The road stretched out endlessly, illuminated only by the dim light of streetlamps as Isla drove, her heart pounding with equal parts fear and relief. Amara lay bundled in her car seat, fast asleep, unaware of the tension gripping her mother. Matteo’s plan had worked-she had escaped Dante’s estate.
Isla glanced at her daughter in the rearview mirror and whispered, “We’re free now, baby. Just a little further.”
Her words gave her courage, but as the hours passed and exhaustion weighed heavy on her, Isla’s focus faltered. The winding road ahead blurred, and her eyelids grew heavy.
Out of nowhere, a pair of glaring headlights blinded Isla. She slammed on the brakes, her tires screeching on the asphalt, but it was too late. A deafening crash echoed through the night as her car collided with the sleek black vehicle barreling toward her.
The impact jolted her forward, her head hitting the steering wheel. Pain shot through her body, and she struggled to stay conscious. Amara’s cries filled the air, cutting through the haze of Isla’s panic.
Gasping, she turned in her seat to check on her daughter. “Amara! Baby, are you okay?” she choked out, reaching for her. The car seat had held firm, and though Amara was crying, she appeared unhurt.
Before Isla could process what had happened, the door to her car was yanked open with brutal force.
“What the hell are you doing on this road?” a familiar, furious voice bellowed.
Isla’s heart sank as she looked up to see Dante, his face a mixture of anger and shock. His sharp eyes darted to Amara in the backseat, then back to her, his jaw tightening.
“Isla,” he hissed, his tone laced with disbelief. “What the hell were you thinking?”
She couldn’t speak, her body trembling from the crash and his sudden appearance.
Dante didn’t wait for an explanation. He reached into the car, carefully unfastened Amara’s car seat, and lifted their crying daughter into his arms.
“Get out,” he ordered, his voice cold and sharp.
Minutes later, Isla found herself in the passenger seat of Dante’s car as he drove back to the mansion. Her own vehicle was left abandoned on the side of the road.
Dante didn’t say a word during the drive. The tension in the air was suffocating, and Isla’s mind raced with panic and despair. Amara had stopped crying and was now nestled in Dante’s arms, her tiny fingers clutching at his shirt.
Finally, Isla broke the silence. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Dante’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. “You mean running away?” he shot back, his tone harsh. “Taking my daughter from me? What exactly were you thinking, Isla?”
She flinched at his words but forced herself to reply. “I had no choice, Dante. You’ve treated me like a prisoner since the day Amara was born. I couldn’t live like that anymore.”
He scoffed, his laugh devoid of humor. “So you thought endangering Amara’s life was the better option? Do you even realize what could have happened tonight?”
“I would never hurt her!” Isla snapped, her voice rising for the first time. “I was doing this for her-to give her a life free from all of… this!”
Dante’s eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching as he stared straight ahead. “You don’t get to make that decision. She’s my daughter too.”
By the time they reached the mansion, Isla was emotionally drained. Dante carried Amara inside, barking orders to the staff to prepare a doctor to check on both mother and child.
As soon as Amara was settled in her nursery, Dante returned to Isla, who sat on the edge of the bed in her room, her head in her hands.
“You’re not leaving again,” he said firmly, his presence filling the room.
Isla looked up at him, her eyes blazing with defiance. “You can’t keep me here, Dante. This isn’t a life-it’s a prison.”
He stepped closer, towering over her. “You almost killed yourself and Amara tonight. Do you really think you’re capable of taking care of her on your own?”
His words struck a nerve, and Isla shot to her feet. “Don’t you dare question my ability to be a mother! I’ve done everything for her while you’ve been too busy playing the mafia king to even notice.”
Dante’s eyes darkened, his voice lowering to a dangerous tone. “I notice everything, Isla. Including the fact that you’ve been plotting to take my daughter from me. Do you have any idea what that does to me?”
She laughed bitterly, tears streaming down her face. “Oh, spare me, Dante. You only care about Amara because she’s your heir. I’m just the inconvenience that came with her.”
Dante’s expression shifted, a flicker of pain crossing his features. “That’s not true,” he said quietly. “I care about you, Isla. Even if you don’t believe it.”
She shook her head, her voice trembling with emotion. “If you cared, you wouldn’t treat me like this. You wouldn’t make me feel so alone.”
Dante stepped back, running a hand through his hair in frustration. He wanted to argue, to convince her that she was wrong, but deep down, he knew her words held truth.
“I’ll do better,” he said finally, his voice strained. “For Amara. For you.”
Isla stared at him, her heart aching with a mixture of longing and mistrust. “Words mean nothing, Dante. You’ve said that before, and nothing ever changes.”
Before he could respond, Amara’s cries echoed through the house, breaking the tension. Isla moved instinctively toward the door, but Dante stopped her.
“I’ll handle it,” he said, his tone softening. “You need to rest.”
She hesitated, her maternal instincts screaming at her to go to her daughter, but the exhaustion from the crash and the emotional turmoil left her drained. She nodded reluctantly, sinking back onto the bed as Dante left the room.
As Dante held Amara in his arms, gently rocking her back to sleep, he couldn’t shake the image of Isla’s tear-streaked face from his mind. For the first time, he felt a pang of guilt so sharp it nearly took his breath away.
He had always prided himself on being in control, on keeping his emotions in check. But with Isla, everything was different. She had a way of breaking through his defenses, forcing him to confront parts of himself he’d rather ignore.
Looking down at Amara, who had finally settled, he whispered, “I’ll fix this, little one. I promise.”
But as he placed her back in her crib, he couldn’t ignore the nagging fear that it might already be there.
In her room, Isla stared out the window, her mind racing with thoughts of escape. She knew Dante’s promises meant little-his actions always spoke louder than his words.
“I can’t stay here,” she whispered to herself, her hand resting protectively on her heart. “Not for me. Not for Amara.”
But as much as she wanted to leave, the events of the night had shaken her. Could she really risk her daughter’s safety again?
For now, all she could do was wait and hope that a chance for freedom would come again.