Chapter 8
Isabella POV
It took every ounce of my remaining willpower to drag myself off the hardwood floor, slip past the estate's guards under the guise of a morning fitting, and hail a cab to an anonymous Upper East Side clinic.
The sterile smell of the examination room was a sharp contrast to the suffocating cedarwood of my gilded cage.
"Your white blood cell count is dangerously high," the specialist said, his expression grim as he reviewed my charts. "It is acute appendicitis. If you don't go into surgery immediately, it will rupture. You will die of peritonitis, Miss... Smith."
*Die.* The word hung in the air, yet my heart beat with a strange, icy calm. I couldn't collapse now. Tonight’s gala was my only stage to prove my worth and secure my grandfather's safety.
"I need a few hours," I said, my voice devoid of emotion. "Give me something to keep me standing."
The doctor stared at me as if I were insane. "You are playing Russian roulette with your life."
"Load the chamber, Doctor."
Reluctantly, he administered a heavy dose of painkillers via injection and handed me a small bottle of pills. The blinding agony dulled to a heavy, numb throb, granting me a dangerous, temporary illusion of health.
Sitting in the back of a yellow taxi heading downtown, my phone vibrated. A text from Giselle Bernard.
*Izzy, let's clear the air before the gala. Lunch at Le Coucou? Like sisters. - G*
I stared at the screen. It was a trap, obviously. But if I refused, she would run to Damien, painting me as a petty, hysterical wife, giving him another excuse to lock me away before tonight. I needed to face her on her own battlefield.
I typed a single word: *Okay.*
At exactly twelve-thirty, I walked into *Le Coucou*. The crystal chandeliers cast a cold, unforgiving light over the white tablecloths and the city's elite.
Giselle wasn't alone. Damien sat beside her, his dark, tailored suit a stark contrast to her vibrant silk dress. The trap was perfectly set.
I slid into the chair opposite them. Between us sat a massive, three-tiered seafood tower. The overwhelming stench of raw oysters, clams, and brine hit my already churning stomach, making the bile rise in my throat.
Damien’s obsidian eyes locked onto my pale face, his jaw tight with irritation. He didn't see a sick woman; he saw a defiant piece of property.
"Eat," he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Stop this pathetic performance."
Giselle leaned forward, a victorious smirk playing on her glossed lips. She elegantly speared a raw oyster with a tiny silver fork and held it out toward me like I was a stray dog. "Don't upset Damien, Izzy. We're family now."
Something inside me—the last fragile thread of the obedient, terrified girl I used to be—snapped.
The painkiller coursing through my veins gave me a lethal, detached clarity. I didn't flinch. I didn't cry. I calmly opened my leather clutch and pulled out the blue folder—the exact replica of the annulment papers Damien had burned to ashes in his office.
I slammed the folder directly onto the crushed ice of the seafood tower.
The melting ice water immediately began to soak into the thick paper, blurring the ink, but the bold, typed words at the top were unmistakable.
Damien froze. The arrogant irritation vanished from his face, replaced by a chilling, absolute shock.
I stood up, looking down at the Dark Don of New York.
"This is my final offer, Damien," I said, my voice ringing clear and deadly over the quiet hum of the restaurant. "Or perhaps your rival, Gabriel Escobar, would be more interested in the *other* documents I have. The ledgers are still singing."
Giselle gasped, dropping her silver fork. It clattered against the porcelain plate, but Damien didn't even blink. His eyes were wide, dark, and burning with a sudden, violent realization that he had entirely lost control.
I didn't wait for his wrath to explode. I turned on my heel, my spine perfectly straight, and walked out of the restaurant, leaving my husband and his mistress drowning in the wreckage of their own making.
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