Isabella POV As I opened my eyes, the first thing I felt was the white ceiling.
A long fluorescent light stretched across the middle of it.
I blinked.
Nothing changed.
The light did not change or the ceiling.
Slowly, I became aware of the rest of the room.
The white walls.
A small window high above me.
It was the kind of window that let sunlight come in but made sure nobody could get out.
I tried to sit up.
I couldn’t.
I looked down.
Something stopped me.
I looked down.
I saw myself lying on a narrow bed with metal rails on both sides.
A thick fabric strap crossed my chest, another across my hips, both fastened to the bed rails with buckles I could not reach from where my arms were tied.
My wrists had their own restraints softer, padded at the edges, but completely immovable when I pulled against them.
I pulled anyway.
No movement.
“Hello!!” My voice came out rough and weak, like I had not spoken for a long time.
My throat burned.
My mouth tasted of chemicals and something sweet underneath them, the ghost of jasmine tea turned into something horrible in my memory.
“Hello, is anyone…” The door opened.
A woman in a blue uniform walked in carrying a clipboard.
She moved calmly, like she had done this many times before.
Behind her came an older man wearing a white coat.
He wore glasses low on his nose.
His face looked tired, like he had spent years telling people things they did not want to hear.
He stopped at the foot of my bed and looked at me carefully.
“Miss Hart.” His voice was careful.
“You’re awake, I’m glad.
How are you feeling?” “Let me out of these.” I pulled against the wrist restraints again, the metal rail rattling against the frame.
“Take these off.
Right now.” “I understand you’re confused,” he said, not moving.
“I am not confused.” Panic rose inside me, but I forced it down.
I knew one thing for certain.
If I panicked, they would use it against me.
“I know exactly what happened,” I said.
My stepsister drugged me.
She put something in my tea and…” “Miss Hart.” He moved around to the side of the bed, and picked up the clipboard from the nurse, flipping through pages I could not see from my angle.
“You were brought in yesterday following a psychological episode.
You were found unresponsive on the floor of your home by your stepsister and your fiancé.
Do you remember any of that?” “He is not my fiancé.” The correction came out sharp and fast.
“We broke off the engagement.
He cheated on me and I ended it.
And Vanessa is not…” “You’ve been under a lot of emotional stress,” he interrupted gently.
“A broken engagement.
Emotional trauma.
Our records indicate a pattern of concerning behavior over the past six months, including episodes of erratic…” “Those records are false.” I heard my own voice rise and made myself lower it again.
My hands were shaking against the restraints.
“Whatever documents you have been given, they are fabricated.
Matteo Edoardo paid someone to create them.
I’ve never been treated for any mental illness in my life.
I have never been treated for any psychological condition in my life.
You can verify that.
Call our family doctor.
Call Dr.
Donata, He has been my physician since I was born.
She will tell you..” “We have already been in contact with several medical professionals,” he said, and made a small note on the clipboard that I could not read upside down.
“Not my doctor,” I said.
“My actual doctor, Dr.
Donata.
Call him directly.
He has my real records.” He looked at me over his glasses.
The nurse beside him had not moved, had not changed expression, or not done anything except stand slightly behind him with her hands folded at her behind her back.
“Miss Hart,” he said carefully, “believing that people around you have created a conspiracy against you and falsified records is very consistent with the condition you experienced yesterday.” For a moment, I could not speak.
The words sank into me one by one.
“You aren’t listening to me,” I finally said.
“I am listening.” “No.” I pulled against the strap across my chest and felt it hold me down.
Tears burned behind my eyes, but I refused to let them fall.
“You are turning everything I say into proof that I’m sick.
That is not the same thing.” He made another note.
I wanted to scream.
Instead, I closed my eyes and took a slow breath .
Then another.
When I spoke again, my voice was steady.
“I want to make a phone call.” “I want to call my grandmother.” He looked up.
“Visitation and communication privileges are introduced gradually during the stabilization.” My chest tightened.
“She doesn’t know where I am.” My voice broke despite my effort to control it.”She will be looking for me right now.
She will be frightened.
I need to tell her I am here, please, that is all I am asking.” “Your family has been contacted,” he said, closing the clipboard.
I was confused.
“My grandmother,” I said.
“Eleanor Hart.
She has been contacted?” “Yes.” I exhaled slowly, relief and confusion arriving at the same moment, tangled together.
“So she knows I am here.
She knows this is wrong.
She is already coming?” “Miss Hart,” he said carefully, “your grandmother was informed last night.
She was also provided with the full clinical assessment and the recommendation for treatment.” I stared at him.
“She did not object.” “That is a lie,” I said immediately.
“Mrs.
Hart signed the…” “That is a lie.” Louder now, my voice breaking apart.
“My grandma would never.
She would never leave me here, she would never agree to this, she would be fighting, she would be calling every lawyer in the city, you do not know my grandmother…” “She was very distressed,” he said carefully.
“Understandably.
But after reviewing the documentation and speaking with Mr.
Edoardo.
she agreed that this treatment was necessary.” The room suddenly felt smaller.
Not the way it had shrunk yesterday under the drug.
This was different.
It was real, as everything I had trusted to hold turned to something I could no longer grip.
“No,” I said.
The word came out as a whisper.
“Your grandmother approved your treatment, Miss Hart.” He placed the clipboard on the table beside my bed.
“She wants you to get better.” I looked at the ceiling again.
The fluorescent light still there.
“She would not,” I said, to no one, but to myself, to the only part of me still holding onto what I knew was true.
“She would not do this.
She would not.” But the door was already closing behind him.
The nurse followed without looking back.
The door closed.
Then I heard the lock click.
It was such a small sound.
But somehow, it filled the entire room.
I lay there, tied to a bed in a white room behind a locked door, trying to hold onto the things I knew were real.It did.
I lay there, strapped to a bed in a white room behind a locked door, and tried to hold onto the things I knew were real.
My name, grandmother and the cup of tea.
“She would not.” I kept saying it.
“She would not.” But his voice kept arriving underneath it, steady and clinical and completely certain.
“Your grandmother approved your treatment.” And for the first time since I opened my eyes in that room, I felt a fear greater than the restraints.
Greater than the locked door.
Matteo.
It was the fear of something I couldn’t fight.
It was the fear of something I could not name at all.
The fear that I was completely alone.