CHAPTER SIX

Morning light slips through the blinds and lands across my face. I push the pillow over my head, trying to block it out, but the headache from last night keeps pulsing.

I barely slept last night. Each time I shut my eyes Isabella's face comes to my mind.

The stiffness in her shoulders when Irina scolded her. The way she didn't expect her father to defend her. That lifeless room with nothing but a strict schedule pinned to the wall.

It haunts me.

What parent raises their child in such a manner?

My phone rings on the nightstand, interrupting my train of thoughts.

Natalie’s name flashes.

“Hey,” I answer, my voice low, edged with sleep..

“Hey sweetie. How are you enjoying Mexico?” Her voice is vibrant, filled with life as always.

“Well, I'm alive. Does that count?”

She lets out a laugh. “Of course it does. It's almost a month now and I'm happy to know you are doing okay. I spoke with Vincent and he told me you're holding up well.”

“I do what I have to survive.” I contemplate on telling her about yesterday.” Hey,Nat. Do you know about Damien Moretti?”

“Yeah…” She draws out the word. It's enough for me to sense the silent warning in her tone.” But why are you asking about him.”

“Well…. I kind of met him yesterday?”

“The neighbourhood Damien lives in is nowhere close to where you live, Leina.”

“I was out in the market yesterday, and I ran into his daughter. She helped me with buying some fruits since my Spanish is still bad. Turns out she got lost…”

“So you had to play the savior and take her home.” She cuts in.

“I didn't see it as a big deal.”

“Well it isn't a big deal except for the fact that let's see, he's the most influential business man in New York and one of the big people in the country.”

Whoa!

I certainly didn't see that coming.

We talk about different things. After almost an hour we hang up.

