Down the hall, Isabella's screams only grew louder. Her rage was uncontrollable, her grief spilling into destruction. When Adrian's men arrived to restrain her, they didn't stand a chance.
One lunged forward—she spun, her elbow catching his jaw with bone-crunching precision. Another reached for her arm—her knee drove into his ribs, sending him crashing to the floor gasping for breath. A third man tried from behind—she flipped him over her shoulder, his body slamming against the wooden floorboards with a heavy thud.
Her training, years of kung-fu drilled into her bones, had surfaced without mercy. These were not sparring partners—these were obstacles standing between her and the girl she loved.
By the time the last man groaned on the ground, Isabella's chest was heaving, her hair wild, her hands shaking with fury.
Back in the office, a servant burst through the door, stammering breathlessly.
"Sir—she… she's beaten them. All of them!"
Adrian's eyes widened. For a split second, shock broke through his fury. His daughter—his delicate, pampered girl—had just taken down three trained men.
Claire's lips trembled. She had known Isabella loved her kung-fu classes, but this… this was a side of her daughter she hadn't fully realized existed. A fighter. A warrior.
She turned to Adrian, her voice low but cutting.
"Maybe the only reason she hasn't raised her hand against you, Adrian… is because she still loves you."
"How can she possibly do all that Claire, what have you done to my daughter" Adrian said in anger.
"Do I look like I know how to bring 3 men down. How can I possibly infect her with that strength?"
Adrian said nothing. His jaw tightened, his pride wounded more deeply than his men's bruises.
Back in Ava's room, Isabella was spiraling.
She collapsed to her knees amidst the chaos she had created, her hands clutching her phone. She dialed again and again, her trembling fingers slipping on the screen.
"Ava, please… please pick up," she whispered. The cold, lifeless sound of the line shutting off was like a dagger twisting into her heart.
She threw the phone across the room, her tears streaming hot and heavy.
"She left me," Isabella sobbed, clutching her chest as if trying to hold her breaking heart together. "Ava left me…"
Her cries were so raw, so broken, they pierced even the hardest hearts in the mansion.
The door creaked softly. Ruth stepped inside, her face pale, fear tightening her every movement. She had been ordered to come—with a small bottle and instructions she wished she'd never been given.
"Bella… it's me," Ruth said gently, her voice trembling. "Calm down. I'm here for you."
Isabella lifted her head, eyes swollen and red, her body shaking.
"She left me, Ruth," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Ava left me. She promised me forever, and she left me." Her sobs came harder, her face pressing into Ruth's chest when the woman moved closer.
Ruth's arms wrapped around her, stroking her back soothingly. "Shh… it's okay, Bella. Breathe."
With a trembling hand, Ruth reached into her pocket and pulled out the small vial. She hated herself for what she was about to do.
"Here," she whispered, slipping a bottle of water into Isabella's hands. "Drink. You need it."
Isabella obeyed numbly, gulping it down between broken sobs. Within minutes, her breathing began to slow. Her eyelids grew heavy. Her head dropped onto Ruth's shoulder, the fight in her body finally giving in to exhaustion—and the sedative coursing through her veins.
Ruth lowered her gently to the bed, brushing strands of hair from her tear-streaked face. "I'm sorry, Bella," she whispered.
Moments later, Claire and Adrian entered. Adrian's gaze swept over the unconscious guards sprawled on the floor, and his face twisted with a mixture of rage and disbelief. Claire, however, went to her daughter immediately, checking her pulse, her breathing.
"She's fine," Claire murmured, relief softening her tone. Then her eyes hardened as she looked at Adrian. "But if she wakes and Ava is still gone… she will be worse. Much worse than this."
Adrian said nothing. His fists clenched by his sides, his empire of control crumbling around him.
And in the silence, the image of his daughter's scream still haunted every corner of the house.
"Take her to her room," Claire ordered curtly, watching as the guards lifted Isabella with careful precision. "We need to think fast before she wakes up again."
When Isabella was out of sight, Claire turned her attention to the men sprawled across the floor. She crouched down, her expression unreadable as she pressed two fingers against the first man's throat. A steady but weak pulse. She repeated the motion with the others—each one alive, though barely clinging.
"They'll live," she finally said, her voice clipped, cold, as though their survival mattered only in terms of strategy. Straightening, she gestured sharply to the waiting guards. "Get them out of here. Straight to the hospital. I don't want corpses complicating this mess."
