Beauty in the Broken

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.