I take a quick shower and throw on a simple dress and flats. I promised to spend the day with Isabella and I won't let her down.

~~~

I watch Isabella spread her little hands across the piano keys, her face serious, brow furrowed, concentrating on a scale she’s played dozens of times before.

The music is precise, flawless, the notes crisp and controlled.

But it’s missing something, the joy of discovery, the delight of mistakes. I feel a pang in my chest. This is not a child’s world. This is Irina’s world, mapped out with military precision: lessons, studies, piano practice, all regimented like clockwork.

No laughter, no free moments, no time to just be a child.

I step closer. “Isabella,” I say gently, trying not to startle her. She glances up at me, eyes bright but wary. “How about we take a little break from the piano? We can do something… fun.”

“Fun?” she asks, voice small. She looks back at the keys like I’m speaking another language. A language she's not used to hearing.

“Yes, fun,” I repeat, crouching to meet her gaze. “You’ve been practicing so much. Let’s play, imagine, do something that isn’t on a schedule. A break for your brain and your heart.”

Her eyebrows draw together, uncertainty flickering across her face. She’s been taught that time is measured, that play is secondary.

“Irina won't like it. She'll tell Papa and he'll get mad at me.” I can feel the conflict in her. The desperation not to disappoint her father.

“Papa won't get mad at you for being a child,” I tell her, voice soft and reassuring.

Her gaze is conflicted, but then, very slowly, she nods. “Okay… what do we do?”

I let a small smile slip, feeling awkward in my own body. I’m not used to being the kind of adult who lets a child lead. I’m used to control, to rules, to safety.

And yet, I want to show her that a life can exist outside schedules and expectations. I gather some paper, colored pencils, and a few stray markers I find on a nearby shelf.

“Let’s draw a story,” I suggest. “You start, I’ll follow.”

Her face brightens immediately. She grabs a pencil and begins scribbling.

Dragons, castles, mountains.

I follow suit, drawing clumsy figures that look nothing like the perfection she produces on piano or in her lessons. She giggles at my dragons, her laughter startling in the quiet, formal house. I can’t help but laugh too, the sound foreign in my own ears.

After a while, I suggest we take it further. “How about we go outside? You need a little sun, some fresh air. Let’s run around a bit.”

Her eyes widen. “Run? Outside? I… I have piano later.”

“Yes,” I say firmly, but kindly. “And it will still be there. But right now, you’re a child, and children are allowed to run, to jump, to feel wind on their faces.”

She hesitates, then allows me to take her hand. We step into the garden, and she tentatively jogs, then giggles, then sprints. I watch her, exhilarated and tense at the same time.

She’s free in a way she’s never been, and I feel the weight of her father’s shadow press against me. This freedom—does he approve? Does Irina approve? Does anyone in this house know that childhood isn’t supposed to be schedules and piano keys?

We play tag, chase butterflies, and tumble onto the soft grass. I let myself laugh, unburdened by the walls I build around my own life. For a while, it’s just us. No expectations, no adult rules, no looming shadows of wealth and power.

Later, I sit her down on a bench under a flowering tree. “Let’s make a schedule,” I say, reaching for a notepad.

Her eyes narrow. “But I already have one,” she protests.

“Yes,” I agree, “but it’s not a schedule for a child. It’s too strict, too many lessons. We’ll make one that gives you studies and piano, yes, but also time to play, read, explore, and just… be you.”

I explain to her the concept of balance, something she’s never been allowed to experience. I map out afternoons where piano lasts no more than thirty minutes, interspersed with drawing, running in the garden, storytelling, and even simple things like building blanket forts. She listens, hesitant at first, then nods slowly, absorbing the idea like a small seed planted in dry soil.

I realize this is a war I didn’t plan to fight, against Irina’s regimented rules, against Damien’s world of perfection, against everything that says children are meant to be polished and obedient. But watching Isabella’s face light up at the thought of a schedule that lets her breathe, laugh, and make mistakes… it’s worth it.

For the first time, I feel the pull of responsibility not as a cage, but as a shield. I can protect her, guide her, even push back against the forces that try to mold her into something she’s not ready to be. And in doing so, maybe I learn something about myself too—that life can have softness, unpredictability, and joy without collapse.

By the time the sun begins to lower, painting the garden in gold, Isabella leans against me, exhausted but smiling. “Leina, today was the best day ever. Thank you for this..”

My chest tightens, and I realize it is true, not for me, not yet, but for her. And somehow, that is enough.

The sound of tires crunching over gravel reaches my ears before the car even appears, interrupting our peaceful moment .

My stomach twists, an uneasy mix of anticipation and dread. Isabella tugs at my hand, not oblivious to the tension that suddenly drapes over the garden like a heavy curtain.

The gate swings open, and I see them. Irina, sharp and pristine in her posture, eyes scanning the yard like a hawk, and Damien, calm as ever, his presence solid and unreadable. My pulse quickens. I know immediately that Irina will notice the small chaos, the traces of laughter, the blanket fort collapsed in the grass. And I know that chaos is not tolerated in this household.

