It makes me want to shake a reaction from her, but instead I lash out with my words. I lash out with my eyes, filling them with disapproval. “Do you still have to wear black?”
Her voice is collected, indifferent. “I’m mourning.”
“He’s been dead for a year.”
“I didn’t say who I’m mourning.”
Gripping my hands behind my back, I walk around her. Her head turns as her gaze follows me, but she stops at three o’clock, allowing me to look at places she can’t see, like her sculptured back. It’s too bony, the way her vertebrae show through her top, and somehow there’s perfection in even that. Frailty. Vulnerability. Femininity. I’ve never found skinny women attractive, but Lina is a first for me in everything. It’s a fact that no longer surprises me.
I stop in front of her, drawing her gaze back to me. “Is it true?”
She waits.
I caress the lines of her face with my gaze. “Are you crazy?”
“Aren’t we all to a greater or lesser degree?”
That damn, musical voice. There’s no judgment there, just a factual statement. Clever. It wins her this round. There’s nothing to argue.
“I suppose you’d like to know the reason for my visit.”
She looks straight into my black, soiled soul. “I know why you’re here.”
“Is that so?” I give her a smile that’s meant to be intimidating. “Tell me.”
“For the same reason they all are.”
They all are. I fucking hate the sound of that. “What reason is that?”
“To marry me for my money.”
My vision goes blurry. My anger ignites and unjustly escalates. She makes me see things I don’t want to, images of many rivals on one knee, asking for her hand. That’s where they went wrong. I won’t be asking.
“Yet,” I drop my gaze to her naked ring finger, “you rejected everyone.”
“For the same reason I’ll be rejecting you.”
I smother a laugh. On second thought, I let it out, cold and soft. I round her again, like a buyer evaluating livestock. I lean into her, like an owner staking a claim. She smells of an exotic perfume, something musky and oriental, alluring and deadly, like a pretty, poisonous flower. She’s toxic to me. God knows I’ve suffered every classifiable, slow-killing symptom, but I can’t resist.
“If you think I only want you for your money,” I whisper against the shell of her ear, “you’re sadly mistaken.”
A shiver runs over her body. It starts at her nape and ends at the base of her spine. I feel it where our bodies are touching, separated by two layers of black clothes. This time, my laugh is silent, unnoticed at the back of her head. I don’t need to win a round over her with a mocking smile. This round is mine.
She steps away, putting space between us. Her head is turned to the side, but she’s not looking at me. “You can’t make me.”
“Think again.”
She twirls around, eyes a bit wider and nostrils barely flaring. There’s the tiniest crack in her veneer, and there she is, the crazy woman behind the curtain of ice. The jugular vein in her neck flutters like a trapped butterfly. There’s fire in her, yet.
She places soft emphasis on every word. “I said no.”
“You’re making the mistake of assuming it was a request.”
The frost is back in her eyes, her chin tilted haughtily. “Leave before I call a guard.”
“You don’t want Daddy Dearest to die, do you?”
The little color left in her cheeks vanishes. She’s a wax doll, unnatural and startling beautiful.
“Bribery. Tsk-tsk. A High Court judge, no less.” Taking a photocopy of the signed affidavit from my pocket, I hold it up for her to see. “When this goes public, your daddy ends up in prison. He won’t make it out alive. I’ve made enough friends in six years to make sure of it. A phone call, a message via a guard is all it’ll take.”
She’s big enough to drop her bravado and read the text. When her eyes meet mine again, there’s something else. Fear. More than fear. She’s terrified. “How did you get this?”
Not the question I’ve been expecting. “Does it matter?” I have blood on my hands for the piece of paper I’m clutching, and I’d spill it again.
“Is it fake?”
“If there’s one thing you should know about me, it’s that I never bluff.”
“Does he…?” She swallows. “Does Harold know?”
“I assume he’s having your bags packed as we speak.”
Her chest rises and falls. Clasping her hands together, she drops her gaze to the floor. A few seconds pass. I let her have them to process what’s happening.
