BELLA
Men, Mistakes & My Escape to Italy
If you had asked me at seventeen what my future would look like, I would've said something cute and inspiring, like:
"I'll be married to the love of my life, living in a cozy condo with two golden doodles and kids named—"
Yeah. No.
Absolutely not.
Reality smacked me so hard I created a brand-new life plan at twenty-seven—one that, in my opinion, deserves an award:
30s: Still working as a reporter because I actually love it.
50: Quit. Travel the world.
56: Adopt a kid. Preferably a quiet one.
Old age: Leave said quiet child all my inheritance—if they agree to bury me exactly how I want.
Why this plan?
Because of men.
Terrible, horrible, cheating, lying, wallet-draining, heartbreak-causing men.
I know, I know. I sound bitter.
That's because I am.
And it's not like I wasn't popular. Please. Since birth I've been cute enough to cause problems.
But men?
Men looked at me like a prize to win.
High school boyfriends? Cheaters.
College boyfriends? SUPER cheaters.
Adult boyfriends? Cheated like it was an Olympic sport.
But my fiancé—Liam—was the grand finale.
The fireworks.
As a reporter, I'm trained to spot disasters before they happen.
But even I missed the biggest headline of my life.
"Local Woman Discovers Fiancé Is Trash—More at 11."
Looking back now, all the warning signs were there.
But on that night?
I was too busy smiling, sipping champagne, and pretending everything was perfect.
Alright, hit rewind.
Two years back.
My engagement party—otherwise known as the world's sparkliest crime scene.
Saturday night.
Champagne fountains.
A three-tier lemon cake.
And the biggest mistake of my life smiling at me like a golden retriever in a tux.
Liam was perfect.
Annoyingly perfect.
Three years together and he had never:
cheated
smoked
drank
jaywalked
or left the toilet seat up
Sure, he was jobless after graduating last two years and still searching for work,
but he was optimistic, hardworking, and had enough passion.
Basically a Disney prince—minus the tragic haircut.
And me?
I was stupidly in love.
Pinning wedding dresses on Pinterest.
Practicing my new last name in mirrors.
Gross, I know.
Everyone adored us.
Everyone except Tracy.
Ah, Tracy. His stepsister.
She cut her two-month Dubai vacation short the moment she heard we were throwing our engagement party.
Which shocked me, because the girl treated vacation time like oxygen.
The second she walked through my door, I smelled trouble.
Perfumed trouble with expensive lip gloss.
I had tried being nice—gifts, compliments, polite smiles—but Tracy hated me with the burning fury of a thousand shattered iPhone screens.
More than once I'd overheard her whispering to Liam:
"I don't like her. She thinks she's all that."
"Bella the leech."
"Beauty without brains."
Girl, please. She couldn't lace my shoes even if I held them open for her.
Liam said she was jealous.
Right.
Because their very close, totally-healthy, absolutely-not-weird relationship couldn't handle me existing in the same room.
Still, I ignored her… or tried to.
But that night?
She was on a mission to ruin my life.
She glued herself to Liam like a cheap sticker.
A stranger walking in would've thought she was the one getting engaged.
And Liam, the idiot, played along.
She was practically flirting with her own stepbrother, and he was indulging her.
I became the third wheel—
in my own engagement.
Even my best friend Tori was horrified.
"What the fuck, Bella? Who is that bitch and why is she all over your man? People are starting to gossip."
And what did I do?
I plastered on the fakest smile of my life.
"Don't pay attention to her. She's his stepsister. That's just… how she is."
Tori didn't buy it.
Neither did the guests who were staring at me like I needed charity.
That was it.
I marched toward them.
Tracy was whispering something in Liam's ear when I arrived and said, "Excuse us."
She refused.
REFUSED.
She didn't move until Liam gently asked her to.
I was two seconds from smacking her into next week.
"What the hell is going on, Liam?" I snapped.
"She's all over you. People think you brought your lover to our engagement party."
Liam chuckled—because of course he did.
"Come on, Bella. You know how Tracy is. She's just fond of me. Please be kind today, okay?"
And stupid me—his puppy-eyes melted my brain.
After the party, everyone finally left, including Tracy (thank God).
