"Go ahead," she said with a smirk, her voice honeyed and mocking. "Tell him. I’m sure he’ll rush to your side immediately." Her lips curled higher, her voice low, mocking and cruel.
"If he cared so much, little Bella, why would he bring all of us here on your honeymoon?" She laughed then, loud and bitter, the sound echoing against the walls like poison. Isabella froze. Her feet stopped mid-step. Her arms tightened around her laptop. Her arms tightened around her laptop, her throat going dry. To hide her emotions, she shoved the laptop into her bag.
"I don’t believe you," she whispered, more to herself than to Alexa. But Alexa heard it. And laughed harder.
"Of course you don’t. That’s what makes it so cute." She gave Isabella a slow, deliberate glance up and down, her eyes pausing at the dress clinging softly to Isabella’s body.
For a split second, something flashed across Alexa’s eyes—jealousy but she buried it beneath a polished smile.
"But if you need proof, just wait. When Leo comes back with his friends, he’ll tell you how ’important’ their work is. And you? You’ll be the good little girl left here to play by yourself." She leaned forward, her smile sharpening like a blade as her voice dropped to a whisper.
"That’s all you really are here for, right? To stay pretty. To stay quiet. And to stay out of the way." She smiled wider. "Enjoy your beach."
Isabella’s eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat as Alexa’s cruel words echoed in her mind like glass shattering.
But she didn’t respond. She didn’t even look back. Instead, she turned sharply on her heel and ran straight down the hallway, through the soft light of the villa, her bare feet barely making a sound against the cool floor.
When she reached her room, she slammed the door shut and locked it, her hands trembling.
She dropped her bag on the bed and stood there for a moment, frozen, her chest tight, her lips puckered like she was one breath away from crying.
Her eyes burned. Her fingers reached for the zipper slowly, as if her body was moving underwater. She placed her laptop aside and pulled out her phone, needing to do something—anything to distract herself.
But her hands were shaking. Her throat felt dry. And no matter how deep she tried to breathe, the ache wouldn’t leave her chest.
She sat on the edge of the bed, curling forward slightly, phone clutched in one hand while the other rested above her heart like she could somehow keep it from breaking wider.
Why did I even come here? she thought. Why did I believe there was something soft behind his silence?
A sudden knock startled Isabella out of her spiraling thoughts.
She quickly wiped her eyes, fixed her dress, and stood up, forcing her face to stay calm.
When she opened the door, her eyes met Leonardo’s, who stood there with a strange softness in his gaze.
For a moment, his cold gray eyes flickered with amazement—his stare brushing over her in that blue dress that hugged her thighs and left one shoulder bare.
She had no idea how stunning she looked to him. How utterly distracting. But Isabella didn’t look up at him. She stared at the floor, her lips pressed tight, afraid if she met his eyes, she’d cry.
"Hmm?" she mumbled, voice barely a sound. Leonardo raised a brow, tilting his head slightly.
"Aren’t you going to invite me in?" he asked casually.
Her hands clenched by her side. "Come in," she whispered.
He stepped inside, his steps quiet, and sighed as he looked around the room, then at her turned back. "I feel bad that my friends came while we’re... supposed to be on a honeymoon," he said.
Supposed to be? she thought, biting the inside of her cheek.
"I see," she replied, still not facing him. He didn’t say sorry. Not even once.
"I didn’t invite them," he added, frowning now. "They came on their own. They had something important nearby, and they knew I owned this villa—so they came."
She nodded. "Alright." Her voice was so flat, so emotionless it made him pause.
"I have some work to do," he said, watching her more carefully now. "So enjoy the beach. Play by yourself." That last line hit her harder than she expected. Her throat tightened, but she didn’t respond. Just stood there like she hadn’t heard him.
Leonardo frowned and walked closer. When she still didn’t move, he reached out and gently held her arm, turning her to face him and his hand brushed against her wrist.
She flinched. His brows snapped together when he saw the red scratch, still fresh and slightly swollen. "How did this happen?" he asked, voice low, almost cold.
But there was something else under it; tension, warning. Isabella quickly turned her face away, blinking back tears. "Nothing," she said, trying to pull her arm back. But his grip didn’t loosen.
Leonardo didn’t say anything when she tried to pull away. Instead, he gently guided her toward the bed and made her sit down, his hand firm but not rough.
Isabella let him, too tired to argue, too fragile to keep pretending she wasn’t hurting.
He turned away for a moment, walking to the corner of the room where a small drawer stood. From it, he pulled out a white emergency aid kit, his movements calm and focused, like he’d done it a thousand times.
He returned to the bed and sat beside her, the soft mattress shifting under his weight.
Without asking, he reached for her wrist again and held it in his hand, his touch warm, steady. His fingers gently turned her arm, studying the scratch—red and shallow, but clearly fresh.
It looked like something done by fingernails. He frowned, thoughtful. His eyes briefly flicked to her other hand. Her nails were a little long, slightly curved. Maybe she’d done it to herself accidentally? That made sense.
He opened the kit and pulled out a cotton pad, then dabbed it with antiseptic.
"It’ll sting," he muttered, not looking at her face. Isabella stayed still. Her fingers trembled slightly, but she said nothing.
The cool cotton touched her skin and she winced just a little but more from his closeness than the pain.
He didn’t speak. Just continued cleaning the scratch in silence, the tension hanging between them like a tight wire stretched too far.