The Switched Bride's Rebirth: Rising as the Don's Vengeful Queen

Isabella Harrison POV

Dawn broke, casting long, gray shadows across the gilded cage of my bridal suite. I had barely managed to unlace the suffocating bodice of my gown and slip into a silk robe when the heavy oak door shuddered violently.

It burst open. Two hulking soldiers dragged a man inside and threw him onto the Persian rug.

Kyle Gallo. He reeked of cheap perfume, stale whiskey, and bad decisions.

A trusted Gallo Capo stepped into the doorway, his face carved from stone. He gave me a curt nod, his eyes devoid of any pity. "The Don expects proof of this union. You are not to leave this room until it is done."

The door slammed shut. The heavy deadbolt slid into place with a final, metallic clack.

Kyle scrambled to his feet, his face flushed with drunken rage, and delivered a vicious kick to the solid wood. Panting, he turned his hostile glare on me.

I ignored his tantrum, turning my back to him as I walked toward the massive four-poster bed. I needed to sit, to calculate my next move. Kyle bristled, misreading my movement entirely. He puffed out his chest like a cornered animal.

"Don't get any ideas, princess," he spat, his voice thick with alcohol and misplaced pride. "This marriage is a sham. I made a promise to Gwen, and unlike my father, I keep my promises. I will never touch you."

I slowly turned to face him. He thought his rejection was a weapon, completely unaware that it was my salvation. I had no intention of letting a Gallo heir grow in my womb, nor did I plan to stay bound to this family forever. But the Don's command was absolute; we needed a bloodied sheet to survive the morning.

Without a word, I reached beneath the lace-trimmed pillows and withdrew the silver-hilted stiletto I had hidden there.

Kyle's eyes widened. He stumbled backward, his hands raising instinctively to defend himself.

"You want to get back to your mistress," I said, my voice a flat, icy calm. "I have no desire to be touched by you. But your father, the Don, needs his proof."

I stepped toward the bed, holding the blade up so it caught the pale morning light. "Give me your hand."

He stared in stunned silence as I pressed the sharp edge to my own index finger. A sharp sting, and a bead of crimson welled up. I pressed it firmly against the pristine white silk of the mattress, smearing it to create a convincing stain.

Kyle stared at the blood, then at the blade in my hand, his masculine pride bruised by his own flinching.

"What the hell is that for?" he demanded, a defensive sneer twisting his lips. "Were you planning on shanking me in my sleep?"

I calmly wiped the blade clean on a handkerchief and slid it back under the pillow. "It's for opening letters," I replied smoothly. "Or for discouraging unwanted advances. It seems it has served its purpose."

A tense silence settled over the room as we waited for the Capo to return and inspect our work. I moved to the ornate vanity, sitting before the mirror to brush out my tangled hair.

In the reflection, I watched Kyle pace the length of the sitting area. Suddenly, his pacing stopped. His gaze snagged on me. In the soft, unfiltered morning light, stripped of the heavy veil and the Harrison matriarch's armor, he stared. The raw, undeniable hunger in his eyes violently clashed with the arrogant vow he had just made to his mistress.

I let the brush rest against the mahogany table and slowly turned my head, catching his gaze directly in the glass. A cold, mocking smirk touched my lips.

Caught, Kyle's face burned a dark, furious red. He violently tore his eyes away and lunged for the silver carafe of coffee a servant had left on the side table. He poured a cup with shaking hands and took a massive gulp.

The liquid was scalding. He winced, his jaw clenching in pain, but forced himself to swallow it down. To mask his utter humiliation, he slammed the porcelain cup down onto the saucer with a sharp, rattling crash.

He was a boy playing at being a man, entirely ruled by his impulses. I turned back to the mirror, my expression smoothing into a mask of perfect, untouchable composure. The proof was on the bed. Now, we just had to face the vultures waiting for us at the breakfast table.