Chapter Four

The club is alive again tonight, every light like a star that burns too close. By now, the stage doesn’t terrify me. it makes me feel untouchable. I twirl under the spotlight, each movement peeling away another layer of the woman who was once weak, naïve, and blind. Here, I control the story.

The men only get the pieces of me I allow.

They scream, wanting more, throwing bills at me. But I decide what to give them.

After my shift, I join Rosa and Sofia at our usual booth. We drink, laugh, and dance until our feet ache, until the bruises of yesterday don’t feel quite so heavy. For a few hours, I let myself forget the ashes of my old life.

---

The next morning, restless, I can’t stand the silence of my apartment. The four walls suffocate me, dragging me back into memories I don’t want. So I leave.

The city is blinding in the daylight. Vendors crowd the streets, shouting over one another, colors and scents swirling until I feel drunk on life itself. I stop at a fruit stand, fumbling over my Spanish, frustration prickling my skin.

That’s when a little voice speaks up, quick and sure. “Let me help you. What do you want?”

“Some mangoes, and oranges,’’ I tell her. She turns to the woman with a slight smile.

“"Quiere una docena de mangos y cinco naranjas”

In seconds, the vendor is tying up my purchases. She hands it to me and I pay her.

“Gracias,” I tell her, crouching to meet her gaze.

“You don’t speak Spanish?” she asks in careful English.

I shake my head. “Not well.”

Her backpack looks heavy, her small shoulders strained beneath it. She keeps glancing down the street, searching.

“Where’s your mamá?” I ask gently.

Her smile fades. “I don't have a mama. I left school before the driver could come pick me up. Now I'm lost.”

Something in me splinters. She’s lost. Alone. And I know what it feels like to be that small in a world too big.

“Don’t worry,” I say firmly, holding out my hand. “You’re with me now.”

She slips her hand into mine without hesitation.

---

Back at my apartment, she devours the mango slices I lay before her, juice running down her chin.

“What’s your name?” I ask softly.

“Isabella.”

The name clings to me.

“And your father?”

She beams, eyes shining with pride. “Damien Moretti.”

The knife nearly slips from my hand. My blood runs cold. That name carries weight—it’s the kind people don’t say loudly. Power, danger, shadow.

I mask my shock, smiling gently at her. “We’ll find your home, Isabella. Can you tell me where you live?”

She nods eagerly, rattling off an address that twists something in my stomach. Even I know the reputation of that place, an exclusive, gated community where only the wealthiest, most untouchable people live.

When Rosa stops by later that afternoon, I explain, tension tight in my voice. Her eyes go wide the moment she hears the address.

“Leina,” she breathes, lowering herself into a chair. “Do you have any idea where that is? That’s not just rich, it’s exclusive. Politicians, old families, people with… connections. And you’re telling me this little girl belongs there?”

I nod.

Rosa leans back, a spark of curiosity lighting her face. “Then you’re not going alone. I’ve always wanted to see those estates up close. Besides, it’s safer if we go together.”

She’s right. My stomach knots at the thought of walking into a place that doesn’t belong to me, carrying the child of a man whose name makes people whisper.

“Fine,” I sigh. “We’ll go together.”

Isabella, swinging her legs happily at the table, looks up at us with mango-stained lips. “My papa will like you,” she says with the innocent certainty only a child could have.

“Come on, let's go.” I pick her up in my arms and Rosa takes her backpack. Together we step out of the house.

If only I knew what the future holds few hours from now