Page 52 of His Bride

“Yeah. But let’s keep it to a minimum. Only the most important ones.”

I stand and saunter over to the window, staring out. “What if you just make a few general appearances? Like a trip to Myth? Show your face here and there.” I shrug and turn toward him. “Silence the gossip without any one-on-one meetings. It’ll lessen the risk.”

Nicoli shakes his head. “Alexius doesn’t attend shindigs at Myth without Leandra anymore.”

“But he’d go to Club Myth. Not for girls, but for business, outside club hours. That place is a mecca for all the important people we need to appease. All we need is a few girls to tell the guests they’ve been seeing Alexius around. And that’s it.”

My brother would make it a port of call the moment he was back in the saddle. Just for the books, to check up on things. And all it would take was one member, or one member of staff to see him, and word would spread.

Alexius Del Rossa is back in business.

“Club Myth it is,” Nicoli says. “Time to make any rumors of Del Rossa die.”

I nod. I should be happy, because,hello brilliance!But I’m not.

I stand and button my suit jacket. “I don’t know about you, but I’m all officed out for one day. Try not to miss me while I'm gone. I know I don’t show it, but I’m guilt-stricken whenever I don’t grace you with my presence,” I say, emphasizing the sarcasm. “See you later, fuckers.”

Isaia mutters something about a gun, a bullet, and my spleen as I stride out. Poor bastard can’t fathom the fuck I don’t give when it comes to his juvenile commentary.

As I walk down the hall to my room, I pass the guest bedroom, which I now consider Giana’s bedroom.

The door is open, and I stop in front of it, staring straight ahead for a moment before I glance inside.

As I take it in, there’s this sharp stab of…somethingin my gut.

The absence of her.

The neatly made bed, the untouched dresser, the silent air. It smells of her, though. That damn Turkish rose and patchouli should annoy me, but instead, it inexplicably tugs at something inside me. It grates on my nerves, making this empty feeling worse because it’s like she’s still here, but she’s not.

Everything is hollow and empty, yet her scent lingers. It’s like an echo of her, a silent haunting that creeps uninvited into my thoughts. And as much as I want to wave away this feeling, it clings stubbornly.

It’s a rookie mistake to walk into the room, but I make it anyway, easing inside, glancing around like it’s not killing me to be in here when she’s not.

I haven’t been in here since she left, avoiding it like the plague, and with good reason. Being in here brings it all back.

Memories flash. Lips collide and bodies are pressed against each other, hot and urgent. Her hands in my hair, pulling me closer. Pushing me away.

Push and pull. That’s what we do…what we did.

And it was fucking fantastic, never knowing what her next move would be, whether she’d fight me or submit.

Her sweet submission. Her thrilling fight.

Glancing around, I notice the gift box on the nightstand. I already know what’s inside it before I even open it. It’s the knife I gifted her. The one that reminded me of her. It’s the first gift I gave her that had no sarcasm or sexual innuendo tied to it. And that’s the one she chose to leave behind.

I clench my fists, feeling the cool bite of the gold ring around my finger. She's not here, but she's everywhere, in every corner, every scent, every sound that vibrates from the silent room. I should burn it. Light a match and watch it go up in flames faster than our marriage.

“Fuck!” I curse, grabbing the box and throwing it across the room.

I’ve never felt like this before. Like I’m alive, yet something vital inside me is dying a slow and agonizing death. Like this woman has something I need to survive, and she ripped it out of my chest with her bare hands.

I hate it. I hate this feeling, but more than anything, I hate myself for letting her get under my skin like this.

The ache throbs somewhere between my ribs, and it slowly morphs into anger as I take note of all the empty spaces in the room—spaces that were occupied with her things until recently.

The vanity is now void of perfume bottles, hairbrushes, hairbands, and make-up items. She never uses a lot of it, just enough to evoke and entice. Perfection doesn’t need enhancements, and by God, that woman is perfect in all the sinfully decadent and exquisite ways.

I run a hand through my hair, exhaling heavily, and grab one of the pillows off the bed, burying my face into the silk, hoping it still smells like her.

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