Chapter 1: Betrayal in Flames

Isabella's POV

"Why…?"

The word barely escaped my lips. It trembled in the cold air, as weak as I felt. My vision swam, but I forced my heavy eyelids to open, desperate to clearly see the man in front of me.

James.

He stood only a few feet away, the sharp, acrid scent of gasoline clinging to him as he methodically poured it across the floor.

"James!" My voice cracked as I called out his name, raw and desperate. "Why?"

A strangled sob tore from my throat, each word scraping against the ache lodged deep inside me. My heart raced, not just from fear, but from the overwhelming disbelief that the man who had once whispered love into my ear could now do this.

He hesitated, his shoulders stiff and unmoving. For a fleeting second, it seemed as though he might turn, that he might meet my eyes and explain. But instead, he looked away, his hands tightening around the gasoline canister.

"I’m sorry," he said softly, his voice barely audible over the pounding of my heartbeat.

I stared at him, uncomprehending. Sorry? Sorry for what? For betraying me? For setting a match to everything we had built together?

This wasn’t the James I knew—the James who had made me laugh on quiet afternoons, who had kissed my fears away, who had promised me freedom and love. That James had vowed to protect me, to take me away from the wreckage of my life. He had sworn he would never let me suffer again.

And yet, here we were.

I felt my throat tighten as his face blurred behind my tears. The warmth of betrayal seeped into my chest, constricting my breath and drowning out the room around me.

I hadn’t always been so powerless.

Once, I was Isabella Gloria, the proud daughter of the Gloria family—a name synonymous with luxury, success, and influence in the South. My father, a shrewd businessman, had spent decades building our empire. In a world where the Alpha King reigned in the North, expanding his territories through conquest, the South waged its own wars—financial wars. Families like ours thrived through strategic alliances and ruthless ambition.

For years, the Gloria name stood strong, a force to be reckoned with. But power paints a target, and we had ours.

The Hart family—ancient, arrogant, and calculating. They had dominated the South long before we came into prominence, and to them, we were nothing but upstarts, a stain on their storied legacy.

Their disdain turned into sabotage. Business deals fell apart mysteriously, shipments vanished, and alliances shifted overnight. At first, my father fought back, determined to hold our ground. He taught me to meet every challenge with grace, to rise above the Harts’ petty schemes.

But nothing could prepare us for the day they struck the final blow.

It started like any other evening. My mother and I were home, sipping tea by the fireplace, when the front doors burst open. The sound was deafening, like the crack of thunder in a storm. Men poured into our home, their faces cold and devoid of mercy.

They tore through everything. Furniture was overturned, glass shattered, and closets emptied. My dresses were flung to the ground, trampled underfoot like discarded trash.

I tried to stop them. I yelled, clawing at their arms, demanding to know what they wanted. One of them shoved me aside, sending me sprawling onto the floor. My hand landed on broken porcelain, the jagged edges slicing through my skin. Blood dripped onto the marble tiles, stark against the pale surface.

My mother found me moments later. Her usual poise was gone, replaced by a raw, frantic fear I had never seen before. She pulled me into her arms, her voice trembling as she explained what had happened.

The Harts had orchestrated everything—a coordinated attack on our family’s business, finances, and reputation. My father had been arrested on fabricated charges, accused of embezzlement and fraud. Our assets were seized, our allies silenced, our name dragged through the mud.

We were prisoners in our own home. The Harts’ men watched us day and night, their eyes cold and unyielding. My mother, who had always been the picture of elegance, withered under the weight of it all. Her health deteriorated rapidly, and no amount of pleading or bargaining could convince them to help her.

She died that winter, her once radiant face now pale and hollow.

Losing her broke something in me. For weeks, I refused to eat or drink. I wanted to vanish, to fade into the nothingness that had swallowed my family.

But the Harts wouldn’t let me.

Ethan Hart, the family’s heir and the Alpha King’s most trusted general, came to me with an ultimatum.

“Isabella,” he said, his voice cold and clinical, “we’re going to make a deal.”

I would become his wife, a pawn in his calculated game, and in return, he would spare my father’s life.

It wasn’t a choice—it was survival.

Life with Ethan was suffocating. He treated me like a possession, something to flaunt but never cherish. His disdain for me was palpable, a constant reminder of my family’s fall from grace.

I hated him. Every time I looked at him, I saw the Hartks’ betrayal, my mother’s death, and my father’s absence. The walls of his grand estate felt like a prison, each ornate detail mocking my loss.

Our marriage was a battlefield of silent contempt and fiery arguments. The night he stormed out after one of our fights, I felt nothing but emptiness.

That was when James came back into my life.

We had met years ago, in a time when life was simpler. James was kind and thoughtful, a bright light in my sheltered world. But after college, he disappeared, chasing dreams far from my reach.

When he returned, it felt like fate.

James offered me hope—a way out of the darkness that had consumed my life. He listened to my pain, held me when I cried, and promised to save me.

“I can help you,” he said one night, his voice steady and sure. “We’ll save your father and leave this all behind. Together.”

I wanted to believe him. I needed to believe him.

