Page 84 of My Dark Divine

My tremors intensify as he reaches up to my face, gently wiping away the blood that continues to flow. It feels as if he’spunched every part of my face and I’m bleeding from every inch.

The same hand that just turned my face into a mess now wipes away my tears and snot, only to smear it across my skin. “It’s fine,” I mumble. “I’m fine, Zayden. I understand.”

I do, really. It’s simple—he gets angry over something small, snaps, and lashes out at me. I endure in silence, sometimes even holding my breath because if he notices any tiny movement, he’ll think I’m trying to retaliate, and his anger will only escalate. Then, when he realizes what he’s done, he calms down. Most of the time, he helps me clean up, bandages my wounds, and tucks me into bed afterward.

He’s been acting this way more often lately, his anger as volatile as ever. I never understood that a person could hold so much hate until I met Zayden. Just last week, I woke up struggling to breathe, and when I opened my eyes, he was shouting that I’m keeping him from a normal life, gripping a pillow in his hands like a fucking lunatic.

I still don’t know what happened—if anything happened at all—but with everything that’s been going on and Valentine’s Day nearing, I decided to buy a gun. He keeps saying that I’m not enough, that I don’t fulfill my duty as a wife, and I’ve become convinced that he’d try to kill me on February 14th.

I don’t know why. It just felt like it.

It wasn’t easy—I had to wander into ‘Rats,’ as they call themselves. It’s an underground neighborhood filled with junkies, alcoholics, homeless people, and drug dealers. I’ve never been more scared in my life, but I managed to get the gun. Yet Zayden didn’t act, and now it lies hidden in a drawer. I doubt I’ll ever have the courage to use it. I’m too spineless for something like that.

“It’s all because of that motherfucker,” he groans, slamming his back against the wall. “We can lose everything, Venetia. He’s blackmailing me. Threatening our business.”

“Who?” I ask, taken aback. He stopped sharing his emotions and worries with me long ago. The fact that he’s confiding in me now means our relationship might be salvageable. “Tell me, Zayden.”

“Mark fucking Cameron,” he replies, his hands flying up to cover his face. It takes me a moment to remember who he is—he owns a real estate company, and we were supposed to collaborate with them on a new project soon. “He has—” Zayden trails off, weighing whether to tell me or not.

“It doesn’t matter,” I interject, a tight ache gripping my chest. Whatever this blackmail is, I know it must be something very serious, something he feels ashamed of. I don’t want to even think about it. “What did he say?”

“I have three days to give up our fucking business,” he mumbles, despair tightening his voice. “He doesn’t believe I’m a good leader. Nobody does. They think I’m reckless and foolish… They want me gone. All of them!”

Zayden is far from the perfect leader. Even I can see that. I don’t agree with most of the choices he makes—not that he asks for my opinion—and it’s no surprise that people have turned against him.

Still, I want him to succeed, and I want our relationship back. As we sit in silence, the seed of an idea begins to take root in my mind. If I can help him, maybe things can return to how they once were. I’ll see that sparkle back in his eyes, and he’ll stop being so aggressive toward me.

I understand why he acts this way—if the situation is as dire as he says, it’s clear he’s losing control. Zayden isn’t the most open person about his feelings, and I can only imagine how hard it must be for him to keep everything bottled up inside.

I know what I need to do to help us both.

I can handle Mark. The plan I’m thinking about is crazy and fucking insane, but now that I look at my husband, who’s as devastated as ever, I know it’s worth trying. Because I’ll do anything to win Zayden back.

To make him love me all over again.

My hands shake violentlyas I chew on the skin of my index finger, waiting for a text from the man I’ve entrusted with this job. It’s been an hour already, and it should be done by now, but still, there’s no word from him.

It’s like a phantom limb, a nagging ache that won’t go away. I try to shake it off, to reason with it, to distract myself with anything, but the paranoia is tenacious. It clings to the edges of my consciousness, a dark cloud that threatens to consume my sanity. What if something went wrong? What if someone noticed?

What if, what if, what if?

I feel like I’m going crazy within these walls. It would have been so much easier to go into Mark’s house and handle things myself, but I chose to trust someone more skilled in a job like this. He never asked questions, just agreed to do what I told him. When you have money and connections, you can hire anyone—from a ruthless killer who will do your bidding to the man I picked: silent, stealthy, and anonymous, with no questions asked.

The idea to help my husband came to me naturally. Most of the men in the company see me as nothing more than a watcher—a shiny trinket for Zayden who can only smile and observe.They underestimate me. I’m not just watching what happens between people here.

I’m listening. Being friends with the girlfriends and wives of these men has its advantages. I don’t even need to ask questions; they reveal everything themselves.

And then there’s Mark Cameron. As famous, wealthy, and seemingly perfect as he is, he struggles with alcohol addiction. The rumors circulate only within the tight circle of people I’m fortunate enough to be part of. He’s always carrying those metallic mini bottles, claiming they’re for water, while they’re actually filled with alcohol. With his age-related health complications and a peach allergy—information I managed to gather from his medical records—it’s hardly a wise choice.

All I did was supply my contact with enough peach dust, trusting him to slip into the house and dose a few bottles. The body’s reaction would take over from there, either leading to a fatal allergic response or inducing a stroke in due course.

Once he dies, there will be no questions asked. His people will want to cover it up and keep everything within the walls of his home. Nobody wants anyone to know that a businessman who owns a famous real estate company in the city is an alcoholic.

And then, whatever he had on my husband won’t matter anymore.

When my phone vibrates in my palm, I can hardly believe it at first. My eyes snap to the screen, and I quickly read the few words I’ve been waiting for over the past hour before they disappear. It was my idea to use a secure messaging app that only keeps the messages for a few seconds. I can’t afford to be paranoid about someone reading our conversation.

My senses awaken, and the world vibrates with a newfound clarity. A smile stretches across my face, a twisted, exhilarating grin, and for the first time in years, it feels real.

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