Isabella's POV:

The world had gone cold and colorless. Every breath I took felt like inhaling shards of glass, every heartbeat a cruel reminder of the void where my father had once been. The news had come like a hammer blow—Giovanni Russo was dead.

The details were sparse, but the message was clear. His estate had been reduced to ashes, his men scattered, and his body... unrecognizable. They said Antonio Bianchi had been behind it, that this was a power play, a final blow in the long-standing feud between our families. I didn't want to believe it, couldn't believe it. But the whispers, the evidence, all pointed to the same truth: Antonio had killed my father.

I couldn't even cry. The pain was too deep for tears, an ache so profound that it left me hollow. I had lost everything—my family, my love, my identity. Who was I now? Giovanni Russo's daughter, the one who had once dreamed of a life beyond the confines of her family legacy, now nothing more than a shadow of the woman I used to be.

I stayed in my room for days after the news broke, unable to face the world outside. The staff tiptoed around me, their hushed voices a constant reminder of the chaos that had unfolded. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw flames consuming my father's estate, felt the heat of the fire searing through my chest.

But it wasn't just grief that consumed me—it was guilt. Guilt for the months I had spent away from my father, trying to heal from Antonio's betrayal. Guilt for not being there when the attack happened, for not standing by my family when they needed me most. And guilt for still, even now, feeling a sliver of something for Antonio.

That sliver burned in my chest, a toxic mix of love and hatred that I couldn't seem to let go of. He had killed my father. He had destroyed my family. And yet, I couldn't entirely erase the memories of him, the way he had once held me, the way he had looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.

But those memories were nothing now—ashes, like everything else.

One night, as I stared at the ceiling in the suffocating silence of my room, a thought took root in my mind. It was wild, reckless, and utterly irrational, but it was the only thing that made sense in the chaos of my grief.

I had to disappear.

The idea consumed me, a single thread of clarity in the tangled web of my emotions. I couldn't stay here, couldn't live in a world where my father was gone and Antonio Bianchi reigned unchecked. But running wasn't enough. If I simply left, someone would find me eventually—Antonio's men, my father's allies, the enemies circling like vultures. No, I needed to vanish completely.

To do that, I had to make the world believe I was dead.

The plan began to take shape in the restless hours of the night, my mind racing with possibilities. It had to be believable, something that would leave no doubt in anyone's mind. And as much as I hated the thought, there was only one person who could convincingly "kill" me in the eyes of the world.

Sofia.

Her name left a bitter taste in my mouth, but it was perfect. Sofia, the ambitious, cunning woman who had already caused so much destruction, would be the scapegoat for my supposed death. Everyone knew of her obsession with Antonio, her jealousy, her willingness to go to any lengths to secure her place by his side. It wouldn't take much to convince people that she had finally snapped, that she had seen me as a threat and eliminated me.

I began to plan in earnest, mapping out every detail. My disappearance had to be flawless, leaving no room for doubt or suspicion. I would stage an "attack," leaving behind enough evidence to point to Sofia while ensuring that no one could find my body. It had to look real—messy, violent, the work of a woman consumed by rage.

The more I thought about it, the more the plan solidified in my mind. I would leave behind enough blood to suggest a struggle, along with a few personal items—my necklace, my scarf—things that would make it clear I had been there. And then I would vanish, leaving behind nothing but questions and accusations.

The hardest part was preparing myself for what came next. Once I disappeared, there would be no coming back. No reaching out to old friends, no returning to the life I had known. I would have to become someone else entirely, starting over from scratch in a place where no one knew my name.

It was terrifying, but it was also freeing. For the first time in months, I felt a glimmer of purpose, a sense of control over my life. This was my decision, my choice. No one else's.

I spent days gathering what I needed, slipping out of the estate at odd hours to avoid suspicion. I purchased supplies under a false name, using cash to leave no trail. I found an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city, a place where I could stage the scene without anyone noticing.

And then, finally, the night came.

I arrived at the warehouse just after midnight, the streets deserted and silent. My hands trembled as I set up the scene, laying out the blood packets and scattering the personal items I had brought with me. It had to look real—convincing enough to fool even the most skeptical eyes.

When everything was in place, I stood in the center of the room, my heart pounding as I looked around. This was it. The end of Isabella Russo.

For a moment, I hesitated, doubt creeping in. Was this really the right choice? Was there another way? But then I thought of my father, of the flames consuming everything he had built, and my resolve hardened.

This was the only way.

I opened one of the blood packets, smearing the dark red liquid across the floor and walls, creating the illusion of a violent struggle. I left my necklace on the ground, its delicate chain tangled and broken, and placed my scarf nearby, torn and stained.

Finally, I stepped back, surveying my work. It was perfect—messy, chaotic, and utterly believable.

As I slipped out of the warehouse and into the night, I felt a strange mix of emotions. Relief, sadness, fear, and something that felt almost like hope. For the first time in months, I was free.

Free to start over.

Free to disappear.

And though the world would mourn Isabella Russo, I would finally have the chance to find out who I truly was.

Now let the show begin ;)