Substitute Bride: Trapped Her In His World

"Get the doctor in here to check her. Now. I won't risk catching some disease from her."

Benedict Arrabal's words still echoed in Isabella Murano's head as she stared, eyes swimming with tears, out the top-floor window at the grounds of the Arrabal mansion.

Her stomach was a tight knot of dread-not from hunger, but from the cold, dismissive way he'd spoken about her, as if she were a piece of merchandise being checked for an expiration date. What kind of woman did he think she was? One of the prostitutes who warmed his bed?

The door swung open, and Isabella flinched, her heart hammering against her ribs, her nerves already in shreds. Two women and two men entered the room. One of them was him-her husband, Benedict.

Though they had never met, she had seen his photograph once in a business magazine, and she had certainly heard the stories.

They hadn't met at the courthouse, either. Isabella had been left utterly alone in a sterile room for hours, until a clerk finally appeared with the document she was required to sign. Once her signature was on the paper, she was left alone again. She had just started to think they'd forgotten about her when two grim-faced men arrived to bring her here.

Isabella didn't dare lift her gaze from the floor. It was obvious that Benedict did not tolerate disobedience. The authority rolling off him was a palpable force, so powerful it stole the air from her lungs.

"Lie down, ma'am. The doctor is here to examine you."

The order came from the other man, Benedict's right hand. Isabella recognized him instantly. He was the one who had brokered the marriage deal with her uncle three months ago-the marriage that was supposed to be for Alessia.

Her fingers tightened on the white fabric of her dress. It had belonged to her grandmother. They had given it to her to wear today.

Trembling, she walked to the bed and sat on the edge.

Benedict shoved her down onto the mattress and yanked her dress up, baring her for everyone to see. A choked gasp of shame escaped her lips.

Through her half-shut eyes, Isabella could see the cruel smirk spreading across his face. He was humiliating her. And he was enjoying it. A cold dread washed over her. Her life here would be no better than it had been in her uncle's house.

"Ashamed to have us see you like this?" he mocked. "Don't tell me Ricardo Murano's only daughter is still a virgin."

Isabella clutched the sheets as if they were her only lifeline.

Her uncle's warnings echoed in her head. "Endure it. It's your duty."

The family's well-being, their honor-it all depended on her now. She couldn't fail.

The doctor positioned herself beside the bed and forced Isabella's legs apart. Isabella let out a low whimper as a sharp itch flared deep inside her. For a few minutes, the doctor examined her, jotted something on a clipboard, and then straightened up.

"As I suspected, Mr. Arrabal, she is not a virgin. I'll be taking samples to the lab for a full panel. It's highly likely she has a sexually transmitted infection. Once we have the results, we can begin treatment. I'll also schedule a full physical at the clinic. Best to be thorough and rule everything out. We don't want any future complications."

A sexually transmitted infection?

Isabella stared, stunned by the casual cruelty in the woman's voice. How dare she say such things in front of everyone? She didn't even know her.

Isabella scrambled to pull a blanket up to her chin.

Benedict gave a curt nod, dismissing them all with a flick of his wrist. She remained on the bed, clutching the blanket like a shield. The sound of her quiet sobs seemed to grate on him.

"I'm curious," he began, his voice dangerously soft as he moved to the edge of the bed. "What are you crying about?"

He brushed a few strands of hair from her damp forehead, his touch anything but gentle.

"Is it because I've discovered you're not the pure bride you're pretending to be? Or is it because you're terrified I'll find out you're nothing but a vile impostor?"

Terror stole her breath. Isabella's mouth fell open. She gasped, but no words came out. Nothing she could say to save herself.

"I..."

"Should I call you Isabella? Or Alessia?" Benedict interrupted, a single brow arched in mock confusion.

He opened a nightstand drawer and pulled out a folder.

The folder contained her entire life. Her real life. It went all the way back to when she was three, when her mother was still alive. The father she never knew-the man who'd abandoned her mother the moment he learned she was pregnant. The last she'd heard, he had married some woman from his own social circle and moved abroad.

When cancer took her mother, Isabella was only ten. A judge had ruled she was to live with her uncle-her mother's brother-and his family.

From that day forward, her life had been a living hell. She became their servant, surviving on scraps and leftovers, enduring their cruelty just to have a roof over her head.

The memories were a fresh wave of pain, and new tears streamed down her face.

Benedict started reading fragments from the pages, his voice laced with contempt. With each one, he ripped the sheet from the folder. He crumpled each page into a tight ball and threw it in her face.

She sat frozen, each crumpled paper hitting her like a stone, each word a fresh stab to the heart.

"What do you have to say for yourself, now that I know exactly who you are? Liar! Impostor! Are you that greedy? Did you really think you could take a place that wasn't yours and enjoy the Arrabal fortune? Or is this the Murano family's little scheme? Trying to defraud me by sending the wrong girl?"