When she lifts her unworldly eyes back to me, they’re composed. Serene, if not sad. She’s already accepted what she can’t change. Some may see her lack of fighting as weak. I see it for what it is, a trait of a survivor. She’s doing what she must to get through this. It doesn’t strike me as the kind of behavior of someone with self-destructive tendencies. The ease with which she does it tells me it’s a practiced skill.
“The ceremony will take place on Saturday at the Anglican church in Emmarentia. Four o’clock. Don’t be late. You won’t like the consequences.”
Gripping her fingers, I press a kiss to her hand. Her skin is cold, but her palm is clammy. Inclining my head, I bid my fiancée goodbye.
There’s nothing more to say.
Now we wait.
Until Saturday.
Lina
Running to the toilet, I empty my guts for the second time. My body heaves, not getting the message from my stomach that there’s nothing left. When the wave finally passes, I slide to the floor, clutching the toilet with both arms and resting my forehead on the rim. I’m hot and cold, shaking all over. I’m frightened.
When I can’t put off getting dressed any longer, I force my legs to stand. Bent-over, I make it to the basin. In the overhead cabinet is a bottle of pills, but there’s no pill for what I’m suffering from. There’s no medicine that will help. Shaking two tablets against nausea from the brown bottle, I swallow them dry. It takes a few breaths for my stomach to settle and a while before my strength returns.
This bathroom, I hate it. I hate the beehive tiles and the spa tub. It’s been mine since I can remember, but I never wanted it. I’ve never been happy here. I always wanted to leave, and now that I have to, again, I’m afraid. There’s no way out of this, though. I can’t let Harold die. If he does, what I want most in the world is gone with him.
After splashing cold water on my face, I go to my bedroom. My wedding dress is laid out on the bed. It’s a simple cut with lace overlaying a silk lining. The pillbox hat with net veil lies next to it. It feels like I’m dressing for my own funeral, tying a bond with another cruel man. I sensed Damian’s desire to hurt me in Harold’s library. I suppose I’ve become good at reading that underlying darkness some men crave.
Moving behind the screen, I strip naked in front of the full-length mirror. I always do. I do so I can look, so I can remember who I am. Turning sideways, I study the scars that line my arms, first the left, then the right. I count every unsightly, embossed line, unevenly spaced from my shoulders to my wrists. Sixteen on the left, twelve on the right. Each one represents the loss of a part of my soul at the price of my life. The parts of me I can’t see in a mirror are too ugly even for me to face. When I can’t stomach more, I pull on a random set of underwear from the drawer before stepping into the dress. I fix my hair into a tight bun and secure the hat with pins. There’s no one to go through this with me. I’m alone. I long for my mother with a fierceness that cripples my heart. It’s her pearl earrings I fasten on my ears, and my grandmother’s necklace I clasp around my neck. It makes me feel close to them, as if I’ll draw strength from their spirits.
“The driver is ready,” one of Harold’s bodyguards says from the open door.
I glance at him in the mirror. It’s Bobby, one of the kinder ones. He’s not looking into the room, bu
t straight ahead. By now, the guards are used to the fact that I never close a door. Respectfully, they don’t stare. That’s what crazy women do. They get dressed with an open door in a house full of men. Closed doors give them anxiety attacks. That’s the real reason the men don’t look. They’re afraid of insulting Harold by admitting with their curious staring just how crazy I am.
“Harold?” I ask cautiously.
“He already left.”
Getting to my feet, I grab a clutch bag in which I’ve stuffed my phone, anti-nausea pills, tampons, and tissues. I never go anywhere without tampons and tissues. My period is irregular, often arriving when I’m under more duress than normal.
“Do you have everything?” he asks.
I nod. My single suitcase has been taken to Damian’s house earlier. He sent a driver to collect it.
“Let’s go then,” he says. “Mr. Dalton will skin me alive if we’re late.”
I don’t show Bobby my fear. Fear makes you vulnerable. It makes you an easy victim. I hand him my bag while I fit my shoes.
“I’m ready,” I announce.
I don’t have a choice.
