The Fleeing Princess

His thumb dragged across my swollen lower lip, the gesture deceptively tender, voice rough velvet that curled around me like smoke.

Beads of water slid down his collarbone, disappearing beneath the half-unbuttoned shirt clinging to his lean, hard frame. Power coiled beneath his casual elegance, a predator disguised in silk.

I flinched, turned my face away. “Get the hell off me.”

Adrian’s mouth tugged into the faintest smirk, as if my fury amused him. “Want me to carry you into the shower?”

But before I could spit back a retort, his phone buzzed on the nightstand. He killed the screen quickly, too quickly. I still caught a glimpse.

[Adrian, it’s storming. I’m terrified. Please… come.]

—Elena.

My sister.

His brows furrowed. Then his decision was instant, merciless. “Business. I have to go.”

Coat over his shoulders, he was out the door before I could even stand.

The slam of the door was drowned by a crack of thunder that rattled the windows.

I froze, pulse spiking, nails digging into my palms.

I hated storms.

Once, I had buried myself in Adrian’s arms during a storm like this, shaking until dawn. I’d clung to him, desperate, ashamed of my fear. He’d only laughed softly, brushing a hand through my hair.

“The mafia princess, scared of thunder? Don’t be dramatic.”

But now—Elena whimpered over the same storm, and he ran to her without hesitation. Concern etched into every line of his face.

Love and indifference. The contrast was brutal. Obvious.

Another thunderclap split the night. I curled into myself on the bed, trembling so hard my teeth ached.

Minutes later, my phone lit again. A photo.

Adrian, the man who never broke composure even while taking me apart, sat with Elena wrapped in his arms, his jacket draped around her shoulders. He was stroking her hair, soothing her like she was something fragile and precious.

His expression—God. I’d never seen that kind of tenderness.

Not for me.

I bit down so hard my lip split, then hurled the phone across the room.

I didn’t sleep. By dawn I dragged myself into black jeans and a leather jacket, driving back to the Russo estate.

Inside the marble dining hall, my father looked up from his espresso. His mouth twisted. “Out all night again, Isabella? You shame this family. Why can’t you be more like your sister? Graceful. Obedient.”

I laughed, bitter and sharp. “Graceful? Maybe you should schedule an eye exam, Father. While you’re at it, get your heart checked too. Because you’re blind and empty both.”

His hand slammed against the table, silverware rattling. “Watch your mouth!”

“Don’t be angry, Papa,” a honey-sweet voice chimed behind me.

Elena glided into the room like a saint, all smiles, and right beside her—Adrian. My Adrian. Carrying her coat, her handbag, her world.

The man who left me shaking in the dark storm now stood beside her like the perfect gentleman, expression cool and unbothered.

My mother beamed. “Adrian, darling, come join us. You must be starving.”

“I came to update Don Russo on the project,” Adrian replied smoothly, but Elena tugged at his sleeve with a soft pout. “Papa, I’m starving.”

And the Don, the feared head of the Russo family, transformed instantly into a doting fool. “Sit, cara. Eat. Maria, bring out Elena’s favorites.”

I glanced at the table. The platters of cured meats, fresh bread, even the orange juice—it was all chosen for Elena’s taste. Mine, forgotten. As always.

“Elena, darling, try the eggs,” my father urged. “I had them made just the way you like.”

I let out a sharp laugh under my breath, the sound tasting like blood.

My sister’s gaze flicked to me, all innocence. “Isabella, aren’t you eating?”

Then, feigning thoughtfulness, she slid a glass of red wine toward me, her smile saccharine. “Have some. You’ll feel better.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Oh, come on. Just one sip.”

“I said no.” My hand shoved the glass away.

Elena’s wrist jerked—too convenient, too staged—and the cream of mushroom soup spilled, scalding, across my hand.

I hissed as it burned the torn skin on my knuckles, but her shriek pierced louder. The glass shattered on the marble floor.

“Elena!” My parents bolted from their seats, crowding around her, fussing over her hand, though she wasn’t even scratched.

No one looked at me. At my bleeding hand.

Instead, my father’s glare cut through me. “She was only trying to be kind, Isabella. How dare you lash out and hurt her?”

My fists trembled at my sides. “I didn’t hurt her. I can’t even touch cream without breaking into a rash—you know that.”

But they weren’t listening. They never listened.

And across the table, Adrian stood silent, his gaze unreadable, Elena tucked safely under his arm.

It hit me harder than the thunder ever could.

In this family, I would always be the storm.

Elena would always be the shelter.

And Adrian… would never be mine.