I changed into pajamas, ready to collapse into bed.
Then my phone rang.
Breaking news.
Reporter duty.
Liam kissed my forehead and told me to be careful.
Sweet. Supportive.
A perfect man.
Or so I thought.
Halfway to the agency, I realized I'd forgotten a document and turned back.
I knew something was wrong the second I opened the door.
A woman's laugh—high, breathy, familiar—floated down the hallway like poison.
My stomach tightened.
Tracy's laugh.
No.
No, she left hours ago.
She left.
I took one step inside.
Then another.
And that's when I heard it.
Moaning.
His moaning.
Her moaning.
I went still. Completely weightless.
Like my body understood before my mind did.
I walked closer—because love makes you stupid—and heard Tracy's voice.
"Why do you have to marry her?" she whined.
"I can't stand that perfect little princess."
And Liam…
God.
His voice felt like a knife.
"I'm only marrying her for her money. Her parents are dead—once I'm in, it's all mine. How else am I supposed to pay for your vacations?"
Something inside me shattered so loudly I swear the walls heard it.
"Promise me you won't fall for her," she said.
He laughed.
Laughed.
"I could never love her. She's boring. Not freaky like you."
Then they started kissing like starving animals and—
Yeah.
You can guess the rest.
I pushed the bedroom door open.
Liam was on top of her, both of them tangled in my sheets—my sheets—Tracy's nails digging into his back like she owned him.
And then Liam looked up.
And the color drained from his face.
"Bella—"
The sound of my name snapped something in me.
I didn't yell.
I didn't cry.
I didn't even speak.
I walked forward and ripped the lamp off the nightstand, smashing it against the floor so hard the bulb exploded like a gunshot.
They screamed.
Good.
"Are you—are you insane?!" Tracy squealed, grabbing the blanket to cover herself.
I smiled.
A slow, terrifying smile I didn't know I was capable of.
"Get. Out. Of. My. Bed."
Tracy scrambled up, tripping over the sheets and nearly face-planting.
She grabbed her heels with shaking hands.
Liam stood, fumbling for his pants.
"Baby—please—just let me explain—"
I slapped him so hard his head whipped to the side.
He staggered.
"Explain?" I hissed. "Explain how you used my house, my money, my love—so you could screw your stepsister in the same room where you proposed to me?"
He tried to touch me again.
I punched him.
Full force.
Knuckles cracking against his mouth, his teeth cutting my skin.
He fell to his knees, spitting blood.
Tracy screamed again, backing toward the wall like I was a demon crawling out of the floorboards.
"I loved you," I spat. "I defended you. I fed you. I paid your bills. And this is what you do?"
He held up his hands.
"Bella—stop— we can fix this—"
That made me laugh, sharp and wild.
I grabbed the drawer beside me and dumped its contents—everything I had ever bought him—onto the floor.
"Take your trash," I said. "And give me mine."
"What?" he blinked.
"My keys. My credit card. My watch. My necklace. Every gift I ever gave you."
Tracy tugged on his arm.
"Let's go, Liam. Just grab your stuff and go!"
He looked up at me—pathetic, bleeding—still somehow expecting forgiveness.
"You're overreacting…"
"Get. Out."
Tracy yanked him by the wrist, dragging him toward the door while he gathered clothes in his arms.
They stumbled into the hall—her hair a mess, him half-dressed, both terrified.
Just before the door shut behind them, Liam looked back.
"Bella, please—"
I picked up the broken lamp base and hurled it at the door.
It smashed into splinters inches from his head.
He bolted.
Tracy shrieked and sprinted barefoot across the driveway, heels clutched under her arm.
I stood in the doorway, breathing hard, staring at the empty space they left behind.
And from that day on?
Men = No thanks.
Hard pass.
Delete, block, burn.
I've stayed single ever since.
My peace is expensive, and men can't afford it.
Except… occasionally… holidays can get a little lonely.
So when Grandma invited me to spend Christmas with her in Italy?
I said yes.
Because being alone during Christmas is psychological warfare.
Arriving at the Villa
"Bella! Mia bella ragazza!"
Grandma flung her arms around me the moment I stepped into her enormous villa.
