This isn’t my room...
She sat up quickly then shivered.
The air was freezing.
Her teeth almost chattered as she hugged the blanket tightly around herself. She looked around, eyes wide. The AC blew icy air through the already cold room.
So cold...!
She curled back under the blanket, wrapping herself up like a burrito. Back in her old house, her tiny room had no air conditioner at all. She was used to sweaty nights and noisy fans. This cold, rich-man temperature felt like she had been dropped into a freezer wearing summer pajamas.
She peeked over the blanket cautiously, noticing Leonardo wasn’t in bed anymore. His side was empty, sheets neat as if he hadn’t even moved in his sleep. Typical.
Isabella hugged the blanket closer to her nose and mumbled softly, "Is this what rich people call comfortable...?"
Then she sighed, closed her eyes again for a moment, and decided: next time, she was going to sleep in socks. Or two blankets.
Or maybe sneak the AC remote when no one was looking.
She didn’t even like this room.
Everything was so dark, cold, and sharp-looking—like it belonged to a villain in a spy movie. The heavy curtains, the marble floors, the black and expensive furniture... it felt more like a showroom than a place to rest. She couldn’t understand why Leonardo had forbidden her from entering it in the first place.
Maybe he just didn’t want his brother dark lair ruined by somone...
But the real problem right now?
The cold.
She was wrapped in a thick blanket like a stuffed caterpillar, her nose barely peeking out. So cold, she thought miserably. Why do rich people live in refrigerators?
Her body refused to move. The cold had turned her into a reluctant hibernation bear.
"Don’t be lazy, Bella," a voice inside her head sang sweetly, accompanied by imaginary fluttering angel wings. "Waky waky! Rise and shine! It’s a new day!"
But before she could respond, another voice echoed..smug and dramatic.
"Sleep more! You don’t have to cook for that evil uncle anymore," said her inner Evil Angel with a smirk, tiny horns glowing. "Enjoy the silence. No shouting. No broken bottles. Just sleep. Let the cold take you..."
Her angel side huffed. "What if your first husband asks you to cook? Shouldn’t a good wife prepare breakfast?"
"First husband?" the evil side interrupted with a snort. "What do you mean first husband? She only has one husband! Who’s scary and emotionless and sleeps with his eyes open."
"Still counts," the angel whispered.
And Isabella groaned, burying her face under the blanket as both voices started bickering louder inside her head. Ugh... not this again.
She rubbed her temples, whispering into the darkness of her blanket cave, "Please stop... it’s too early for a full-on mental war..."
And with that, she rolled back into a ball, trying to hide from her responsibilities, the cold, and her own overactive imagination.
Finally, after battling her inner angel and devil and losing ten minutes of her life to absolutely nothing, Isabella huffed and pushed herself off the bed. Her feet hit the cold floor with a shiver, and she pulled the blanket around her like a cape as she waddled toward the bathroom.
But halfway there, she paused.
Wait... I don’t have any clothes...
Her steps halted, and she looked down at herself..still in Leonardo’s oversized t-shirt and shorts. Her cheeks turned red as she imagined showing up at breakfast in this.
Then something caught her eye.
A medium-sized bag sat neatly on the table by the wall. She hadn’t noticed it before.
Curious, she walked toward it and peeked inside.
On top, there was a small folded note. She picked it up and read it:
Clothes are prepared for you. Wear them and come downstairs for breakfast.
– L
Her lips twitched into a small smile.
Oh... cute.
She didn’t expect that. Cold, scary husband leaving little morning notes? She liked it. Even if he didn’t say it in person, it still felt... thoughtful.
Inside the bag, she found a neatly folded white dress. Simple but elegant. It had soft sleeves, a modest neckline, and a flowy skirt—perfectly her size. The fabric felt light and expensive, and it didn’t show much skin, which made her feel more comfortable.
But when she reached deeper into the bag... her face turned warm.
Innerwear?
There were undergarments, too...delicate, clean, and folded.
She blushed hard, holding the dress in front of her like a shield.
Okay... he really thinks of everything, she thought, flustered.
Clutching the outfit to her chest, she hurried toward the bathroom to freshen up, her heart a little faster than before.
Maybe today wouldn’t be so bad.
When Isabella slipped into the white dress and adjusted the soft fabric over her shoulders, she stood quietly in front of the full-length mirror.
The reflection that looked back at her made her pause.
She looked... pretty.
Like a quiet little fairy lost in a castle too big for her.
The dress fit perfectly like it had been chosen with care. The sleeves were delicate, the skirt flowed gently around her knees, and the neckline didn’t reveal too much, just enough to look elegant and clean. Her long brown hair framed her face naturally, and her skin—though bare without makeup glowed softly in the morning light.
She didn’t wear makeup. It wasn’t because she disliked it... she simply didn’t know how to apply it. No one ever taught her. And besides, there wasn’t any makeup in the room anyway.
Still, she didn’t feel less beautiful.
She stood there for a long moment, staring at herself. What started as a glance turned into four full minutes. Her eyes stayed on the mirror, drinking in the quiet image.
She looked like someone else.
No.
She looked like herself.
But the version she hadn’t seen in years.
After her father passed away, no one had bought her new clothes. Everything she wore had been old, second-hand, or sewn together by her own trembling hands late at night. Oversized shirts. Loose threads. Cheap fabric.
The only truly new clothes she had worn were yesterday’s wedding dress... and this one.
Her fingers gently smoothed down the front of the dress, eyes softening.
Thank you, she whispered in her heart—maybe to the dress, maybe to Leonardo, maybe to her father, who always wanted her to feel like a princess.
She smiled faintly, eyes glossy, and then turned away from the mirror.
Time to go downstairs.
.
.
.