The Fleeing Princess

The plane cut through the night sky, disappearing into the clouds.

I pressed my forehead against the window, watching the endless blue fade into white. My teeth sank into my lip so hard I tasted blood—anything to keep myself from collapsing.

The wounds across my back burned like fire, warm blood seeping through my shirt. Every heartbeat was a knife. Just hold on. Just a little longer.

Once I landed, once my feet touched foreign soil… I would finally be free.

When the plane landed, freedom tasted like dust and iron. Every step outside the airport felt like dragging chains behind me. My legs trembled, but I forced them forward.

Then came the scream of tires.

A black sports car swerved, stopping inches from where I stood. I didn’t even have time to raise my head before the world tilted and went dark.

Thousands of miles away, Adrian Moretti sat in the back of a limousine, the glow of the city lights bleeding across the glass. Out of nowhere, his chest tightened, his pulse stumbling. For the first time in years, his control slipped.

Like something precious had just slipped through his fingers.

“Boss? Are you all right?” his driver asked, glancing in the mirror.

Adrian’s jaw clenched. “I’m fine.”

But he wasn’t.

Three days later, the boardroom erupted in applause. The last signatures were signed, the last obstacles removed. After six years of silent war, Adrian Moretti had eliminated every rival and claimed the throne of the Moretti empire.

“Congratulations, Don Moretti,” an elder capo toasted. “You’ve outplayed them all.”

Adrian raised his glass, lips curving in a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Victory should have felt intoxicating. Instead, the crystal glass in his hand caught the candlelight, a deep red glow shimmering within—like blood, like the curve of a woman’s lips.

Like her.

Isabella Russo. Reckless, stubborn, impossibly alive.

He blinked, and all he could see was her stumbling out of that cell—skin pale as death, body broken, but eyes still blazing with defiance.

The memory hollowed him out. His grip tightened around the glass until his knuckles whitened.

Later that night, alone in his penthouse, Adrian unlocked his phone. Dozens of messages blinked across the screen—updates from his men, pointless congratulations, even notes from her sister. He ignored them all. His thumb hovered over one name.

Isabella .

The message thread was empty. Not a word from her in days. The last time she’d texted him was weeks ago. His brows drew together—Still sulking?

He hit call.

Silence. Then the sterile voice of an operator: The number you dialed has been disconnected.

For a moment, Adrian froze.

Then memory ambushed him—Isabella curled against his chest, stealing his warmth like a mischievous cat, her hair tangled across his throat, her breath feathering over his skin. He could almost feel her there, until his body betrayed him with a sharp ache of longing.

He swore under his breath and poured himself another drink.

“Boss,” his lieutenant approached cautiously, “we’ve dealt with the Russos. The old man won’t be raising a hand against Isabella again.”

Adrian’s jaw tightened. “Good.” His voice was ice. “They thought they could lay a hand on what’s mine? They’ll learn their place.”

They’ll never know—he thought, the cold edge in his chest softening only in the shadows. Back when she was locked in the walk-in freezer, he sent men to teach her father a lesson—make him understand how to treat his daughter.

He swore he wouldn’t raise a hand again. Yet they still dared… in the hospital, whipping her back until it was raw, letting the guards punish her while I had only sent Isabella to cell to reflect on her own actions.

All the protection he’ve arranged, every hand he’ve quietly guided, no one sees it. She suffers, they suffer, and yet no one knows who pulled the strings to keep it from being worse. Every shadowed move, every silent warning, all for her, and she’ll never know.

The man hesitated. “Forgive me for asking, but… isn’t it Isabella’s sister you’ve always been loving? That’s what everyone believes.”

Adrian’s gaze lifted, sharp and merciless. “Did I ever say that?”

“Then… why—”

“Repayment,” Adrian cut him off, swirling the dark liquid in his glass. “A debt owed is not the same as love.”

He downed the drink in one swallow, but the taste only burned.

Because the truth—the truth he hadn’t admitted even to himself—was that every move, every war, every victory had always circled back to her.

And now, she was gone.