Chapter 2

After another mission left me injured, I was bedridden for three days. The burns on my lower leg were severe, but under the careful treatment of the doctor Marco had found, I gradually regained sensation.

No sooner had Marco left with the doctor than Isabella burst through the door.

Her voice was sharp with rage. “My brother scoured the city for the best doctors just for you. Must make you feel real special, huh?”

Her eyes were bloodshot with fury. She turned and began rummaging through the room, pulling open drawers and cabinets. She found a family dagger, a pair of disassembly pliers, and even a rubber baton used in interrogations.

“I’m going to teach you a lesson today.”

She ignored my screams. First, she clamped the pliers down on the back of my hand, tearing skin and drawing blood. Then she slashed my arm with the dagger, the blade biting deep. Finally, she raised the rubber baton and brought it crashing down on my injured foot.

I blacked out instantly.

When I woke up, my wounds had been dressed. My right foot was encased in a cast.

Marco was sitting beside me, as always. But his face was grim, his expression cold.

He handed me a reconciliation agreement and ordered, “Sign it. Isabella is coming home today.”

There was no room for discussion. He signaled to his men. “Make her sign.”

They understood immediately. One of them stepped forward, grabbed my hand, and twisted it until I heard a sickening snap. Then, holding my broken hand, he forced it to scrawl my name across the paper.

At Marco’s instruction, another subordinate picked up a thick leather belt and began to whip me.

Forty-nine lashes. Hard. Unrelenting. My clothes tore, my skin bruised and bled, and I didn’t even have the strength left to cry out. Only then did it stop.

Marco stood there the entire time, silent and unmoved. His phone camera was trained on me, recording every cry, every welt, every drop of blood.

When it was over, he approached. He gently wiped the blood from the corner of my lips with a handkerchief, his voice soft—so soft it cut like ice.

“Elara, this is for your own good. I’ll show the video to Isabella. Consider it your apology.”

Then he turned and left without another glance.

I lay in the clinic for another three days.

When I was finally discharged, Isabella sent me a message:

[My brother’s throwing a party to celebrate my promotion. Of course you’re invited.]

[You must come. I’ve prepared a surprise for you.]

On the day of the event, Marco dressed me carefully in a gown he had picked out himself. He fastened custom-made jewelry from Europe around my neck, then helped straighten the torn coat I had worn before.

To an outsider, he might’ve looked like a devoted husband.

But I had seen Isabella’s social media post. Her gown and jewelry were ten times more extravagant.

Marco wheeled over a chair and bent down to lift me—my legs still too weak to walk.

As he scooped me up, our wedding rings slipped off. They clinked against the tiled floor and rolled into the drain.

The sound was like a hammer to my heart. My body went cold, tears blurring my vision.

Marco didn’t even look back. “Hurry up. Isabella’s going to throw a fit if we’re late.”

So that’s what our marriage vows meant to him—less than a few of his adopted sister’s pouts.

I was numb. I didn’t even want to resist anymore.

We arrived at the venue soon after.

There were a few steps at the entrance—too high for the wheelchair. Marco bent down to lift me again, but stopped when Isabella’s voice rang out.

“Marco! This is my promotion party. Why are you fawning over someone else?”

“She can climb a few steps. Why are you babying her?”

A thousand eyes turned toward me—curious, mocking, disdainful. My body stiffened, and my cheeks burned like fire.

I’d known humiliation before. Three years ago, at our wedding. I had survived that, and every shameful mission failure since.

I forced myself up the last step, turned to Marco out of habit.

“My wheelchair…”

But he was gone. Isabella had pulled him away, and they were now surrounded by guests offering their congratulations.

My composure collapsed.

The man who once promised to shield me with his life had long since abandoned me.

In a shadowed corner, unnoticed, my tears soaked through my dress.

The banquet was lavish, more like a coronation than a promotion. Marco gave Isabella three gifts: a gilded family crest representing the highest honor, ownership of a legal enterprise worth billions, and the family’s heirloom sapphire necklace—symbol of the DeLuca matriarch.

I couldn’t help the bitter smile that tugged at my lips.

Isabella saw it. She didn’t react in front of the crowd, but during the intermission, she cornered me in a hallway.

“What are you smiling at? Just because you have a title? Marco only cares about me. He’s going to divorce you sooner or later!”

I looked at her calmly. “Then tell him that. Telling me won’t change anything.”

Her face flushed with fury. Her eyes darkened, and she lunged, trying to shove me down the stairs.

But I was ready. I clung tightly to the railing and refused to let go.

In the struggle, Marco appeared.

Isabella’s tone flipped instantly. She put on a sobbing voice, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Elara, I know I was wrong, please don’t make this harder for me!”

Then she bit her lip and threw herself down the stairs.

“Isabella!” Marco panicked, racing after her.

He didn’t spare a glance for me—still clinging to the railing, now dangling dangerously over the stairwell.

“Marco… help me…”

My voice echoed through the empty staircase, swallowed by silence.

No one came.

When my hands gave out, I fell.