Isabella sat frozen on the chair, her heart hammering violently against her ribcage. A cold sweat slithered down her spine, her breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. The room felt suffocating, the walls pressing in as if they conspired against her. Her hands trembled, not just from the tight ropes that had bitten into her skin but from the unbearable weight of her aunt’s words.
“Whatever love Ignazio has for you is a fragment of the love that he had for your mother.”
No. No, that wasn’t true. It couldn’t be.
She shook her head vigorously, her curls bouncing with the motion. Ignazio was not a pervert. He had never been. He loved her—deeply, possessively, fiercely. He would never do anything to hurt her. He would lay his life down for her if he had to. But her aunt’s voice, dripping with
