THREE YEAR LATER
The dormitory had quieted down for the night, the air heavy with the mingled scents of soap and old wood. One by one, the girls had slipped into sleep, their soft breathing filling the darkened room. Only the faint golden glow from the corridor light spilled under the door, tracing shadows on the floorboards.
In her bed, Isabella lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Sleep rarely came easy. Her thoughts never let her rest—thoughts of freedom she couldn't taste, of a girl she couldn't stop missing, and of a future that seemed already signed away by her father's will.
The sound of shifting sheets pulled her from her thoughts. She turned her head just in time to see Luna moving, slipping out of her own bed. A moment later, the mattress dipped as Luna climbed under her blanket, settling beside her as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Bella raised a brow but didn't move. "What are you doing?" she whispered.
Luna smiled faintly, her voice soft but firm. "Keeping you company. You always look like you're carrying too much when you lie here alone."
Silence followed. Isabella didn't push her away, and Luna didn't leave. For a while, they just lay there, the warmth of another body close enough to stir something uneasy in Bella's chest.
Then Luna spoke, her tone quieter this time, almost careful.
"So, Bella… next week we're both leaving this school. What are your plans?"
A dry laugh slipped from Isabella's lips. She turned her face toward the shadows, away from Luna's searching eyes. "Plans? I don't make plans. My father does. He decides everything—where I go, what I do, who I talk to. Even what I wear, who I smile at, what I dream of. I don't get to choose. I never have."
Her voice cracked with bitterness, though she tried to hide it.
Luna studied her, her chest tightening at the quiet pain behind Bella's words. "That's not fair," she whispered. "You're not meant to live locked in someone else's cage."
Bella gave no answer, her face unreadable. Instead, she shifted the focus. "And you? What about you, Luna? What do you see for yourself when we walk out of here?"
For the first time that night, Luna's eyes brightened, lit with something like hope. "University," she said firmly. "In the U.S. I want to study there, chase something bigger than this small corner of the world. A place where no one knows me, where I can just… be myself." She hesitated, then added more softly, "A place where maybe I can find the courage to stop hiding what I feel."
Her words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. She didn't look at Bella when she said it, but the implication was clear.
Almost without thinking, Luna reached for Bella's hand. Her fingers laced through hers, tentative at first, then tightening as if afraid Bella would pull away.
For a long moment, they just stared at each other in the dim light. Luna's breath was uneven, her eyes vulnerable but burning with something she could no longer disguise. Isabella's heart thudded, caught between the warmth of the hand she held now and the ghost of the one she had lost months ago—the hand of the girl who had once given her everything without asking for anything back.
Finally, Bella pulled her hand free, the silence breaking like fragile glass.
Luna swallowed hard, her voice trembling as she dared the question anyway.
"Bella… have you ever loved before?"
The words struck deep. Isabella froze, her throat tightening. Images flashed unbidden—two children on a swing, tiny fingers wrapped around a toy car, soft laughter under blankets, the warmth of lips she still ached to feel. She had loved, more than she ever thought possible.
But she couldn't say it. Not here. Not now. Not to Luna.
Her lips parted, but she closed them again, forcing her gaze back to the ceiling, her silence louder than any confession.
And Luna, though she longed for an answer, saw it in Bella's eyes. Someone else already lived in her heart. Someone untouchable, someone she could never compete with.
Still, she whispered, barely audible:
"Whoever it was… they're lucky."
LEAVING HELL FINALLY
The bell tower of the St. Cecilia's Catholic Academy, tolled in the distance as the Hurts' black sedan rolled slowly through the cobblestone drive. The iron gates closed behind them with a groan, and the sound carried a finality that made Isabella's chest tighten. Three years. Three long, silent, suffocating years, and now she was going home.
Adrian stepped out first, straight-backed, sharply dressed, with the quiet authority of a man convinced he had molded his daughter into the image he wanted. Claire followed, her hands wringing in nervous delight, her face beaming with the warmth only a mother starved of her child's presence could wear.
Sam appeared at the school's stone archway, his gray robes trailing as he guided Isabella toward the car. She walked beside him in a pressed uniform, her steps delicate, her dreads neatly braided, her face framed like a porcelain doll's. She looked nothing like the wild, stubborn girl who had once argued to wear jeans instead of skirts, who had burned with a hunger to love freely.
But her eyes told another story.
Sam leaned close, speaking in the low tone of a confessor—words rehearsed over the years, words that had been carved into her mind like scripture.
"Remember, Bella," he said softly, "the world rewards the obedient. Pretend, if you must. Smile when they want you to smile. Bow when they want you to bow. To resist openly is to be crushed. But to endure silently… that is the path to survival."
Isabella nodded, though her throat felt like it was made of glass. Pretend. That word had become her armor, her shield, her prison.
When Adrian saw her, his face lit up with pride. "Now that," he declared, extending his arms, "is my daughter. Refined. Graceful. The young lady I knew you could be."
Isabella lowered her eyes, hiding the fire beneath her calm exterior. She let him kiss her cheek. She let her mother hold her tightly, inhaling her scent as though she could stitch three years of missed embraces into one moment. She let it all happen. Pretend.
The drive back to the mansion was filled with Claire's chatter. She asked about food, about clothes, about whether Isabella had made friends. Adrian simply watched her with satisfied silence, as if his masterpiece had returned from the kiln, perfectly hardened. Isabella answered sparingly, her voice polite and sweet—another mask she had perfected.
When they arrived, the mansion loomed larger than she remembered, its cold marble columns gleaming under the afternoon sun. Servants lined the entrance, bowing in welcome. To everyone else, it was a celebration. To Isabella, it felt like walking back into a cage, though one gilded with gold.
Claire led her upstairs, two maids trailing behind with her bags. When the doors to her room opened, Isabella stopped short. The space was transformed.
Gone were the childish wallpapers, the stuffed toys, the posters she had clung to. Instead, the walls were painted a soft ivory, hung with elegant framed art. A crystal chandelier glimmered overhead. The bed was queen-sized with velvet sheets, and the desk was carved oak with books arranged neatly by the servants. It was the room of a young woman, a princess, a polished jewel.
It was everything her father had wanted.
But not her.
Claire clasped her hands together, her eyes misting. "Do you like it, sweetheart? We wanted to surprise you. You're a woman now, and you deserve a room fit for one."
Isabella smiled faintly, her lips tugging at the corners with mechanical precision. "It's beautiful, Mom. Thank you."
The maids curtsied and quietly slipped out. Claire kissed her daughter's forehead one last time, whispering, "I missed you so much," before leaving the room, closing the heavy doors behind her.
And then silence.
The mask slipped the moment the latch clicked shut. Bella sank onto the bed, her hands trembling. The tears came silently at first, then harder, until she had to bury her face in the velvet sheets to muffle the sound