Home

The harsh fluorescent lights of Tokyo General Hospital cast an unforgiving glow on Isabella's bruised face. She lay still in the narrow bed, the steady beep of the heart monitor a grim counterpoint to her racing thoughts. This wasn't the first time Alexander's temper had landed her here, but it was the first time she'd collapsed, her body finally rebelling against the constant abuse.

Isabella's gaze drifted to the window, where rain pelted against the glass, mirroring the storm of emotions within her. The events of the past twenty-four hours played on repeat in her mind:

Alexander's cold fury as he'd discovered her text messages to Ethan, planning a simple lunch date.

His accusation of infidelity, his eyes blazing with a mixture of rage and something darker—a possessiveness that chilled Isabella to her core.

The first slap, shocking in its suddenness. Then another. And another.

Her desperate pleas, falling on deaf ears as Alexander's temper spiraled out of control.

The sickening crack as her head hit the corner of the coffee table.

Darkness.

Isabella closed her eyes, willing the memories away. A soft knock at the door snapped her back to the present. Nurse Ava entered, her kind eyes quickly assessing the situation.

"How are you feeling, Mrs. Gray?" Anabella asked, her voice gentle as she checked Isabella's vitals.

Isabella managed a weak smile. "I've been better."

Anabella gaze lingered on the bruises marring Isabella's arms, poorly hidden by the hospital gown. "I'm sure you have," she murmured, a hint of steel beneath her professional demeanor.

The door opened again, and Alexander Gray strode in. His imposing figure seemed to suck all the warmth from the room. Anabella straightened, her smile becoming fixed and brittle.

"Mr. Gray," she acknowledged. "I was just checking on your wife's condition."

Alexander's blue eyes, cold as arctic ice, swept over Isabella before settling on the nurse. "And? When can she be discharged?"

"The doctor wants to run a few more tests," Ava replied, her tone carefully neutral. "Perhaps you'd like to get some coffee while you wait, Mr. Gray? The cafeteria is on the ground floor."

For a moment, Alexander looked like he might refuse, but then he nodded curtly. "Fine. I have some calls to make anyway." Without a backward glance at Isabella, he left the room, the door closing with a soft click that seemed to echo in the sudden silence.

As soon as Alexander's footsteps faded, Anabella was at Isabella's side, her professional mask slipping to reveal genuine concern. "Isabella, listen to me. We don't have much time. My friend Ethan—he's a social worker who specializes in domestic abuse cases—he's waiting downstairs with a car. We can get you out of here now, to somewhere safe."

Isabella's heart raced, hope and fear warring within her. "I... I don't know if I can..."

"You can," Ava insisted, grasping Isabella's hand. "You're stronger than you think. This might be your only chance."

Freedom was so close Isabella could taste it. But as she opened her mouth to agree, her phone buzzed on the bedside table. The caller ID made her breath catch: *Papa*.

With trembling fingers, she answered. "Papai?"

"Isabella." Her father's voice, usually warm and boisterous, was cold and clipped. "It's about time you answered. Do you have any idea how long we've been trying to reach you?"

"I'm sorry, I've been—"

"Spare me your excuses," he cut her off. "Listen carefully, because I'm only going to say this once. You need to come home. Immediately."

Isabella's mind reeled. "What? But—"

"But nothing. Victoria has confessed to her deceit. The truth about that night has come to light, and your... indiscretion has been cleared."

A wave of dizziness washed over Isabella. After all this time, after everything she'd been through, her innocence was finally proven. But her father's tone held no joy, no relief—only thinly veiled anger and... was that disappointment?

"Papai, I don't understand. If you know the truth, then why—"

"Why am I not welcoming you back with open arms?" Her father's bitter laugh cut like a knife. "Because your actions, your flight from home, have brought shame upon our family. Do you have any idea of the scandal you've caused? The business deals that have fallen through because of the whispers about the De Santos family's wayward daughter?"

Tears pricked at Isabella's eyes. "I didn't mean to—"

"Your intentions are irrelevant. What matters now is damage control. You will return home immediately, and you will bring that husband of yours. It's time he met the family he's married into."

Isabella's blood ran cold. "Alexander? But Papa, you don't understand—"

"No, you don't understand," he snapped. "This isn't a request, Isabella. It's an order. Your flight leaves tomorrow evening. I've already made all the arrangements. You and Alexander will be here in time for the gala next week, where you will present a united front and begin to repair the damage you've done to our family's reputation. Am I clear?"

"Yes, Papa," Isabella whispered, defeat weighing heavy in her chest.

"Good. We'll see you soon." The line went dead, leaving Isabella staring at the phone in shock.

"Isabella?" Ava's voice seemed to come from far away. "What happened? What did he say?"

Before she could answer, the door opened. Alexander strode in, his face a mask of cold determination. "Pack your things. We're leaving."

Isabella looked from Alexander to Ava, then back to her phone. The choice she'd been about to make had been ripped away from her. With her family expecting both her and Alexander, running now would only make things worse.

"Yes," she said softly. "We're going to Brazil."

Ava's eyes widened in alarm. "Isabella, wait—"

"It's fine, Ava," Isabella cut her off, forcing a smile. "Thank you for your concern, but everything's alright now. I just need to go home for a while."

Alexander's eyes narrowed suspiciously, but he said nothing as he began gathering Isabella's things.

The next twenty-four hours passed in a blur of discharge papers, hasty packing, and tense silence. As they boarded the private jet bound for São Paulo, Isabella caught a glimpse of Ethan watching from the terminal, his face etched with worry. She turned away quickly, blinking back tears.

Once airborne, Alexander finally broke his silence. "I hope you appreciate the inconvenience this little family reunion is causing."

Isabella kept her eyes on the clouds outside the window. "I'm sorry for the trouble."

"You should be." His voice was ice. "Remember, Isabella, this changes nothing between us. You're mine, and you'll play the part of the devoted wife perfectly. If you so much as hint at any... unpleasantness in our marriage, I promise you'll regret it. Your family's reputation isn't the only thing at stake here. Understood?"

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. As Brazil drew closer with each passing minute, Isabella's mind raced. She was going home, her name finally cleared. But at what cost? And how long could she keep up this charade before someone—her family, or worse, Alexander—realized the truth?

The familiar skyline of São Paulo appeared on the horizon, a sight that once filled Isabella with joy now only brought a sense of dread. As the plane began its descent, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Somehow, she had to find a way out of this nightmare. But first, she had to survive this homecoming.

The plane touched down with a jolt, snapping Isabella back to the present. As they taxied to the private hangar, she could see a sleek black limousine waiting on the tarmac. Her family's car.

Alexander's hand closed around her arm, his grip painfully tight. "Showtime, my love," he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. "Don't disappoint me."

Isabella steeled herself as the cabin door opened. Moment of truth. As they descended the stairs, she spotted a familiar figure standing beside the limo—tall, distinguished, with salt-and-pepper hair and a face that could have been carved from granite.

"Papa," she whispered.

Rodrigo De Santos's eyes met hers, and for a moment, Isabella saw a flicker of something—relief? Regret? But it was gone in an instant, replaced by a cool, assessing gaze that swept over her and Alexander.

"Isabella," he said, his voice carrying easily across the tarmac. "Welcome home."

As Alexander guided her towards her father, his arm wrapped possessively around her waist, Isabella felt as though she were walking to her own execution. She had escaped one prison, only to find herself in another. The prodigal daughter had returned, but this was no joyous homecoming.

This was the beginning of a dangerous game, with Isabella caught in the middle. As she kissed her father's cheek, feeling the stiffness in his posture, she wondered if she had made a terrible mistake.

But it was too late for regrets now.