned to the penthouse long after midnight. Marco was awake this time, sitting in the living room with a glass of whiskey. Alone. “Working late?” he asked mockingly. “Yes,” she answered softly. He stood, towering over her small frame. “Still pretending to be the perfect wife? Saving face while you plan your next move?” “I never planned anything,” she said. He laughed bitterly. “You planned my ruin.” Her chest tightened, but she bowed her head. “I’m sorry.” Marco froze. For a moment, just a moment, something unreadable crossed his face. But it vanished quickly. “Don’t apologize,” he said coldly. “Just remember—you destroyed my future. And I will never forgive you.” Isabelle nodded. Inside her chest, something cracked quietly. She went to her room, locked the door, and slid down against it, pressing a hand over her mouth as silent tears fell. Just a little longer, she told herself. Work harder. Save more. One day, I will set him free. And when that day came, she would disappear— with her love still intact, and her heart completely broken.