Damian
The bells toll in the stone church tower. It’s a haunting and beautiful sound. Rare. They only use the bells for special occasions because they’re old and fragile. The fact that they’re using them for me tells the witnesses in the church I’m a man to be reckoned with. There’s not a face turned to me without fear. It’s there, in their fake smiles and plastered-on expressions of goodwill. They’re only here to witness the beginning of the fall of the Dalton empire.
One, two, three. The last dong falls like a verdict on four. The sound reverberates through the acoustic interior, carrying on the dubious silence that follows. When the sound dies down, the guests stand, and the organist starts playing. The first notes of The Wedding March fill the space. It’s dramatic and theatrical. I picked it specifically, just like the cascades of white roses and the thick candles burning in golden candelabras on both sides of the aisle. Facing the entrance, I await my bride.
Despite the flamboyance, there’s something in my chest, a tightness that borders on nerves when the doors don’t open immediately. My posture is straight and my face stoic, but my hands ball involuntarily into fists. I only relax slightly when the double doors start swinging inward. A fan of light falls into the shadowed church, letting sun into the somber, cool interior. The beams burst through everywhere, up toward the gallery where the organ is playing and down over the stone floor. They keep on stretching, reaching, until the doors are fully open. It’s blinding. After the darkness inside, I have to blink for my eyes to adjust. Like a revelation, a figure stands in the midst of all that pure white. I almost breathe easier, but not yet. It’s a long walk down the aisle, and an even longer way to saying yes.
Dalton stands next to the door. As the music goes into the second sonata, he offers his arm, but Lina steps past him, as if she doesn’t see him, and then she stops. I don’t have time to ponder the observation, because the sonata is in full swing, and she’s still not moving. My heart beats faster. My breathing speeds up. She’s a silhouette of a shadow, obscured by the light. I can’t make out her face or expression, just that she’s not fucking moving. Dalton goes forward. She trips slightly as he nudges her. I’m about to shoot to the end of the aisle and drag her to the altar by her arm when she finally puts one foot in front of the other.
Something in me lifts, making me feel weightless, but it only lasts a second. The same someone who opened the doors closes them. The daylight is expelled, and the interior is once more basked in a gloomy light. It’s then that I make out her face, her figure, her dress. Her fucking dress. God help me. I fist my hands so hard my knuckles crack. From her fashionable little hat to her elegant shoes, she’s dressed for a funeral. In front of all these people, she makes a mockery of me, coming to me in black.
Chapter 2
Lina
Gasps fill the space. Shocked gazes follow my slow progress, turning sympathetic as they fall on the groom who waits stoically at the altar. They gauge Damian’s reaction. Whispers rise above the organ. Words like lunatic, out of her mind, and sacrilege reach my ears. The stiff notes of the Wedding March, the flowers, the candles, everything befitting of a white dress suddenly seems exactly what it is—a show, and a kitsch one at that.
I try to walk with unfaltering steps, each one bringing me closer to an uncertain and dreaded future. Damian watches me with the intensity of a panther. The calmness with which he studies me is the quiet before his storm. His dark eyes promise retribution, but I don’t think about it. For now, I rejoice in my small victory. It’s the small victories that keep my spirit alive.
A hush falls over the church when I reach the man to whom I’m about to make unthinkable promises. Dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and silver cravat secured with a diamond pin, he looks like a man who belongs in Harold’s world. He’s nothing like the boy I remember. The boy I met had thick hair that needed a cut. The ends brushed the strong column of his neck. The rich, ebony stands made me itch to thread my fingers through them. The neat way in which it’s brushed back now, not a hair out of place, looks stiff. If he was distant on the night I first met him, he now looks unreachable.
The fire in his brown eyes is no less fierce, but it’s burning colder. Those eyes are the color of chocolate, not the sweet kind, but dark and bitter. The stark lines of his face are harder. High cheekbones, sharp nose, and square jaw, there’s nothing compassionate about his features. His handsomeness is unconventional, and the cruelty of that beauty lies shallow under his skin. It’s there in the storm that brews in his eyes, letting anyone brave enough to look deep know disobedience isn’t an option. He’s a man who gets his way, and who’ll do unspeakable things to make it happen. What makes grown men’s stomachs turn won’t elicit as much as a blink from him. He’s too used to getting his hands dirty. He’s fought too hard to survive.