The guards obeyed instantly, dragging the unconscious bodies away. Claire remained still, her sharp eyes scanning the bloodstains on the floor. Her tone carried no warmth, only command—yet beneath her mask of authority, a flicker of thought lingered: If Isabella wakes too soon, all of this could unravel.
JOYCE AND HER DAUGHTER
The night was quiet, yet inside Joyce's new car, the weight of silence was heavy. She had driven for hours without stopping, her knuckles white against the steering wheel. Every mile felt like an escape—not from one city to another, but from reality itself. Her only thought was Ava, fragile and motionless in the back seat.
At last, Joyce's eyes caught the dim glow of a roadside hotel sign. She pulled in, exhausted and desperate for a safe place to stop.
Inside the small room, Ava lay on the bed, her face pale, her body limp. Joyce dampened a towel with lukewarm water, carefully dabbing Ava's forehead, her cheeks, and her arms. Her movements were tender, motherly, but her eyes betrayed the fear eating her alive.
"Stay with me, Ava… please…" Joyce whispered, her voice cracking.
After some minutes, Ava stirred, her lips parting slightly. She let out a faint groan, blinking weakly at the light. Joyce's heart leapt with relief. Ava tried to lift her head, but her strength failed her, and she collapsed back into the sheets.
"Shhh, don't force yourself," Joyce soothed, brushing Ava's damp hair from her face.
Ava's gaze was hazy, unfocused. She hadn't yet realized what had happened. Her voice was weak, almost childlike.
"Where… are we?"
"You're safe. Just rest," Joyce replied, but guilt shadowed her eyes. She didn't have the courage to tell Ava the truth—not yet.
BACK IN THE HART'S MANSION
Adrian Hart sat alone in his study, staring at the candlelight dancing across the dark wood. Papers and whiskey glasses cluttered his desk, but he wasn't reading nor drinking. He was plotting. His daughter was dangerous—at least in his mind. Too strong. Too rebellious. Too unlike the daughter he wanted.
"She will ruin everything," he muttered. His voice was calm, but his jaw was tight with rage.
To him, Isabella's resistance wasn't just teenage defiance—it was corruption. Possession. A shameful flaw. He had already made his choice. She would be taken to the Catholic boarding school, and there, his brother Sam—the priest—would "fix" her.
No daughter of his would be a tomboy or a lesbian. No daughter of his would disgrace the Hart name with sin.
THE CATHOLIC BOARDING SCHOOL
When Isabella awoke, her body was weak, her head heavy. The room around her was unfamiliar: tall stone walls, a wooden crucifix hanging above the door, and the faint smell of incense in the air. Panic hit her chest.
She blinked again—and then she saw him.
"Uncle Sam…?" Her voice was raw, a whisper.
"Yes, Bella." His figure emerged from the shadows, dressed in clerical black. His face was calm, but his eyes carried a heavy seriousness.
Her throat tightened. "Where am I? How did I get here? Who brought me here? Why… why don't I remember anything?"
Uncle Sam stepped closer, holding a tray with rice and soup. "Calm yourself, child. Eat something. Rest. Everything will come back to you." His tone was soft, but the weight of authority pressed in every syllable.
But Isabella wasn't soothed. Her memory flickered like sparks—Ava. Ava's face. Ava's hand slipping away. Her heart jolted. She pushed herself up despite the weakness in her arms.
"Where is Ava?" she demanded, her voice breaking. "Where did they keep Ava? Tell me!"
The four men stationed in the corners of the room tensed. They weren't priests—they were enforcers. Strong, broad-shouldered men who had been told Isabella was dangerous by Adrian.
Isabella's chest heaved as desperation surged through her veins. "AVA!" she screamed, her voice echoing through the stone walls. She flung the tray aside, food crashing to the floor. The men rushed forward to restrain her, but something unnatural coursed through her body—an inner strength fueled by rage and love.
She kicked one man hard in the chest, sending him stumbling back. Another tried to pin her arms, but she twisted free, her nails scratching his face. The wooden chair by the bed crashed over, the crucifix on the wall rattled.
"Don't touch me!" she shrieked. Her body, though frail, moved with a wild fury that terrified them.
Uncle Sam's eyes widened. He had expected resistance, but not this raw, uncontrollable power. For a moment, even he believed Adrian's words—this wasn't just rebellion. Something inside Isabella was unyielding, dangerous, and untamed.
"Sedate her!" Sam barked.