Irina steps out of the car, heels clicking against the driveway, and her gaze falls on Isabella.

“What… is this?” Her voice is sharp, slicing through the afternoon air like a blade. She points at the scattered pillows and the coloring pencils still strewn across the table.

I step forward, chest tight, trying to keep my voice steady. “Irina, I…”

“You dared to change her routine?” Irina hisses, stepping closer. Her eyes are wild, almost frenzied, scanning me as if I’ve committed some unforgivable crime. “Do you understand the importance of structure? The discipline? She has studies, piano, and preparation. You’ve turned this child’s life into…into… chaos!”

Isabella flinches at the anger, her small hands clutching at my sleeve. I kneel to her level, whispering, “It’s okay, Isabella. We just… made a little time for fun. That’s all.”

Irina’s gaze snaps toward me. “Made time for fun?” she repeats, incredulous. “Do you have any idea what this does? Any idea what she’s supposed to achieve? Do you think this house, this family, is a playground?”

She grabs Isabella away from me. Her hold is so hard that the child cries out. “Don't you know what you don't have to do? You let a stranger tell you how to spend your time!”

Rage flares in my chest at the way she manhandles the child.

“You will not speak to her in such a manner,” I tell her pulling Isabella from her hold. She instantly hides behind me clutching my dress.

I feel severe anger in my chest , but I force calm. I have to. My voice is firm but measured. “She’s a child, Irina. She’s not a miniature adult. She needs balance, time to explore, to play, to make mistakes. She can still practice piano and study. But she also deserves to breathe.”

Irina’s nostrils flare, and I can see the storm building behind her eyes. “Breathe?” she repeats, her voice now a shriek. “Do you know what discipline means? Do you know the sacrifices we make so she can be perfect?”

I glance at Damien, searching for some sign of intervention, some relief. But he just stands there, arms crossed, his expression unreadable, observing the scene as if he’s watching a chess match unfold. The quiet intensity in his gaze makes my heart pound. He doesn’t step in. He doesn’t stop her. He waits.

And I realize something I already knew but hadn’t admitted: this isn’t just about Irina. This is about power. About control. And right now, I am in her way.

“Irina,” Damien finally says, his voice low, calm, carrying the weight of authority that silences everything else. “Enough.”

She spins to him, eyes wild. “Enough? Enough? She’s undermining everything, Mr Moretti! She’s changing Isabella’s schedule…”

Damien lifts a hand, and she freezes mid-sentence. “Leina, send Isabella to her room to freshen up, then come up to my office.”

I nod, swallowing hard. The storm in Irina’s eyes threatens to consume the garden, but Damien’s presence is a tether, holding me steady. I look down at Isabella. Her small face is tight with worry. I kneel, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Go on, sweetie. Freshen up. I’ll be right outside.”

She hesitates, then nods and scurries toward the house. I watch her disappear inside, feeling a pang of guilt and helplessness. This world, this house is a battlefield I never expected to enter. And I have already drawn attention.

Irina glares at me, her lips pressed into a thin, hard line. “You will answer for this,” she spits, but her words falter in the presence of Damien’s calm authority.

I turn toward him, keeping my expression neutral, though my pulse is racing. Each step toward the office feels heavier than the last. I can feel him assessing me, measuring my defiance, my intent, my audacity. I’m not sure if he respects it or if he’s deciding how badly to punish it.

The office door closes behind me, cutting off the world outside. The air smells faintly of leather and polished wood, clean and controlled in the way everything in this house seems to be. I stand before him, hands clenched loosely at my sides.

“Leina,” he begins, his tone even, deliberate. “Tell me exactly why you did it.”

I inhale, steadying myself. “Because she’s a child,” I say simply. “She deserves to be one. She deserves balance, to explore, to laugh, to play. Her life isn’t just piano and lessons. It shouldn’t be.”

He studies me, expression unreadable. And in that silence, I realize: my words are more dangerous than I thought. They are a challenge. And he knows it.

“But you do know you are interfering with the perfectly laid out routine mapped out for her right?”

“That's the problem,” I tell him, looking him straight in the eye. “She's not supposed to have a schedule that includes just lessons and practice. She's only six. She deserves sunlight, afternoons in the park, extracurricular activities with kids her age. She deserves time to be a child.”

He measures me with his eyes, obviously weighing my audacity to challenge him. “You think this is necessary?”

“Yes. If her mother were here, she would tell you the same thing.”

He freezes at the mention of Isabella's mother. A softness I never thought he was capable of crosses his face.

“Serafine,” he mutters. “She'll never want our daughter to be raised like that. She would have reprimanded me in the same way you just did.” His voice is laced with something akin to nostalgia.

“Anyways,” he continues, loosing the soft edge that found it's way to his face. “You made a good impression with my daughter. I've never seen her smile as I've seen in the past twenty four hours. You've given her something she's never had, and I'll like you to continue with that.”

“Huh?” I ask confused.

“Marry me, Leina. Be Mrs Moretti just by name. You get to be Isabella's mother and receive the status of my wife.”