The Mafia King's Runaway Genius Wife

Isabella POV Morning broke through the bulletproof glass, painting the master suite in a cold, unforgiving gray. I hadn't slept. The stabbing agony in my lower right abdomen had morphed into a relentless, burning beast that consumed my every breath. Beside me, the mattress shifted. The heavy scent of Damien's cedarwood cologne washed over me, mixing with the suffocating memory of his violent grip last night. My stomach violently lurched. I clamped a hand over my mouth, scrambling out of the massive bed. My knees buckled the moment my bare feet hit the hardwood, but pure adrenaline and nausea propelled me forward. I practically crawled into the en-suite bathroom, collapsing over the cold porcelain of the toilet just as my stomach emptied itself. I gasped for air, my forehead resting against the freezing rim, trembling so violently my teeth clicked. A shadow fell over me. Damien stood in the doorway, already dressed in a crisp white shirt and tailored trousers, looking down at me like I was a stain on his pristine marble floor. There was no concern in his obsidian eyes—only a lethal, simmering irritation. "Is my presence so repulsive to you?" he demanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that echoed off the tiles. "Damien... please," I choked out, clutching my side, my vision blurring with tears of pure agony. "I'm sick. I need—" A heavy Egyptian cotton towel hit the side of my head, dropping onto my shaking shoulders. "Stop this pathetic performance," he snapped, his tone dripping with absolute disgust. "You think gagging on my floor will make me forget your little stunt with the ledgers? Or your brother's treason?" I stared at the white tile, the last fragile thread of my humanity snapping. He didn't see a dying woman. He saw a malfunctioning piece of property throwing a tantrum. He turned on his heel, walking back into the bedroom. I forced myself up, using the sink for leverage, and dragged my broken body out of the bathroom. Damien was adjusting his silver cufflinks in front of the mirror. On the velvet bench at the foot of the bed lay a midnight-blue silk gown. "The Children's Hospital charity gala is tonight," he stated, not bothering to look at me. "You will wear that dress. You will stand by my side, and you will smile. We are going to show New York that the Trevino family is perfectly united." "I can't," I whispered, my voice raw. "Damien, I need a doctor. I can barely stand." He finally turned, closing the distance between us with that terrifying, predatory grace. He stopped inches from my face, his towering frame blocking out the morning light. "The Davenport Estate's maintenance is paid for by my personal trust," he said, his voice dropping to a silken, deadly whisper. My breath hitched. The blood drained from my face. "If you are not in the car by seven," he continued, his dark eyes locking onto mine with absolute ruthlessness, "I will cut it off. I will let the bank seize the land, and I will throw your grandfather into a state facility. And not even your little traitor brother can help you with this." He reached out, his knuckles brushing my deathly pale cheek in a mockingly gentle caress. I flinched, but he merely smirked, stepping back. "Seven o'clock, Isabella. Don't be late." The heavy oak doors clicked shut behind him, leaving me alone in the sprawling, gilded cage. I sank to the floor, clutching my burning abdomen. He had weaponized the only thing I had left to love. Aurthur Davenport was my only weakness, and Damien knew exactly how to twist the knife. But as the blinding physical pain washed over me again, a cold, terrifying clarity settled in my chest. If I died here today, my grandfather would be left at the mercy of a monster. I couldn't just survive tonight; I had to burn his empire to the ground. But first, I needed to make sure my body didn't betray me before I could strike the match.