Beauty in the Broken: A Diamond Magnate Novel
Page 13
“You better believe I’m not bluffing, Lina.”
No, he’s not. It’s beneath Damian to bluff. I start shaking, the blood dropping from my head to my feet, reversing its earlier course so absolutely I suffer from a sudden bout of vertigo. My body sways, only my grip on the counter keeping me up. This is my breaking point. This is my limit. This is where I start begging.
“Please, Damian. Not this dress. Don’t make me do this. Anything, anything but this.”
I’m ready to slide to my knees, to clutch his pants in my clammy hands and promise him anything he wants, and he knows it. Satisfaction pulls at his lips, yet, his eyes remain unrelenting. Hard. Then it hits me. Oh, my God. This is his revenge. My mouth drops open as comprehension dawns.
“Damian.” I want to die of shame.
Instead of mercy, he gives me silence. Confirmation. He wants to humiliate me in front of his guests. He wants me to feel like he did when I married him in a black dress.
Straightening my back, I fight my voice not to tremble. “This is my punishment, isn’t it?”
He cups my cheek. It’s a tender gesture, but his smile is hard. “In all fairness, you do have the body for this dress.”
The body of a whore. He has no idea how right he is.
“I recall a night,” he continues, “when you had no problem putting your tits and ass on display for all the men in your father’s house to see.”
It’s a lie. Harold bought the dress. I tried to cover most of it with my shawl.
“I have something else for you.”
He walks back to the room and returns with a parcel. First, he takes out a red thong. No bra. The cut of the dress is too low to allow for a bra. Then he removes a pair of shoes from a boutique box. The clear color gives the impression that the heels are made of glass. Just like Cinderella. But this is no fairytale, and Damian is no prince.
“I expect to see you coming down those stairs in exactly ten minutes. Don’t make me drag you out of this room in your thong.”
Beyond saving, I stare at his retreating form. In ten minutes, I’ll be beyond grace.
He turns in the door. “Oh, and take down your hair.”
I try one last time. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
His smile says otherwise. “This round, wife, is mine.”
With those words, he disappears, letting his victory sink in, forcing me to do a walk of shame in front of my enemies.
Chapter 8
Damian
On my way downstairs, I motion for Russell to follow. I trust him, but the bedroom door was open when I arrived, and he’s just a man. With a woman like Lina, any man will find it hard to resist a peek at her naked body. Zane will make sure our bedroom stays off limits. I told him as much when I entered. I want Russell at the reception. His job is keeping Lina safe. I doubt one of the wedding party guests will launch an attack on her in my house, but you never know. I have too many enemies. She has enough. Maybe Lina doesn’t deserve those enemies. She’s not capable of hurting a fly, besides herself that is, but she’s the product of her father’s legacy and my name. Having been born to the one and married to the other, there is no bigger threat a person can face in the world. Our enemies combined are enough to make hardened criminals shiver.
If not for the grave mistake she made in marrying Clarke, she would’ve been innocent in the war for money and power. If not for her choice of attire that baptized our union as the black wedding in the media, I wouldn’t have entered into tonight’s private war with her. Let’s face it, the dress I picked isn’t slutty. It’s revealing, but not beyond what’s considered socially acceptable. The only person who’ll be punished is my conservative wife and maybe my dick. I doubt I’ll stay soft at the sight of her in that silk.
I look forward to seeing her in red far more than the actual reception, which sole purpose is to rub my ownership of Lina and her fortune in my advisories’ noses. The arrival of my wife will definitely be the highlight of my night. She has four minutes before I go get her. Even the pleasure of excluding Dalton from the event, which is nothing short of a dishonor, comes second.
A hoard of scavengers descends on me downstairs. I drown in a mob of men wearing black ties and false smiles who want to know what my plans are for Dalton Diamonds, or more accurately, how they can bribe their way into my favor. Women too eager to suffocate me with insincere compliments hang on their arms. I accept a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, reveling in tonight’s victory. Based on the mismanagement charges I slapped Dalton with and the messy investigation it set it motion, Ellis and I voted him off the board. I bought up his shares, which makes me the owner of seventy percent. The end of Dalton is a foregone conclusion. I’m yet to tell my wife I’ve ruined her father, but I’ll save it for after the reception. I want to take my time to savor her reaction. For now, I want to gloat and let these motherfuckers grovel in my glory.
