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Isadora

The black SUV glides through New York’s streets, the city’s lights blurring outside my window like smudged watercolors. I sit in silence, my body still humming with aftershocks of pleasure. My dress is slightly rumpled, my hair barely tamed into a semblance of order, and despite the cool air conditioning, my skin feels feverish.

“Where to, Miss?” The driver—Crispino, Alessio had called him—asks, his eyes meeting mine briefly in the rearview mirror before returning to the road. There’s something in his gaze, a knowing that makes heat rise to my cheeks.

I clear my throat. “The Plaza, please.”

He nods, the motion sharp and efficient. “Of course.”

I turn toward the window, watching the city slip past. The streets are nearly empty at this hour, suspended in that strange limbo between late night and early morning when even New York seems to catch its breath.

My hand strays to my lips, still swollen from Alessio’s kisses. I close my eyes, and images flash behind my lids—his hands gripping my thighs, the burn of his stubble against my inner thigh, the way his eyes darkened when I called out his name.

God, what have I done?

For twenty-four years, I’ve been the perfect daughter. Poised. Controlled. I attended the right schools, spoke the right languages, and associated with the right people. My very existence crafted to enhance the De Angelis family name. Even my rebellion has always been contained—small acts of defiance that never truly threatened the life mapped out for me.

Until tonight.

My engagement ring sits heavy on my finger, and I resist the urge to toss it out the window. It wouldn’t change anything. I’m still marrying Luca Calvino in two weeks. The contract has been signed, not in ink but in promises between family patriarchs that carry more weight than any legal document.

The De Angelis and Calvino families will merge through our union. Business interests will be secured. Territories will be established. Power will be consolidated.

And I will smile through it all, the perfect bride for a man I’ve seen make his bodyguard beat a waiter bloody for spilling wine on his shoe.

“Everything all right, Miss?” Crispino’s voice pulls me from my thoughts.

I realize I’ve been digging my nails into my palm, leaving crescent indentations in my skin. I smooth my expression, muscle memory taking over.

“Yes, thank you. Just tired.”

He doesn’t believe me. I can tell by the slight narrowing of his eyes, but he nods again and returns his attention to the road. I wonder what Alessio told him about me. Does he know I gave a false name? That I’m engaged? That I’m the daughter of Antonio De Angelis, whose name opens doors and closes mouths throughout New York?

“Your friend,” I begin, then stop. What am I doing? I shouldn’t ask about him. Tonight was supposed to mean nothing. Just a moment stolen from a life that doesn’t belong to me. A taste of freedom before the cage door slams shut.

“Yes, Miss?” Crispino prompts, his tone neutral.

I shake my head. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

Because it doesn’t. I’ll never see Alessio again. We shared no contact information, no last names, no truths. Just bodies. Just pleasure. Just a single night of pretending to be someone else.

So why does it feel like something significant has shifted inside me?

The car slows as we approach the hotel, and panic flutters in my chest. The girls insisted on staying in a hotel, no doubt to cover any and all indiscretions they might be up to. If only they knew that the biggest one was committed by me. The only bridesmaid I’m really worried about is Valentina because she reports everything to her father, who reports everything to mine. If anyone sees me returning at—I glance at the delicate watch on my wrist—3:42 AM, questions will be asked.

Questions I can’t answer.

“Can you drop me at the side entrance?” I ask, already gathering my clutch.

Crispino nods, smoothly redirecting the car. “Of course, Miss.”

He pulls up to a less conspicuous door, one used mainly by staff. Before he can come around to open my door, I’m already pushing it open.

“Thank you for the ride,” I say, one foot already on the pavement.

“Miss,” he says, his voice stopping me halfway out of the car. When I meet his eyes in the mirror again, there’s something close to concern there. “Be careful.”

A chill runs through me. Does he know who I am? I force a smile. “Always.”

Then I’m out, closing the door behind me with a soft click. I don’t look back as I hurry toward the entrance, swiping my keycard to gain access. The corridor is deserted, and I take the service elevator to avoid the lobby. My heart pounds in my ears, adrenaline mixing with lingering desire and growing dread.

The elevator deposits me on my floor, and I peer cautiously into the hallway before stepping out. Empty. I make my way to my suite, moving quickly but quietly. Just as my hand reaches for the door handle, the suite across from mine opens.

“Isadora?”

I freeze, then slowly turn, my expression already arranged into casual surprise. “Valentina. You’re still up.”

She stands in her doorway, wearing silk pajamas, her face scrubbed clean of makeup but her eyes sharp and alert. “Where have you been? We were worried.”

“I needed some air,” I say, the lie coming easily. “Took a walk to clear my head.”

“At this hour? In New York? Alone?” Her eyebrows rise. “Your father would have a heart attack right after he’s had my head.”

“Which is why he doesn’t need to know.” I step closer, lowering my voice. “Please, Val. I just needed some space. The wedding, it’s... a lot.”

Her expression softens slightly, but suspicion lingers. “You should’ve told me. I would’ve come with you.”

That was precisely what I’d wanted to avoid. “I know. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

She studies me, gaze traveling from my slightly disheveled hair to my bare legs. I’d lost my pantyhose somewhere in that bathroom, left behind like the caution I’ve cultivated my entire life.