To fund our escape, James asked for something precious: the formula for a perfume my mother had created for me. It was her final gift, a symbol of her love and legacy. But I convinced myself it was worth the sacrifice.

The night of our escape, I met James at a secluded estate. The formula was tucked securely in my coat, a bittersweet weight against my chest.

James greeted me with a smile, his eyes warm and reassuring.

“It’s almost over,” he said, handing me a glass of water. “Soon, we’ll be free.”

Relief washed over me, and for the first time in years, I felt a glimmer of hope.

But that hope was short-lived.

The world spun violently, and darkness consumed me. When I awoke, my wrists and ankles were bound. The sharp smell of gasoline filled the air, and James stood over me, pouring the last of the fuel onto the floor.

“James…” My voice was hoarse, my throat dry. “Why?”

He didn’t answer right away. He hesitated, his shoulders tense. When he finally spoke, his words were soft, almost regretful.

“I’m sorry.”

"Was it all a lie?"

My voice trembled as I bit down hard on my tongue, the metallic taste of blood flooding my mouth. The pain was sharp, but it was the only thing keeping me awake, fighting against the drug coursing through my veins.

James didn’t answer. He avoided my eyes, his face unreadable as he emptied the last of the gasoline onto my limp, vulnerable body. The cold liquid soaked through my clothes, its acrid smell stinging my nose and making my stomach churn.

And then he turned away.

I saw it clearly—the small metal lighter in his hand. The way his thumb rested on the flint wheel. Just one flick, and the fire would consume everything—me included.

"No... you can’t!"

A raw, primal instinct surged within me, stronger than the drugs, stronger than my despair. My bound hands clawed desperately at the floor until they found the hem of his pants. I gripped it with everything I had left.

"Please, James," I begged, my voice cracking under the weight of my desperation. "If it’s the formula you want, you have it. There’s no need to kill me. I won’t say a word about any of this. Just let me go! For the sake of what we had—"

James froze for a moment. His expression flickered, and I dared to hope. For the briefest second, I thought he might reconsider.

But then he spoke.

"If it were that simple, I wouldn’t have to do this," he said, his voice low, almost regretful. "Do you think I want to kill you? Do you think I’m like Ethan, someone who can take a life without flinching?"

My chest tightened with hope. Maybe there was still a part of the James I knew—the James who had once held me like I was his world.

But his next words crushed that hope into dust.

"I don’t have a choice, Isabella. Only your death will give me what I want."

He crouched down, his face now inches from mine, and I saw it—the greed in his eyes, the hunger for something far greater than me.

"Money. Power. Freedom. All of it is within my reach if I trade your life. Don’t you see? This is the perfect deal. Your death, in exchange for everything I’ve ever wanted."

My breath hitched. He wasn’t the man I thought I knew. He never had been.

"Isabella," he said, his voice soft, almost coaxing now. "You love me, don’t you? So why not give your life for me? It’s the least you can do."

I stared at him, unblinking. Was this the same James who once whispered promises of forever in my ear? The man who swore to protect me, to save me from the hell my life had become?

This man was a stranger.

When I didn’t let go of his pants, his face twisted in irritation.

"I told you to let go!" His voice rose, sharp and angry.

He raised his foot and brought it down hard on my hand. Pain exploded through my fingers, but I held on, my nails digging into his leg.

"Let. Go!" he screamed, stomping again, this time grinding his heel against my already bruised hand.

The pain was excruciating, and I screamed, my voice raw and guttural. But I didn’t release him. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.

James snapped. The polished, refined man I thought I knew vanished, replaced by a snarling, savage beast. He kicked me again and again, his rage growing with every blow.

"You stubborn little bitch!" he shouted, his voice a harsh growl. "You think I care about you? You think I ever did?"

The words cut deeper than any of his kicks.

"I was with you because of your family’s money, Isabella," he spat, his lip curling in disdain. "Do you really think I’d choose you if you didn’t have that Gloria name attached to you? Without your family, you’re nothing. Less than nothing. Just Ethan’s discarded toy."

His final kick landed squarely on my chest. The impact was so powerful I heard the crack before I felt the pain—my ribs.

I doubled over, gasping for air as white-hot agony radiated through my torso. Tears streamed down my face, not from the physical pain, but from the sheer, soul-crushing betrayal.

James straightened, wiping the sweat from his brow. He glanced down at the shallow cuts my nails had left on his ankle, and his expression darkened further.

"You’re pathetic," he sneered. "Absolutely pathetic."

And with that, he turned away.

I watched, powerless, as he flicked the lighter. The tiny flame danced, mocking me as he tossed it over his shoulder.

The fire caught instantly, roaring to life as it devoured the gasoline-soaked floor. Bright orange flames surged toward me, crackling hungrily.

James didn’t look back.

The heat was unbearable, the air thick with smoke. My lungs screamed for oxygen, but every breath burned. My body trembled as I lay there, paralyzed by pain and despair.

And yet, beneath the agony, a bitter laugh bubbled up from my chest. It hurt to laugh, but I couldn’t stop.

I was the punchline to my own tragedy.

"I’m such a fool," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the roar of the flames. "I believed him. I loved him."