Chapter 3 Fashion Crisis

ISABELLA

“Isabella Fisher!”

I heard my name—half from a dream, half from reality. I groaned and rolled over, hugging my pillow tighter. Maybe I was imagining it.

“Isabella Fisher Monroe!”

Ugh. She had used my full name. That was definitely not a dream. I sighed dramatically and peeled my eyes open. The red digits on my alarm clock blinked 6:07 a.m. What in the world could be wrong this early?

“Bella!” She screamed again, and I knew if I didn’t get up, her voice would probably crack the house walls.

Dragging myself out of bed, I shuffled toward her room like a zombie. The sight that greeted me nearly made me turn around and go back to sleep. Clothes were scattered everywhere—on the bed, on the chair, even hanging from the lamp. My mom, Jane Fisher Monroe, stood in the middle of it all looking like she’d been through a storm.

“What happened, Mom?” I asked, glancing between the wardrobe and the explosion of fabrics on her bed.

“There’s a little crisis, Bella,” she said, her tone dead serious.

I blinked. “Crisis?”

“Yes, Bells. I can’t find what to wear.”

I stared at her, then at the clock again. “It’s six in the morning. Why are you even getting dressed now?”

She turned to me, hands on her hips, giving me that disappointed-mother look that could melt steel. “Did you forget about the date?”

Oh, right. The torture day. My stomach sank.

“Mom, the date isn’t until evening,” I said.

“I have to be prepared!” she replied, throwing a silk dress onto the bed like it had offended her. Her hair was messy, her eyes were puffy, and she looked like she hadn’t slept all night.

“How is it possible you don’t have anything to wear?” I asked. “You literally shop every weekend.”

“I don’t have anything that gives Italian energy,” she said dramatically.

I snorted. “You don’t have to wear anything screaming Italian energy, Mom. Just be yourself.”

But she wasn’t joking. Her face was serious—too serious. “I don’t want to mess up this time, Bella.”

“Oh, Mom.” I sighed, walking up to hug her. “You won’t mess up, I promise.”

It was a lie, and we both knew it.

“Could you please call Tasha?” she asked suddenly. “I need her.”

“Wow, not me?” I teased.

“This isn’t a science project, Bells. Call Tasha.”

“It’s too early, Mom.”

“Then call her later. I need help picking the perfect outfit.”

Knowing Tasha, my best friend, she’d come running even if it were midnight. And true to my prediction, a few hours later, she showed up with a venti iced coffee and her usual chaotic energy. Before I could protest, the two of them were out the door for what they called emergency fashion therapy.

They tried dragging me along, but for once, I won that battle.

When they finally returned, I heard Tasha’s loud voice from downstairs. “We’re back!”

I trudged down to see them surrounded by shopping bags—way too many shopping bags.

“Why did it take you guys so long? It’s almost evening,” I said, crossing my arms. “And why do you have enough bags to fill a mall?”

“Chill, Bells. You’re not my mom,” Tasha said, rolling her eyes dramatically.

“Tell her, Tasha,” Mom chimed in with a smug smile.

Tasha raised a brow. “Fine. So, we took time because your mom had, like, a major fashion crisis. And the bags—well, Giovanni paid for them. Oh, and we got some for youuu!” She sang, shaking a sparkly dress bag in my face.

“Giovanni?” I repeated, frowning.

“Yeah. We met him at the store.” She smirked. “You need to see his son, Bella. He’s so hot.”

“I don’t care,” I muttered.

“I know,” she replied, smirking wider.

I sighed. My little crew—Mom and Tasha—was exhausting. They lived for drama, and I wanted none of it.

“Go shower, babe,” Tasha said, dragging me toward the bathroom. “We need to get started on your makeover.”

Makeover? For a date that wasn’t even mine?

A few hours later, my face was fully “baked,” as Tasha liked to call it. My lashes looked fake, my cheeks glowed like I’d swallowed a ring light, and I was stuffed into a red one-shoulder dress that hugged every inch of my body.

“I look ridiculous,” I muttered at my reflection.

“No, Bells. You look gorgeous!” Tasha said, fluffing my curls. “You could totally pass for a model.”

“Yeah, a very uncomfortable one,” I mumbled.

Just then, Mom burst into my room, beaming. “The chauffeur’s here!”

“The chauffeur?” I echoed.

“Giovanni sent him!” she said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

Minutes later, we were seated in the back of a sleek black Maserati. The interior smelled of new leather and money. My mom was practically glowing beside me, and I… was nervous.

It wasn’t even my date, so why did my heart feel weirdly heavy? Maybe it was because I’d never been on one myself. Dates felt like a waste of time—just another way to get disappointed.

Still, I couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling twisting in my stomach.

The ride ended outside a fancy Italian restaurant with glass doors and golden lighting. It looked like the kind of place where even the water would cost a fortune.

Inside, everything was quiet. Too quiet.

Our table was already set, surrounded by flickering candles and rose petals. Not a single other soul was there.

“He booked the whole place for us!” Mom whispered excitedly, her smile wide.

That didn’t make me feel any better. If anything, it made me suspicious.

Then he appeared.

“Sweetheart,” Giovanni said, walking toward us. He looked younger than I expected; sharp jaw, dark hair slicked back, the kind of man who definitely knew he was handsome. “You look fantastic.”

He kissed her cheeks, left and right, and turned to me.

“And you must be Isabella.”

I froze. His gaze was too intense, too knowing. Something about him made the hairs on my neck rise.

“Uh, yeah. Hi,” I said awkwardly.

He smiled faintly.

I forced a smile, but my mind was spinning. I mumbled an excuse and hurried toward the restroom.

As I passed Giovanni, my eyes caught a mark on his neck—a symbol, it was faint but familiar. My breath hitched. I’d seen that mark before… In nightmares I could never fully remember.

My chest tightened, vision blurring as I pushed open the restroom door.

Except, it wasn’t the ladies’ room.

The air was heavy with the scent of dark cologne. My pulse thundered as I realized where I was.

Then a deep, velvety voice spoke from behind me.

“Bella mia.”