She smelled like expensive perfume and cookies.
A deadly combination.
"You've gotten skinny!" she gasped.
"Yes," I sighed.
"Turns out heartbreak melts fat. Crazy, right?"
She dragged me inside, fussing over me like she was fluffing a forgotten houseplant.
She showed me to my room — soft bed, giant windows, a bathroom that looked like a spa for billionaires.
I took a warm bath, ate lunch, inhaled dessert, and then—
Grandma clasped her hands excitedly.
"Come, Bella! I give you a tour!"
And this…
This is where the trouble begins.
Grandma gives me the grand tour—hallways full of expensive paintings, weird statues, and random artifacts that look cursed. Naturally, I touch everything.
Then we reached a hallway I hadn't noticed before. It was darker, quieter, and cold.
At the very end of it was the door.
Big. Wooden. Dramatic. The kind of door that screams, I contain secrets and maybe a demon, enter if you dare.
Naturally, my journalist brain perked up like a bloodhound smelling scandal.
"What's in there?" I asked casually.
Casual on the outside. Internally: FBI mode activated.
Grandma kept walking. "Nothing you need to worry about."
That was suspicious. And suspicious things are my love language.
"Sooo… a wine cellar?" I tried.
"It's a storage room, Bella."
Right.
Sure.
And I'm the Pope.
I stepped toward it, hand reaching for the brass handle on instinct.
Grandma snapped around so fast it could've broken the sound barrier.
"DON'T open that."
My hand froze midair.
"…Okay," I said. "But just so you know, telling a reporter not to open a door is basically like handing a child a giant red button and saying 'Don't press it.'"
"It's nothing important," she insisted, shooing me away like the door was radioactive.
Which only made me more curious.
We continued walking, but my head stayed locked on that door.
We reached the end of the tour and Grandma turned to me.
"Bella, my dear," she said sweetly. "Please promise me something."
"Hmm?"
"Stay away from that door."
I blinked.
"Grandma… you're making it sound like there's a serial killer inside."
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.
"There's no serial killer," she said smoothly. "Just—private matters."
Private matters.
That was worse.
Private matters meant secrets.
Secrets meant trouble.
And trouble meant… Bella will absolutely get involved.
I forced a smile anyway. "Okay, Grandma. I promise."
She nodded approvingly and walked ahead.
The moment she turned the corner, I whispered:
"I'm totally opening that door later."
At exactly 11:55 p.m, when the entire villa was so quiet I could hear my guilt echoing, I slipped out of bed.
Grandma was definitely asleep — I checked twice. Once by listening at her door, and once by waiting until her louder-than-life snoring started shaking the hallway like a tractor engine.
Perfect.
Operation: Break Into Forbidden Room begins.
I tiptoe down the hall like a budget spy, reach the mysterious door, and try the handle.
Locked.
Of course.
But lucky for me, three years of sneaking into crime scenes without permission gave me skills — not useful life skills, but lock-picking skills.
I pull a bobby pin out of my hair, bend it, wiggle it around…
CLICK.
"I am unstoppable," I whisper proudly and push the door open.
Except—
There's nothing inside.
Nothing.
Just…
A giant mirror standing against the wall.
I blink. "Seriously? Grandma hid a mirror?
I walk toward it. The mirror looks ancient. Its frame is heavy and oversized, almost as tall as I am, coated in dull gold that has lost its shine under a thin layer of dust.
I study my reflection.
Nothing moves. Nothing feels wrong.
I'm about to turn around and leave when the glass suddenly glows.
Like… actually glows.
I freeze. "Nope. No. Absolutely not."
Words begin to form on the surface, glowing in silver light:
"Please don't touch."
"Yeah, that's not happening."
Because if you tell me NOT to do something, I'm doing it immediately.
So I reach out and touch it.
The world sucks me in.
Like a vacuum. I scream as I'm dragged through the glass, spinning, falling, tumbling—
THEN—
SPLASH.
I slam into the steamy, swirling water.
I choke, flail, fight my way up, and burst to the surface, gasping.
When I push my hair out of my eyes, I see him.
A very real, very muscular, very shirtless man staring at me in shock.