I’m good at taking in facts while directing my attention elsewhere. While I give the appropriate responses at the right times to mindless chatter about kids, exotic holidays, and so-called interesting business opportunities, I watch the time and the top of the stairs.
Exactly ten minutes after I’ve left Lina, she appears in a drowsing ball of chandelier light on the landing. Inwardly, I smile. It’s so much like her to rebel in any way she can, even in pushing her appearance to the end of the time limit. One hand on the balustrade, she faces forward, her chin lifted proudly and her back straight. When she takes the first step out of the light, the sight I’ve been anticipating so eagerly hits me straight in the balls.
Fucking hell. She’s a vision. The red silk clings to her figure, hinting at what lies underneath, but the chiffon makes it whimsical, softening and hiding what would otherwise have been the obvious tips of her nipples, the dip of her navel, and the swell of her mound. Like a graceful apparition, she glides to the top of the stairs, every step revealing a slender, creamy-toned leg through the slit. The valley between her breasts is deep, but not so much that the curves risk spilling out. I’m way too possessive to allow that. Her hair cascades in waves down her back. From where I’m standing, we’re facing each other, me looking up and her looking down. For a moment, my breath catches. For once, I lose track of a conversation and miss the question directed at me.
She was ravishing six years ago. The woman she is today is nothing compared to that. She’s ten times more desirable. And she’s mine. My cock grows hard at the knowledge. My blackened heart revels at the conquest, and something in my chest jerks as a notion stabs me in the heart. It’s a foreign feeling that Lina is my greatest triumph, even greater than acquiring Dalton Diamonds.
Whoever spoke to me repeats his question, but I’m only aware of the primitive sensation of ownership and exhilaration running wild through my body. I see nothing but the unwilling woman in revealing red.
I’m not the only one who’s noticed. The room has gone quiet. Lina holds all the attention as she makes her descend, walking like a queen. She may fool everyone else into believing she’s the epitome of confidence, but not me. I see the slight shake of her hand where it rests on the balustrade. I see the battle in her midnight blue eyes to not succumb to her embarrassment when all she should be feeling is pride.
Yes, she can do with a few more kilos on her flesh, but even too slender she’s perfectly proportioned, so perfect she looks like a doll. If her eyes burn with hate for me, the moment will still be worth it. Knowing her, that’s exactly what she’ll give me. Hatred. I’m waiting for her to rain the fire in that glare down on me as she gets closer to my eye level, but when she takes the step that puts her at my height, a jolt runs through me. Her eyes are not burning. They’re vacant. She was never looking at me. She’s looking through me. She’s not seeing me at all. She’s not seeing anyone. There’s something wrong about this.
My muscles tighten in anticipation for a reason I can’t name. All I know is whatever is about to happen is bad. Real fucking bad. The wheel has been set in
motion, and it’s too late to stop it. The clogs of time keep on turning, pushing her farther one step at a time. And then she takes the turn in the staircase.
Jesus fucking Christ.
The breath she’d knocked from me earlier gets stuck in my throat. Around me, people gasp, much like at our wedding. If she hears it, she doesn’t react. She continues on her downward path with her glassy eyes and proud posture. My heart rate goes into overdrive. The champagne glass shatters in my hand, golden liquid spilling on my shoes and glass cutting into my palm, but nobody notices. They’re too busy staring at my wife as if she belongs in a freak show.
The marks on her arms are like nothing I’ve seen. Not even in prison. Thick, ragged, and embossed, only a blunt breadknife could’ve caused such scars. Badly healed, they speak of careless treatment. What the fuck? The same question is going through the heads of everyone in the crowd, because the whispered answers drift on the shocked silence.
“Self-mutilation.”
