Chapter 3: Two Can Play at this Game
Isabella’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel as she turned onto their street, the Corolla’s engine whining in protest. Sofia’s shriek pierced the air, her manicured nail jabbing toward Isabella's small house like she’d spotted a celebrity. "Oh my god, Mom! Is that…?"
The moving van was impossible to miss—gleaming white, emblazoned with gold lettering that screamed luxury relocation services. Parked beside it, a catering truck’s side panel boasted artisanal meals, locally sourced ingredients in pretentious cursive.
Marco leaned forward between the seats, his breath hot on Isabella’s neck. "What the actual hell?" His voice dropped to a growl as he spotted the news van. "And is that… Channel 4?"
The Channel 4 logo glared back at them, the satellite dish atop the van catching the last streaks of sunset. A reporter—Brenda Somebody, perky and polished—stood on the sidewalk, microphone in hand, gesturing toward Isabella's cottage like it was the scene of a miracle.
Isabella’s pulse hammered in her throat as she pulled over. "Donna," she muttered, equal parts impressed and furious. "That bitch is playing chess while we’re playing checkers."
Tony was already unbuckling, his laptop snapping open before his feet hit the pavement. "Okay, damage control," he said, fingers flying across the keyboard. "We look surprised, grateful, and definitely not like we orchestrated this." His tweet draft read: Overwhelmed by Donna Hayes’ generosity. Family comes first.
Sofia fluffed her hair in the rearview mirror, practicing her grateful orphan face. Marco cracked his knuckles, muttering, "This is so damn weird."
Brenda the Reporter descended on them like a vulture spotting fresh roadkill. Rossi!" Her microphone thrust toward Isabella’s face. "Can you comment on this incredible act of generosity from your ex-husband’s widow?"
Isabella’s smile stretched wide, her voice dripping with honey. "We’re just overwhelmed, Brenda. We expected to move everything ourselves, but Donna’s kindness…" She trailed off, blinking rapidly like she might cry.
Sofia swooped in, dabbing nonexistent tears with a crumpled tissue. "This means everything," she sniffled. "I can finally get my cheer trophies back!"
Marco grunted, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Yeah. Cool. My weights."
Tony, meanwhile, hit post on his tweet, then angled his phone to capture Brenda’s reaction.
A woman in a crisp black apron emerged from the catering truck, clipboard in hand. "Ms. Rossi? Sarah from Gourmet to Go." She gestured to the truck like it held the keys to the kingdom. "We’ve got a week’s worth of meals—gluten-free, dairy-free, keto, whatever you need. Where should we stock up?"
Isabella’s stomach growled on cue. A week of not cooking? She almost hugged the woman. "Uh, fridge and pantry. We’ll… figure it out."
Then she saw her.
Donna stood near the moving van, a statue in a tailored pantsuit, her blonde bun so tight it looked painful. She watched them with the detached amusement of a cat observing mice.
Their eyes locked. Donna’s lips barely moved as she murmured, "Enjoy your spoils, Isabella." Her voice was ice. "But don’t think this changes anything."
With that, she turned, heels clicking against the pavement, and slid into a waiting limo.
The door shut with a thud that echoed in Isabella’s chest.
Sofia was now giving Brenda a tearful interview about family bonds. Marco argued with a mover about where to put his dumbbells. Tony was live-tweeting the catering spread like a food critic.
Isabella stared at the limo’s tinted windows as it pulled away.
They had their things. They had food.
But Donna's message was clear. This wasn't over.
Not by a long shot.
The moving van's hydraulic doors hissed open like a dragon exhaling, revealing a chaotic treasure trove of their former lives. Sofia let out a shriek that probably cracked windows three blocks over. "My trophies!" She lunged for a box marked in her loopy handwriting, nearly taking out a mover in the process.
Tony immediately started directing traffic like a seasoned air traffic controller. "Computer equipment goes in the dry corner—yes, that one! No, not near the window, are you trying to kill my babies?" His fingers twitched like he wanted to snatch the boxes away from the movers entirely.