“You look... different,” she says finally.

I force a laugh. “I look like someone who’s been walking around Manhattan at night in heels. I’m exhausted.” I punctuate this with a yawn that’s not entirely feigned. “We’ll talk in the morning, okay?”

After a moment, she nods. “I won’t tell your father, but don’t do it again. It’s not safe.”

“I won’t,” I promise, relief flooding me. “Goodnight, Val.”

Once inside my suite, I lean against the door, heart hammering. That was too close. I kick off my heels and pad to the bathroom, flipping on the light and flinching at my reflection.

My lips are swollen, my neck bears a faint red mark that will likely darken into a bruise by morning, and my eyes... they belong to someone else. Someone alive in a way I’ve never allowed myself to be.

I start the shower, as hot as I can stand it, and step under the spray fully clothed. The water soaks through the black dress, weighing it down until I peel it off, letting it fall with a wet slap against the marble floor. I watch makeup-stained water swirl down the drain, wishing I could wash away the choices I’ve made just as easily.

But as I scrub my skin pink, I can still feel the ghost of Alessio’s touch. The phantom press of his lips. The weight of his body against mine.

I press my forehead against the cool tile and finally allow myself to cry, the tears mixing with the shower spray, indistinguishable. I cry for the woman I could’ve been, in another life. One where I wasn’t born a De Angelis, where my body wasn’t a commodity to be traded for power and influence.

One where I might’ve met Alessio differently, known his last name, his history, anything beyond the feel of his skin against mine.

Eventually, the water runs cold, and I shut it off, wrapping myself in a plush hotel robe. I move to the bedroom and sit on the edge of the massive bed, staring at nothing.

The engagement ring sits on the counter. I take it, watching the diamond catch the weak light filtering through the curtains. Five carats. Flawless. Ostentatious. Luca had presented it with the same pride one might show when purchasing an expensive car. “The biggest diamond Tiffany had,” he’d boasted to my father, not to me.

I slide it onto my finger, the weight of it familiar and suffocating. In two weeks, it will be joined by a wedding band, another shackle disguised as jewelry.

I pad to the window, pulling back the curtains to reveal the Manhattan skyline, lights still twinkling in the pre-dawn darkness. Somewhere out there is Alessio, returning to his own life, his own secrets. I wonder if he’s thinking of me, or if I’m already fading from his memory—just another woman, another night.

The thought shouldn’t hurt. It was supposed to be meaningless, after all. Just bodies seeking pleasure in the darkness.

But as I press my palm against the cool glass, I can’t help but wonder what might have happened if we’d met in another life. If I’d given him my real name. If we’d exchanged numbers. If I hadn’t already promised to another man.

Futile thoughts. Dangerous ones.

I let the curtain fall back into place, shutting out the city and the possibilities it holds. In a few hours, I’ll be surrounded by bridesmaids, by wedding planners, by my mother’s critical gaze. I’ll smile and nod and pretend to be excited about marrying Luca. I’ll be the Isadora everyone expects me to be.

But I know something has changed. I’ve tasted freedom, however briefly. I’ve been someone else, made my own choice, taken what I wanted instead of accepting what was given. And I’m not sure I can simply forget that feeling.

Dawn filters through the curtains, painting the room in shades of gold and rose. I haven’t slept, not really. Just drifted in and out of consciousness, dreams blurring with memories until I’m no longer sure what really happened and what my mind invented.

I sit up, pushing tangled hair from my face. My temple throbs with the beginning of a headache, a combination of too little sleep and too much emotion.

The day stretches before me—spa treatments with the bridesmaids, lunch with my mother to discuss final floral arrangements, and a fitting for my wedding dress. A precise choreography designed to transform me into the perfect Mafia bride.

I’ve played this role my entire life. I know every line, every movement, every expected response. It should be easy to slip back into it.

But as I rise and move to the window, pulling back the curtains to reveal the Manhattan skyline bathed in early morning light, I know something fundamental has changed. Last night, I glimpsed a different version of myself—one capable of desire, of free will, of rebellion not just in small, contained ways but in ways that could burn down everything my family has built.

And I’m not sure I can pretend that version of me doesn’t exist anymore.

My phone buzzes. I pick it up to see my mother’s name, a text confirming our lunch reservation.

I respond appropriately, fingers moving automatically. Then I find myself opening a search page, typing “Alessio” and stopping. I have nothing else to go on. No last name. No occupation. Just a first name and the memory of his touch.

He could be anyone. A businessman. A criminal. A nobody. A somebody. The anonymity was the point, wasn’t it? To be strangers passing in the night, taking comfort in the knowledge that our paths would never cross again.

With deliberate movements, I begin preparing for the day ahead. I arrange my features into the appropriate expression of bridal excitement. I choose an outfit that reveals nothing of last night’s transgressions. I cover the mark on my neck with concealer, erasing the evidence of Alessio’s passion.

By the time Valentina knocks on my door to escort me to breakfast, I’ve reconstructed my facade completely. Isadora De Angelis, dutiful daughter, blushing bride-to-be.

But underneath, where no one can see, something has awakened. Something that whispers that perhaps the cage isn’t as unbreakable as I’ve always believed.

And for the first time in my life, I allow myself to listen.