“There’s a term for that.”
“Cutter.”
All the while, Lina bears the judgment in words as well as in stares, but I see what her lifted chin and straight back are meant to disguise. I see her shame. I see her hiding inside herself, holding the room hostage to uncertainty as no one moves, everyone shocked to a standstill.
Next to me, Russell comes to his senses first. Pulling off his jacket, he takes a step toward the staircase, but when I realize his intention, I catch his wrist. He gives me a heated look, his face twisted into an expression that says not even I can be this cruel.
“No,” I say under my breath. Covering her up will only make it worse.
Instead, I hurry to the bottom of the stairs so she doesn’t have to venture into the gawking mob alone.
She reaches me, unsmiling. The minute she’s within my grasp, I wrap my arm around her shoulders and pull her against my side. From the slight sway of her body, the act has thrown her off balance, but I don’t let up. I tighten my hold. When that doesn’t pull her completely back to the present, I grip her chin firmly and plant my lips on hers in a kiss that doesn’t involve my tongue but lasts too long. Another second, and I achieve my aim. She stiffens. Her eyes clear. A frown pulls her eyebrows together. Her body goes rigid, her muscles tensing in preparation for action.
Before she pushes me away, I set her mouth free. Her pupils are dilated, her eyes wide in shock and anger. Good. She’s back where I want her, right here with me. Her cutting look tells me she doesn’t appreciate that I’m pulling her from the trance in which she’s been hiding. Her bad. These fuckers won’t enjoy the hot piece of gossip I’ve unknowingly thrown at their feet at her expense. I won’t allow her to feed their vulture-like hunger for sensationalism with her shame.
Her pretty eyes narrow with the tiniest twitch. Her little nostrils quiver as if she’s about to hiss at me like an angry kitten, but her threat is silent. She won’t settle for pity. I don’t give her any. I give her my pride and as much comfort as circumstances allow, sheltering her under my arm while we say our greetings to the people who compete for our attention, curiosity sparking their eagerness. Speculating glances always find their way back to Lina’s arms, but she does a hell of a job pretending she doesn’t notice. I function on autopilot, saying what is expected while questions spin through my mind.
A Minerals Council executive walks up to us. “Congratulations, Damian. I’ll be honest. I didn’t see that one coming.”
Motherfucker. Congrats are not in order until the official announcement is made, and the bastard knows it. He’s rolling on the balls of his feet, basking in expectation, watching Lina like a hawk.
A journalist who sees an opportunity interrupts. “Mr. Hart, what is your intention for Dalton Diamonds?”
To break everything Harold Dalton has built down to the ground. “I’ll release an official statement tomorrow.”
I start steering Lina away, but the man blocks our way. “Mrs. Hart, how do you feel about your husband’s hostile takeover of your father’s corporation?”
She goes so rigid against my side, I swear her frail body is about to snap. I feel her surprise in the way her ribs stop expanding with breaths where my palm rests on her side. I feel the beat of her heart increase where her body is pressed against mine. Before I can throw the fucker out for launching an attack on Lina when said attack failed on me, she inhales deeply and silently, only the expansion of her ribs giving me a clue that she’s going to answer the prick. I’m about to hush her, not because I’m frightened that she’d tell the world how she feels about me, but because I’m frightened for her already bruised image and how her hatred of me will make the public spectacle I’ve created worse.
“Lina—”
“No comment,” she says.
The cocky bastard grins as he throws more bait. “Really? That’s your answer? That’s all you have to say?”
She regards him coolly, as if he’s a bad-mannered minion. “You heard my husband. He’ll make a statement tomorrow.”
Underneath her pretended loyalty, I can almost feel her emotions churning.
“You’ll be wise to stay respectful of the fact that this event is a celebration,” I say, “not a press conference.”
Making a mental note to have the fucker’s name removed from our future invitation list, I finally manage to guide Lina to a quieter corner. The minute we’re away from the journalist’s scrutinizing gaze, her body sags against mine. I rub her arm in a soothing gesture. My fingers brush over the horizontal lines embossed on her skin, the pads reading them like brail, as if they’re a roadmap to the subject dominating my thoughts. What the hell happened to her?
