Isolated Island
1558 Words
After decorating the villa, Alessia returned to her room and powered on her streaming equipment.
Even on weekends, they barely spoke. When they did, it was mostly arguments, silence, or his uninvited presence.
She was tired of sharing the same space with him. Every time his breath neared, she felt an invisible signal of oppression and danger. Like a dog in heat—she thought coldly to herself. His tenderness and desire always came wrapped in violence and control, like an invisible net that dragged her down until she could barely breathe.
But her disgust wasn’t baseless. It was a hardwired response forged through countless struggles. The fight that had changed everything between them flashed vividly in her mind, like an old wound ripped open again.
The quietest night before the storm.
That was the night they broke.
That evening, they had an unprecedented argument. She spoke with ruthless honesty, each word a blade cutting deep: “You don’t know how to love, Dante. All you know is control and possession. You didn’t even spare Isabel — you won’t even let her rest in peace.”
He laughed bitterly in rage, trapping her in the corner like a wild beast, voice low and threatening: “Who gave you the right to mention her?”
She trembled with fury, pushing him away in desperation—without thinking, just wanting him to shut up and leave.
The next second, he fell backward like a broken puppet, crashing down the stairs from the second floor. His body hit the steps with dull, sickening cracks, followed by a heavy thud. Blood bloomed across the white marble floor, shocking and vivid.
She stood frozen.
Her ears buzzed.
She hadn’t meant to kill him. But at that moment, she truly wanted to be free of him.
After that day, everything changed.
Dante was unconscious for three days. The Valtierri family arrived like wolves, surrounding her. They questioned whether she’d lost her mind, been pushed too far, or tried to kill their heir. She’d thought she was a “negotiable piece” on their chessboard—but in that instant, she realized she was nothing more than a pawn to be sacrificed at any time.
They locked down the news, cut off all her contact with the outside world. And her own family—the ones who had once promised they wouldn’t abandon her—didn’t dare offer even symbolic protection when faced with the Valtierri’s wrath.
She tried to escape. She exhausted every method to break free, but failed.
She thought she might win once, even just once.
But when Dante woke, his eyes opened without a cry of pain or a question of what had happened. He calmly said just one thing:
“Bring her back.”
No anger, no doubt—like everything was still under his control.
She once dreamed—if that shove had changed everything, she could break free from this toxic entanglement. If she were cruel enough, maybe she could end their cycle of destruction.
But reality tore those illusions to shreds.
She gained nothing.
He was still the ruler of the Valtierri family, the untouchable golden boy. Even after lying unconscious in bed for three days, when he woke, he still moved the world with ease.
And from that day on, she had become his prisoner.
Even if she never admitted it.
Now, she was like a bird stripped of feathers, caged inside this vast prison. The old wounds on her fingers had healed long ago, but left lasting damage—she could no longer play piano like before. The faint tremor in her left middle finger was like fate’s final mockery.
She was already without a home—her father and mother dead, her brother still in the hospital, relatives who once surrounded her scattering like they were avoiding a plague. No one dared call “Alessia Moretti” the heiress of the Moretti family anymore; after Dante personally sealed the information, all old connections had retreated like a tide, leaving her alone exposed to the storm, without even a shadow to hide behind.
She had lost her freedom, her dignity, even the piano she loved most had become an unreachable dream, all because of that glass shard in the fight.
The streaming equipment was already set up. She turned on the microphone.
“Today, we’ll keep reading.” Her voice was steady, with no greetings or unnecessary introductions. Her fans were used to her style—quiet, detached, yet strangely compelling.
She opened the book, fingertips resting lightly on the page, her throat tightening slightly.
“‘I always thought leaving you would end the pain,’” she read, her voice calm, almost devoid of emotion. “‘But I realize... I don’t even know who I am anymore.’”
Winter’s muted light filtered through the heavy blinds, casting mottled shadows across the carpet of the therapy room.
Dante sat by the window in a leather chair, posture straight, hands folded neatly on his lap. As always, he was impeccably dressed, not a wrinkle on his cuffs. The black tea on the coffee table had gone cold; wisps of steam faded silently, like the man’s own silence and inability to speak.
Across from him, his private psychologist, Dr. Albert, flipped through notes. The rustling of paper filled the quiet room, each page a worse prognosis.
“Her condition is worsening,” the doctor said finally, his tone steady. “Long-term isolation, intense control, emotional suppression... if this continues, her mental defenses will completely break down.”
Dante said nothing.
He simply stared out the window. Snow fell steadily—fine, dense, piling up silently like loneliness itself.
Dr. Albert continued, but Dante no longer listened. His mind sank deep underwater, drifting through shattered fragments—Alessia standing by the glass door, hair disheveled, lips bitten raw, teeth marks on her hands; sitting on the cold bathroom tiles, knees drawn up, forehead pressed against the porcelain wall; slowly dragging a metal bookmark across her wrist... Each image a blade cutting deep, bleeding, yet impossible to sever from his heart.
If she goes mad, she won’t run anymore.
If she goes mad, she’ll be quiet, compliant—like a tame puppet. Sitting there beside him at dinner, watching movies, without saying a word.
A dull ache rose deep in his chest.
He knew that if she truly lost her mind, she’d never look at him that way again—that burning gaze full of hatred, resentment, curses, but also raw honesty.
If she lost it, that fire would be gone forever.
She wouldn’t curse him. She wouldn’t look at him.
She’d just sit there quietly. No tears. No tantrums. No resistance.
Like an empty shell.
He closed his eyes briefly, his breath catching for a moment.
He forced himself to open them again, burying the chaos deep in his bones. He couldn’t show weakness—not to the doctor, not to anyone. He was the master of the Valtierri family, the one who controlled Alessia. He could never let a c***k show.
Dr. Albert said, “She needs to get some fresh air, occasionally.”
Dr. Albert thought this man never denied his possessiveness or hid his obsession with control—but after nearly three years, both of their mental states... saying she was slowly breaking down was almost an understatement.
One was a canary trapped in a gilded cage. The other had swallowed the key and locked himself inside.
When Dante left the office, the sky was still early, but already he felt a creeping darkness.
He didn’t call for a driver. He drove himself slowly down the mountain road, alone.
The car was unnervingly quiet—only the slight hum of the engine and the soft crunch of tires on fallen leaves.
His hand rested on the steering wheel as his eyes aimlessly scanned ahead, but at some point, his thoughts drifted back ten years.
Back then, Alessia hadn’t been so silent.
She laughed bright and free, like sunlight breaking through clouds.
He remembered how she used to chase him around the courtyard, mumbling, “Don’t run—I haven’t finished talking yet!”
Dante always pretended to ignore her, feigning coldness, but his eyes betrayed a hidden tenderness.
She would get angry, yell, even slam a glass on the floor, throwing words that cut him to the core:
“Why do you have to control me? What more do you want to take away?”
She was a flame, proud and fierce—so fierce he wished he could extinguish her with his own hands.
But then, she stopped speaking.
She grew indifferent to everything. Let her food go cold. Didn’t fight against locked windows. Slept longer, woke later, her eyes no longer meeting anyone’s gaze.
One night, he came back to his room late and found her sitting by the floor-to-ceiling window, staring out at the snow, not even noticing him approach.
He called her name, and she just turned, smiled softly:
“Oh, you’re still here.”
That moment, he was left speechless.
The villa appeared ahead at the end of the mountain road—lights still off, like a silent island.
Dante tightened his grip on the wheel, his eyes dark as night.
Dr. Albert was right.
She needed fresh air.
- Writer
