Strong-willed, badass and bounded by the chains of an arranged marriage, Isabela Arias dreams of the freedom to live and love as she chooses.
Being sold to the Italian mafia wasn't exactly on Isabela's to do list...
As she's forced to navigate the r...
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Harmony.
Life has an odd way of connecting the pieces together in the most time of need. Oblivion leads a path into peacefulness, but there's only so much time before it becomes undone. While I would've preferred to discuss and put everything on the table with Isabela, I can't complain about making love to my girl.
Nothing about Isabela is complainable.
Tossing my body to the other side, my hand searches the mattress, roaming around to wake her up with morning snuggles. I know she has a thing about morning breath, but I want to make up for the last time—that day, which is one of my biggest regrets. With closed eyes and a smile, my palm scrapes against the mattress — finding nothing.
The bright light intruding between the open curtains causes my eyes to squint as they flutter open, discovering the spot beside me empty. Where did she go? One thing about Isabela-- she's not a morning worm. Maybe she came to a realization that we fucked up last night and ignored the obvious elephant in the room.
My stomach knots up.
I'll lay everything out in the open, even if I'm shitting bricks thinking about it.
After I stretch my limbs, I rise from the mattress, the blanket slipping to the floor and exposing my nude body. Where are my clothes? Isabela's light pink carpet barely peeks through the layers of clothing. My suit has to be at the foot of the bed, yet I find nothing.
Somehow this room screams Isabela--the real Isabela, probably because it was her room before everything turned for the worst. The bedrooms in Damien's house served as a sham, but other than her teddy bears, they never expressed the true her. Her fuzzy, light pink rug tickles my toes. The bed sheets are classic ivory-white color with pink trims to match her walls. Other than the lamp and chandelier, there's a candle holder built into her walls as light sources.
A ballerina twirls in the center of her jewelry box with trains of bands and necklaces weave on their body like a braid. My sister's necklace nowhere insight. A glimmer of hope pumps through my veins. If she's still wearing the necklace, there's a possibility she's willing to talk about it. A lukewarm mug of tea and a half-eaten cookie is left on the platter like a deserted place where everyone vanishes. I smile. A beautiful photo of a long-black hair woman, holding the bump on her belly with five sons nestling into her touch-- there's no doubt it's Isabela's mother.
That's who she got her smile from.
For being constantly neglected by her family, you would assume the opposite from the dozen family portraits framed in her room-- one for every holiday. The only member missing is her father. If you look close enough, the light in Isabela's irises dimmers like a light running out of electricity. She always deserved better than she got.
I hope one day I can make up for the time she lost together. Start a family, and sever the chain of abuse we both have faced with our children. I never thought I would have children, but Isabela makes the answer easy. We could face everything together and come out the other end.