Only the way his thick eyebrows lift marginally in an expression of self-assured arrogance gives away his vulnerability. In our world, people who don’t come from money hide behind arrogance. This is his only weakness. The rest of him screams danger. Dominance. This is the man who takes my hand with possessive ownership, placing it on his arm as if it belongs there even before I’ve promised to become his in law and faith in front of God and our audience. Covering my fingers with his palm, he locks it in place on the flexing muscles of his forearm. The fabric of his jacket sleeve is scratchy—expensive wool. He gives me a smile, one that heats me from the inside out. While it promises nothing good, he disarms me with his masculine power and fake charm, letting me know he’ll come at me in ways that will leave me utterly defenseless. Our gazes remain locked for another second, knowledge and understanding passing between us in the primitive way of hunter and prey, and then the priest speaks. I’m mercifully released from the draining hold of his eyes as we both face forward while the charade begins.
I hear the priest’s voice, but nothing he says. Even if he doesn’t look at me, Damian’s presence is overwhelming. A head taller than every other male in the church, his physique screams virility and strength. He’s broader and more muscled than when I first met him, a change that can only be contributed to long hours in the gym. He smells of winter, of a citrus forest against a stark sky. The scent is subtle, but the haunting perfume of trees stripped of their leaves and a sky missing a sun invades my senses until it’s all I smell. He shifts his weight, and our arms touch. It’s as if his very male, very bossy energy wraps around me and squeezes until I can’t breathe.
It’s a summer’s day, but it’s too cold inside. Goosebumps break out over my arms despite the long sleeves of my dress. I feel the effect of no food in my stomach, my head starting to spin as my blood sugar level drops. A warm, strong hand presses firmly on my lower back, supporting my weight when I sway on my feet. I’m tempted to give in to its comfort, until I tune back into the moment and register to who it belongs. My body g
rows stiff. My legs turn wooden.
I regain my composure just as the priest starts with, “Do you, Angelina Clarke, promise…”
The rest is white noise. There’s a ringing in my ears. The warmth leaves my back and settles on my shoulder. I’m turned to face the man blackmailing me into this. My captor stares down at me, urging me on with a smile that doesn’t warm his eyes or fit the situation. His fingers dig into my flesh when I don’t answer. I can do this. I’ve done it before.
I open my mouth, forcing the words from my parched lips. “I do.”
His hold on me loosens, but he doesn’t let me go. He keeps my eyes prisoner, his dark gaze drilling into mine as he says, “I most certainly do.”
He slips a simple, platinum band onto my finger. When his right-hand man hands me a similar band for Damian, my hand shakes so much Damian has to steady it with his strong grip to aid my action. I stare at our hands clasped together, the matching rings symbolizing our union.
It’s done.
We’re husband and wife.
Now comes the worst.
The rest passes in a blur. We sign the register. Our witnesses are men I don’t know. Harold comes up to congratulate us. He makes a big show of shaking Damian’s hand and even manages to wipe away a tear as he, for a second time, literally gives me away. Bobby hands me my clutch bag. People queue outside with wishes of long lives and blissful happiness. Most of them I recognize from Harold’s business dealings. All the influential players in the diamond industry are here.
A crowd of journalists wait on the outskirts of the church lawn, held back by men in black suits who must be Damian’s security detail. There’s no bouquet to throw, not that I expect anyone would’ve wanted to catch cursed flowers, so we make our way to Damian’s waiting car fairly quickly. Thank God there’s no reception.
My husband’s hand is on my elbow as he guides me into the back of the car. The windows are tinted, and I sag in the seat, not having to keep vigilant under the scrutiny of the curious eyes and the unforgiving flashes of the cameras. When Damian tells his driver to take us to an upmarket restaurant in Sandton, my spirits sink. All I want is to escape to the luxury of privacy, but I won’t be so lucky. Pulling out the pins digging into my scalp, I remove the hat.
Beauty in the Broken: A Diamond Magnate Novel Page 2