At the touch, her back snaps into a rigid posture. A shiver runs over her body. If she could’ve pulled away without making a scene, she would’ve, but she’d have to fight me in front of the crowd. Slowly, I piece the puzzle together. She’s only shivered like that when I’ve touched her arms. It’s not my touch in general, because I know only too well how certain prods make her back arch and her body bow. She doesn’t like her arms to be touched. I don’t remove my arm from around her shoulder, but I lift my fingers from her upper arm. She rewards me by relaxing marginally.
When a waiter comes past, I grab a glass of champagne and hand it to her. “Drink.”
She obeys mechanically, downing half of it in one go.
“More,” I urge. “It’ll help you relax.”
She drinks the rest and hands me the empty glass. Leaving it on a nearby table, I use the opportunity to snatch a linen napkin that I twist around my bleeding palm.
Her gaze fixes on the action. “What happened?”
Exactly the question that’s on my mind. “The glasses are thin.”
She regards me with mistrust but doesn’t ask more.
There are so many things I want to ask, facts I need to know, but we’re surrounded by people who are circling us like sharks, waiting for a weakness they can exploit, which is why I’m not allowing Lina to break down. As far as everyone here is concerned, showing her scars was planned. Tonight is the night Lina decided to come out of the closet. That’s the lie my eyes and smile are telling when I look down at my wife. I’m pushing her to be strong, to keep up the charade, and for the most part it’s working, until Anne appears in front of us.
She’s wearing an off-shoulder dress in midnight blue. The color and style become her. Her hair is twisted in fancy curls on top of her head, baring smooth shoulders and flawless arms. The comparison as she stands in front of Lina is inevitable. If I hadn’t made it my business to make a study of Lina’s expressions, I would’ve missed how her eyes scrunch with the minutest movement in the corners, as if a knife is twisting in her stomach.
Anne grabs Lina’s hands. “You poor, poor thing.”
Even as Lina keeps a straight face, her gaze drops to the floor.
“There’s nothing poor about Lina,” I say with a pointed look.
“Don’t be an idiot, Damian. Look at her.”
“Let me go get you a wrap, Lina,” Anne offers, already taking a step toward the stairs.
“Lina doesn’t want a wrap.”
Anne stops dead. “You’re not serious.”
“Are you cold, Lina?”
Her voice is flat. “No.”
I address Anne. “No wrap.”
“You’re an asshole,” Anne spits out.
Amused at her outburst, I cock a brow. “What for?”
“For letting her walk around like this.”
Next to me, Lina stands as still as a mannequin.
My amusement fizzles into anger. “Like what?” When she doesn’t answer immediately, I repeat, “Like what, Anne?”
“Like this,” she says, waving a hand at Lina’s arm.
“Say it,” I challenge.
Anne stares at me with spite. She knows it’s a chess mate move. If she says my wife is disfigured, I’ll throw her out of my house in front of all these guests.
It’s Lina who speaks. “Scars. They’re called scars, and they’re ugly. It’s okay. You can say it.”
Zane appears as if from nowhere, his face flushed when he takes in our exchange. Our non-verbal language must say it all.
He grips his sister’s arm. “Come on, Anne.”
Shooting Lina another pitying look from over her shoulder, Anne walks away with swaying hips. The walk is understated, just suggestive enough to exude sexual confidence without seeming obvious, but I see it for what it is. It’s a show-off. It’s a walk of feminine victory.
The rest of the evening is a nightmare to get through. I don’t let go of Lina once. We drink together. We eat together. If I have to speak to someone, she listens. She doesn’t participate in any of the conversations, but she replies to all the questions my guests direct at her. The few journalists I’ve allowed, take pictures. I wanted this event to be all over the newspapers, but I haven’t anticipated the angle the articles are going to take. If Lina is to survive this, she’s going to have to face the music and dance like she doesn’t give a fuck.