Captive Princess

Once the party started, I realized just how attentive Vincent was to Isabella.

He pulled out her chair, fetched her drinks, and even adjusted the strap of her dress when it slipped, his hand brushing her shoulder with a familiar ease.

I had never received any of that.

In the two years I was with Vincent, he had never done those things for me. I thought it was just his personality—cool and reserved, above such trivial gestures of affection.

I was wrong.

He just wasn't willing to do them for me.

I nursed my champagne, listening to Isabella laugh and chat with other guests. She spoke of her recovery in Europe, of how much she missed New York. Every word was graceful and proper.

"Isabella is such a lovely girl," a woman next to me whispered to her friend. "The way Vincent looks after her, they're sure to end up together."

My hand tightened around the stem of my glass.

"Alright, everyone, let's play a game!" the host announced, livening up the room. "Truth or Choice!"

The big screen lit up as the host explained the rules. "Two pictures will appear on the screen. Everyone votes for their favorite, but Vincent, as our guest of honor, you'll make the final choice for everyone!"

The first set of photos was of two different red wines. Vincent chose the one on the left without hesitation.

"Because Isabella is sensitive to anything too strong," he explained.

The room erupted in good-natured teasing.

The second set was two bouquets: red roses and white lilies. Vincent chose the lilies.

"Isabella prefers a more subtle fragrance."

The third set was two vacation spots: the Maldives and Switzerland.

"Switzerland. Isabella needs fresh air for her recovery."

Every choice Vincent made was for Isabella.

I watched him on stage and thought about our two years together. He had never asked what I liked, never remembered my favorite food or where I dreamed of going.

"Last round!" the host said excitedly. "This one's a little special. It's photos of two beautiful women!"

Two pictures appeared on the screen.

On the left was Isabella. She was in a white dress, smiling faintly in a garden, looking as pure as an angel.

On the right was me. I was in a crimson evening gown from some forgotten party, my gaze fiery and defiant.

The room fell silent.

All eyes were on Vincent.

He stood on stage, staring at the screen, and for a few seconds, he said nothing.

Those few seconds stretched into an eternity.

I knew he would choose Isabella, but I still clung to a final, desperate sliver of hope that he would choose me.

Even if it was just for show. Even if it was out of pity.

"I choose..." Vincent's voice echoed through the microphone. "Isabella."

The crowd burst into loud applause and cheers.

I set my champagne glass down, turned, and rushed out of the room.

In the bathroom, I stared at my reflection in the mirror, taking deep, shuddering breaths, trying to calm the storm inside me.

I shouldn't have expected anything. Not from the very beginning.

I composed myself and walked out, ready to return to the party.

The hallway was dimly lit. As I rounded a corner, a few drunk men blocked my path.

"Hey, beautiful. All alone?" one of them slurred, stumbling closer. "Have a drink with us."

"Get out of my way," I said, my voice dangerously low.

"Don't be so cold," another one jeered, reaching for me. "We just want to get to know you..."

I backed away and saw Vincent standing in the doorway of our private room.

He was talking to a guest. I shot him a desperate, pleading look.

Vincent saw me. His face darkened, and he started to walk over.

Just then, a cry of pain came from inside the room. "Ouch! My foot..."

Vincent immediately spun around. He saw Isabella clutching a chair, her face pale.

"What's wrong?" he asked, rushing to her side.

"I think I twisted my ankle..." Isabella said, her eyes welling with tears.

Vincent immediately knelt to examine her ankle, completely forgetting about me in the hallway.

Isabella whispered something to him. Without even looking back in my direction, Vincent replied, "Don't worry about it. She can handle herself."

In that moment, my heart didn't just break. It shattered.

I grabbed a wine bottle from a nearby service table and smashed it against the wall.

Shards of glass flew everywhere. The sound startled the drunk men.

I held up the broken bottle, the jagged glass pointed at them. "Get lost!"

Seeing the feral fury in my eyes, they scrambled away.

The glass had cut my palm. Blood dripped onto the floor.

I looked at the wound, feeling the sting. What was this little bit of pain compared to the agony in my soul?

After the party, I stood alone outside the club, waiting for a car.

Isabella came out, with Vincent carefully helping her walk.

"Sophia," Isabella said, hobbling over to me. "I'm so sorry about what happened earlier. I twisted my ankle so suddenly, Vincent couldn't get to you. But it looks like you handled it well."

She glanced at my injured hand, a flash of triumph in her eyes.

"I did," I said with a cold smile. "I've always been good at handling my own problems."

"That's good," Isabella smiled sweetly. "To be honest, I was a little worried when Vincent brought you tonight. After all, you two used to..."

"Used to what?"

"You don't actually think Vincent has special feelings for you, do you?" Isabella leaned in, her voice a low, venomous whisper. "Sophia, dear, Vincent just pities you. You're homeless now, so he took you in out of charity. That's all."

"Is that so?"

"Of course," Isabella's eyes were sharp and malicious. "You saw the game tonight. Vincent only has room in his heart for me. It's been that way since high school. That will never change."

Just then, a black sedan lost control and sped straight toward us.

In a split second, Vincent lunged forward and threw his arms around Isabella, shielding her with his body.

And me? I was struck hard by the out-of-control car and thrown violently to the ground.