Antonio's POV:

Time didn't just stop—it collapsed.

The sounds of the ballroom faded into nothing. The weight of a hundred eyes watching, the hushed gasps of the guests, the murmurs of confusion—all of it ceased to exist the moment the mask slipped from her face.

And I saw her.

Not a ghost.

Not a trick of my exhausted, grief-twisted mind.

Isabella.

Alive.

Standing before me in red silk and deception, her lips slightly parted as if she had been holding her breath, her dark eyes locked onto mine with something unreadable.

Shock.

Anger.

Recognition.

No.

No, this wasn't possible.

I saw her die.

I had grieved her.

I had broken myself over her loss, drowned myself in rage and vengeance, carved out the part of me that had once loved her because she was gone.

And yet, here she was.

Alive.

And the only thing more terrifying than that was the fact that she had never intended for me to find out.

Because she had come here wearing a mask.

She had been in my home, among my enemies, among my men, and she hadn't wanted to be recognized.

Because Isabella wasn't here as the woman I had loved.

She was here as the attacker.

As the person who had tried to kill me.

The woman I had spent months hunting—she had been her all along.

My pulse slammed through me like a war drum, my vision swimming as my body fought to make sense of something it couldn't.

She wasn't breathing. Neither was I.

The ballroom remained silent, the tension stretched so tight that I thought the world itself might snap.

Then—

I reached for her.

It wasn't conscious. My body simply moved, like instinct, like something inside me needed to feel that she was real. My fingers grazed the curve of her wrist, my grip firm but not enough to hurt. Not yet.

She inhaled sharply, her breath unsteady.

Then—

"Antonio."

My name on her lips nearly broke me.

It was the first time I had heard it in so long, spoken in that voice—low, steady, almost soothing. But this wasn't soothing. It was something else. Something raw and sharp and bleeding at the edges.

Because I felt it.

She hadn't expected to be caught.

She hadn't planned for this.

A flicker of hesitation. A crack in her armor.

And then, like a predator cornered, her gaze sharpened.

She tried to pull away.

I tightened my grip.

"Don't." My voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper, but it held the weight of everything between us.

Don't run.

Don't lie.

Don't pretend.

But pretending was exactly what she had done, wasn't it?

For months.

While I drowned in her death. While I burned the world for revenge.

She had been out there. Breathing. Planning. Plotting.

I felt something dark coil inside me, something cold and bitter and entirely unstoppable.

The world around us began to move again.

The murmurs turned into whispers, whispers into gasps, gasps into movement.

Sofia was suddenly at my side, her sharp, calculating gaze flicking between Isabella and me. Her hand was on her hip—where I knew a blade was hidden.

"Boss," she murmured, low enough for only me to hear. "Is that...?"

She didn't finish. Didn't need to.

She already knew.

Because this moment—this impossible, fractured, unreal moment—was everything.

Isabella swallowed. I saw the faintest tremor in her throat before she masked it.

She was about to run.

And I couldn't let that happen.

Not again.

Not after this.

The weight of the room was pressing in now, too many eyes watching, too many people seeing what they were never supposed to see.

I had spent years controlling my empire, my image, my legacy.

And now, in a single, silent moment, it was all slipping through my fingers.

Because the love I had mourned, the love I had avenged, the love that had destroyed me—

Had been standing in the shadows, waiting to destroy me first.

My fingers curled around her wrist.

She tensed.

I leaned in, my breath ghosting over her cheek as I spoke the words that had haunted me since the moment I saw her.

"You should be dead."

Her fingers twitched against mine.

Then, finally, she spoke.

"So should you."

And then—

Chaos.

Isabella

Run.

It was the only thought in my head, the only instinct screaming through my veins as Antonio's grip tightened around my wrist like an iron shackle.

I had planned for everything.

I had anticipated guards, hidden weapons, possible escape routes. I had counted the seconds between rotations of his men, memorized the layout of this estate down to the last shadowed corridor.

But I had never planned for this.

I had never planned for Antonio to see me. To recognize me.

To catch me.

His breath was warm against my skin, his presence suffocating as he loomed over me. My pulse slammed in my ears, drowning out the whispers, the gasps, the shifting weight of a hundred guests all watching the impossible unfold.

This was not how tonight was supposed to go.

I was meant to disappear into the crowd.

Slip out unseen.

Leave Antonio with nothing but questions and a lingering feeling of unease, a ghost brushing against his spine.

But now—

Now I was trapped.

His voice was still ringing in my head.

"You should be dead."

I had seen the moment of disbelief in his eyes. The fraction of a second where the great Antonio Bianchi had lost his footing, his entire world tilting beneath him.

But that moment had passed.

And now, I was out of time.

I pulled. Hard.

Antonio didn't let go.

His fingers were locked around my wrist, unyielding, unshaken. The crowd was pressing closer now, whispers growing louder, panic flickering in the air.

I couldn't let this happen.

I wouldn't let this happen.

I had spent too long becoming something untouchable.

I would not be unraveled here.

I twisted sharply, using the momentum of my body to wrench myself free. His grip loosened for only a fraction of a second—but it was enough.

I moved.

My heels hit the marble floor hard, and then I was running.

Voices erupted around me.

Antonio's men sprang into motion, their commands cutting through the air as they lunged toward me. But I was faster.

I dodged left, slipping between two guests, grabbing the edge of a table to propel myself forward. Glass shattered behind me as someone knocked over a champagne flute in the chaos.

I didn't stop.

I wouldn't stop.

Escape. That was the only option.

I could already hear Antonio behind me, his footsteps heavy, relentless. He wasn't running. He didn't need to.

He knew I had nowhere to go.

But I refused to let him be right.

I lunged for the nearest exit, pushing through a pair of wide-eyed socialites who gasped in alarm as I shoved past them. My heartbeat was erratic, my breath sharp as I rounded the corner into one of the darker hallways.

Almost there.

I had mapped this estate for weeks. I knew every passage, every turn.

The back entrance was close.

If I could just—

A figure stepped into my path.

Enzo.

Antonio's second-in-command.

My stomach plummeted.

"Going somewhere?" he murmured.

I spun on my heel to double back—

But Antonio was already there.

His presence filled the narrow corridor like a storm cloud, his dark eyes unreadable, his chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths.

I was trapped.

My heart pounded.

Think.

Think.

I reached for the knife strapped to my thigh beneath the slit of my dress, but before I could grip it—

Antonio moved.

A blur of motion, faster than I expected.

One hand caught my wrist, the other wrapping around my waist, twisting me against his body so fast the breath was stolen from my lungs.

I struggled, thrashing against his hold.

"Let. Me. Go."

He didn't.

"Not this time," he murmured.

And then—

Something cold pressed against my face.

A sickly sweet scent filled my nostrils.

No.

No, no, no—

My struggles became weaker. My limbs heavy.

My mind spun, fighting the darkness that crept at the edges of my vision.

It was just like before.

The first time.

The moment everything had changed.

Antonio's arms were the last thing I felt before the world faded to black.