Beauty in the Broken

“Sorry I’m late.”

He owes me no apologies, and I don’t miss this one is lacking an excuse.

“Your guests are already here.” I say your like an accusation. I never wanted any part in this.

His lips tilt in a corner, mocking my spitefulness. “It couldn’t be helped. I was occupied.”

“Cutting off fingers?” I ask drily.

“If I was, would you want to know?”

I’m not going to answer that.

“I don’t own a tux,” he says. “I needed to rent one, but an alteration had me running late. I showered at the office.”

The admission makes me a little less angry with him. I can’t help but feel a sliver of sympathy for the wealthy man who doesn’t own a tux. It says so much about his past.

Feeling the heat of his stare on my back, I finish applying my lipstick and rub my lips together. “I’m ready.”

It’s a lie. I’ll never be ready, but the quicker we get this over with, the better.

For two seconds we’re frozen in our staring, evaluating each other and finding one another short, and then he breaks the moment of unspoken accusations with a single step and word.

“No.” His voice is overbearing, dominating.

“Excuse me?”

He advances on me. “You’re not going like this.”

I turn to face him, bracing my hands on the vanity counter behind me. You don’t give your back to a lion. “Like what?”

His brow shoots up. His smile is indulgent. “You’ll wear this.” He holds the dry-cleaning bag out to me.

He came prepared. He knew how I’d be dressing, and he wasn’t going to make the same mistake as with our wedding. I should’ve expected his course of action, but it still comes as a surprise, so much so that when he pushes the bag into my limp hand, I fold my fingers reflexively around it. I can’t let go of his eyes. I’m holding them in disbelief but most of all in fear.

His gaze dips to where I clutch the plastic. “Open it.”

When I don’t move, he takes back the bag and pulls down the zipper. The dress he extracts is worse than I could’ve ever imagined. Red silk overlaid with chiffon drapes low in both the front and back. Thin straps hold up the shoulders, and a slit almost reaches the hip. It’s a whore dress. There’s no other word for it.

I look from the dress to him in horror. He can’t be serious. But he is. There’s a glint of malice in his eyes as he gauges my reaction.

I can’t wear that. Blood zings through my veins, shooting up from my feet to my fingers to tingle like pinpricks. I feel the heat in my cheeks and hear the gush like a drumbeat in my ears. Panic envelopes me, sending a rush of cold sweat to my skin and nausea to my stomach. As if on cue, the scarred flesh of my arms starts itching. It burns without the prompt of a touch. The mere imagination of a hundred people’s eyes on a part of me I’ve never shown to the world is enough.

“I—” I lick my dry lips, battling to summon my voice. “I can’t wear this.”

He narrows his eyes with intent and addresses me with a soft, dangerous voice. “You will, or I swear to God I’ll make you walk downstairs in nothing but your underwear.”

I start at his words, the urge to back up instinctive, but I’m pinned between him and the vanity counter.

“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.”