Chapter 137
ISABELLA
I took a sip of coffee and scrolled through my phone, pretending to be a regular twenty-something woman. Just another girl on a quiet morning, catching up on the world. Not a pawn in a billionaire’s family chess game. Not a fiancée trapped in a fake engagement with a man I cannot resist—a man who used to be both my boss and my master. Not the girl who, in a moment of panic, had stolen her almost-husband’s entire outfit just to keep him from undoing everything.
I tried to keep up with trending headlines—racing news, car companies in Italy, industry gossip. It was a ritual now, something I started after my release from jail, after the fog of my great depression began to lift. Therapy. Meds. Recovery. A long climb out of a dark place. These updates helped me feel close to what I loved again—fast engines, sharp ambition, adrenaline.
My next therapy session was tomorrow. I hoped my therapist would see how far I’d come—maybe even suggest tapering off the meds. Regular visits had stopped for a while—partly because I started getting better, partly because money had dried up. But money wasn’t a problem anymore. Not since the contract.
Once everything was finalized, I’d have enough to move to a better apartment. Start my own PR firm. Not waiting to be hired. Not asking anyone for permission. Not hoping on that bastard to let me go. I’d be my own boss. My own future.
I just hoped I’d be able to throw myself into work hard enough to forget Levi. Though I doubted it. And that scared me. Would I ever be able to forget him? Even with success? Would I let him go again... if he came back?
Would he come back? Would he let me go?
Even the illusion of normalcy didn’t last.
The bell startled me.
It wasn’t harsh—just unexpected. And no one used the doorbell. Not Matt. Not Caroline. It was definitely neither of them.
My heart stumbled.
Was it Levi?
Was he here to tear me apart for what I’d done?
I set the mug down, my fingers trembling slightly, and walked to the front door just as the bell rang again—my heart now lodged firmly in my throat.
I opened the door, half-expecting—no, aching—for Levi to be on the other side, storming in, pressing me against the wall, and taking me right there without a word.
But it wasn’t him.
And I blinked, stunned by the hollowness that rushed in to fill the space where he should’ve been.
A sharply dressed chauffeur stood there, holding something oddly familiar in his gloved hand.
My doorbell switch.
It must’ve snapped off when he pressed it. Poor thing. Just like this old house—cracked and fragile.
I stared at him, speechless.
Behind him, parked with the kind of arrogance only wealth could afford, was a glossy black limousine angled on my narrow street. It made every other house on the block look like a poorly folded napkin.
“Good morning, Miss Isabella,” the chauffeur said smoothly, completely unbothered by the fact that he was holding part of my house in his hand.
“Um… good morning?” I replied, blinking rapidly. It was too early for riddles. And definitely too early for limousines. The limo threw my mind back to being an intern—the first time Levi had given me a command. “Breathe,” he had said.
“I was instructed to pick you up,” he said with a polite nod, pulling me out of my thoughts.
My brows pulled together. “By your boss?”
“Yes, ma’am. Mr. Levi Ferrari.”
And just like that, whatever laugh I had tucked in my throat vanished. I swallowed, pulse racing.
“Sorry, but you must have the wrong house,” I said, though I don’t know why I even bothered. Even I didn’t sound convinced.
The man didn’t flinch. He simply blinked—slow, measured—as if he’d been expecting this exact reaction.
“I’m quite certain this is the right address,” he replied calmly. “And Mr. Ferrari instructed me to call him if you tried to refuse.”
There it was.
The name. The command hiding behind a smile.
Of course Levi had predicted my reluctance. Of course he had built in countermeasures. As if I were some insubordinate employee. Not a woman. Not a fiancée.
Before I could protest, my phone buzzed in my hand.
I didn’t need to check who it was.
Speak of the devil—literally.
With a sigh laced with frustration, I answered.
“I’m sure he’s there,” Levi’s voice snapped through the line, sharp and clipped. “Get dressed and go with him.”
“Go where?” I demanded, disbelief rising in my throat.
“You’ll be picking out an outfit today,” he said flatly. “Tomorrow’s the engagement party. I want you looking your absolute best. I want you looking like my wife.”
The call ended. No goodbye. No explanation. Just Levi, steamrolling over boundaries again.
I stared at my phone screen like it might give me a second chance to scream at him. An engagement party? Since when?
And what gave him the right to speak to me like that?
I wasn’t a child. I wasn’t a prop.
I was supposed to be his fiancée, damn it.
“I’ll wait in the car,” the chauffeur said coolly, offering me the broken doorbell switch like a souvenir of lost control. Then he turned and walked toward the limousine without waiting for my reply. As if I were just a package. Just something to be picked up.
A true disciple of the Ferrari empire. Trained in the art of arrogance.
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