Beauty in the Broken

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.