Marco stood arms crossed, biceps straining his t-shirt sleeves as he eyeballed the weight bench being unloaded. "That better not scratch the floors," Isabella warned, but he just smirked. "Relax, Ma. I'll put down towels or whatever." His tone said he absolutely would not.
The scent of garlic and herbs hit them before they even saw the catering spread. Sarah from Gourmet to Go was already transforming Isabella's sad little kitchen into something out of a food magazine. Tony's eyes bugged out at the array of artisanal goods. "Holy shit," he breathed, picking up a jar of something fancy. "Is this actual saffron? Do you know how much this costs?"
Isabella's stomach growled loudly as she took in the spread—organic produce, imported cheeses, cuts of meat that probably had names like "Wagyu" and "Kobe." "Guess we're not eating ramen tonight," she muttered, half in awe, half in suspicion.
The Channel 4 crew packed up with the efficiency of people who'd gotten what they came for. Brenda gave them one last saccharine smile. "Such a heartwarming story," she cooed into her microphone before the van doors slammed shut behind her.
Sofia immediately started bouncing like a hyperactive puppy. "Feast time! Who wants duck confit?" She pronounced it "duck con-fee" until Marco snorted and corrected her. "Whatever, Mr. Fancy Pants," she shot back, sticking out her tongue.
The dining table groaned under the weight of dishes that probably cost more than Isabella's weekly grocery budget. Marco attacked the food like he hadn't eaten in weeks, which—given their recent ramen diet—wasn't far from the truth. "This is actually fire," he admitted around a mouthful of roasted duck.
Tony was busy Instagramming every plate with the focus of a museum curator. "Hashtag blessed," he deadpanned, snapping a pic of the scallops. Sofia photobombed with a ridiculous duck face, nearly knocking over a glass of sparkling cider.
Laughter filled the cramped space in a way it hadn't in years. Marco told a story about setting his dorm microwave on fire trying to make Easy Mac, complete with dramatic reenactments. "Smoke alarm went off, RA came running—total shitshow."
Tony countered with his own disaster tale about a coding project gone wrong. "Lost three days of work because I forgot to save. Three. Days." He shuddered at the memory while Sofia fake-sobbed into her napkin.
Isabella watched the chaos unfold with a strange mix of warmth and unease in her chest. This—the noise, the mess, the life—was what had been missing. But at what cost?
"So, sleeping arrangements," she announced when the plates were cleared. "Sofia gets the guest room obviously—"
"Obviously," Sofia preened, already mentally redecorating.
Isabella hesitated, eyeing Marco's massive frame. "Marco, I'm not sure where to put you—"
"Attic," he said immediately, grinning at her horrified expression. "What? It's got character."
"It's got ghosts and probably asbestos," Tony shot back.
Marco just shrugged. "More room for my weights. And ghosts make great workout partners."
The attic exploration turned into an impromptu adventure. Marco swung the pull-down ladder like Tarzan, disappearing into the dusty above. "Dibs on the creepy trunk in the corner!" His voice echoed down, followed by a sneezing fit.
Tony meanwhile had already claimed the basement despite Isabella's protests about mold. "It's perfect," he insisted, already dragging his computer setup downstairs. "No sunlight glare on my monitors. And the spiders keep to themselves if you don't bother them."
Sofia's room transformation happened at lightning speed. Posters went up, throw pillows appeared as if by magic, and her cheer trophies took pride of place on every available surface. "Marco! Look how cute this is!" she yelled, FaceTiming him from her bed.
Marco's face appeared on screen, covered in cobwebs. "Real nice, Sof. I've got a sweet vintage Playboy collection up here if you want to borrow—"
"Ew! Gross!" She hung up laughing.
As night fell, the house settled into its new rhythm—Marco's heavy footsteps overhead, Tony's keyboard clattering below, Sofia's pop music thumping through the walls. Isabella poured herself a generous glass of wine from one of the bottles Donna had sent (because of course she had) and surveyed her kingdom.
The dread hit her like a punch to the gut. They'd unpacked. They'd settled in. They'd made themselves at home.
Donna's move had been brilliant—give them just enough comfort to stop fighting. The fridge was full, their belongings safe, the media narrative neatly flipped in her favor.
Isabella took a long sip, the wine bitter on her tongue. She'd walked right into the trap.
The house creaked around her, alive in a way it hadn't been in years. Outside, a car door slammed—probably just a neighbor. But Isabella couldn't shake the feeling that somewhere, Donna was smiling.
The wine glass clinked against the counter as Isabella set it down too hard. She poured another generous serving, the deep red liquid swirling like blood in the dim kitchen light. "Bitch," she muttered under her breath, picturing Donna's smug face. The alcohol burned going down, but at least it dulled the edges of her frustration.
She slumped into a kitchen chair, the wood creaking under her weight. Crumbs from their fancy dinner stuck to her elbows as she rested them on the table. The house was quiet now except for the occasional thump from upstairs—probably Marco rearranging his weights again.
Hours slipped by unnoticed. Isabella traced the rings left by her wine glass, her thoughts circling like vultures. Plans formed and dissolved in her wine-addled brain—legal appeals, media campaigns, maybe even breaking into Donna's house in the dead of night. She snorted at that last one, reaching for the bottle again.
The last thing she remembered was resting her head on her arms, the cool wood soothing against her flushed cheek. Then—nothing.
***
Light stabbed through Isabella's eyelids like a knife. She jerked upright with a gasp, her neck screaming in protest. "Fuck," she groaned, rubbing the stiff muscles. The kitchen clock read 12:07 AM in harsh red numbers that seemed to pulse with her headache.
Something creaked upstairs. Then another sound—the quiet click of a door latch. Isabella froze, her sleep-fogged brain struggling to process. The bathroom? At this hour?
She pushed back from the table, her legs wobbly. "Hello?" Her voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper. No response. Just the faint sound of... was that water running?
Bare feet silent on the linoleum, she crept toward the hallway. The bathroom door stood slightly ajar, a sliver of light cutting through the darkness. Her pulse kicked up as she approached.
She saw Sofia. Her daughter stood bathed in the soft glow from the sliver of light, wearing a silk nightgown that definitely hadn't come from Target. The delicate fabric clung to Sofia's curves, shimmering when she moved.
But it wasn't the nightgown that made Isabella's breath catch. Sofia held her phone up, angled toward the shower. The screen's glow illuminated her face—lips parted, eyes wide with... fascination? Hunger? Isabella couldn't tell.
Click. Click. Sofia snapped several photos in rapid succession. Then she switched to video mode, her thumb hovering over the record button. For a long moment, she just stared, transfixed by whatever she saw through that cracked door.
Finally, Sofia lowered the phone with a small, secret smile. She glanced once toward the hallway—Isabella barely ducked back in time—then slipped out, bare feet padding silently toward her bedroom.
Isabella's heart hammered against her ribs. What the hell was that? She edged closer to the bathroom door, her fingers trembling as she pushed it open another inch.
Steam curled out, carrying the scent of Marco's body wash. The shower curtain was pulled halfway, revealing tanned skin glistening under the spray. Water sluiced down Marco's broad back, over the defined muscles of his shoulders, tracing the curve of his—
Isabella's breath hitched. Marco turned, giving her a full view of his naked body—the hard planes of his chest, the trail of dark hair leading down, down... She caught a glimpse of something else before her brain short-circuited.
She jerked back, slamming the door shut with more force than intended. "Shit!" The word slipped out before she could stop it.
Silence. Then Marco's voice, thick with amusement: "Did you need something, Isabella?"
"No!" she squeaked, face burning. "The latch on this door is tricky. Just... make sure it's latched next time."
"I'll remember that. Thanks... Isabella." His low chuckle followed her as she fled down the hallway, her pulse roaring in her ears. What had just happened? And why had Sofia been filming it?
The answer hit her like a bucket of ice water. She stopped dead outside Sofia's door, her hand raised to knock.