Page 12 of Whispers of Ruin

As I turn to leave, a notification pops on my phone to tell me she just sent a text to someone. I can feel my pulse quicken as I swipe open the message and realize it is meant for Julian, telling him how eager she is about the charity event. Her words are so kind, almost like she needs to prove herself. I cannot shake the image of her and Julian together. Her smile, his touch. The way she looked at him before… It felt genuine. And it drives me fucking crazy.

A grin creeps up on my face. By now, it is clear my interests are becoming anything but professional. I try to hold back, to suppress the rage rising inside me, still all I can think about is tearing his eyes out of their sockets for ever daring to lay them on my little fox.

She is mine, and I have never been known to share.

A quick glance at a picture of them together on her nightstand is the breaking point of my control. My fist slams into the frame, sending it crashing against the wall, shattering the glass as if it were my own restraint.

“YOU. DO. NOT. DESERVE HER!”, I scream uncontrollably. My hand trembles, the force of my actions hitting me in the aftermath. The fury surges through me as I stare at the broken remnants of the frame on the floor.

What the hell was that?

This is not who I am. I absolutely fucking hate what she is doing to me, but I cannot stop it. For the first time in my life, my desires are entirely mine, and I won’t let them slip through myfingers. The inferno inside me is way too strong to ignore, and it is too late to fight it now.

I take a step back, surveying the wreckage of my temper. The shattered frame lies in ruin on the floor, its glass shards reflecting the light. Julian’s face—ripped, cracked beneath my boot.

It should be enough. It should be. But it is not.

The only pristine thing left on this side of the room is the dress. Blood-red silk draped over her bed, untouched by the violence surrounding it. It is waiting patiently for the right person to unleash the full extent of its power.

Just like her.

I run a hand through my hair, inhaling deeply, forcing me to settle just enough to make my exit. I can still hear my own ragged breath as I walk back through the apartment, each step measured, controlled—despite the chaos in my head.

My fingers brush the door handle as I pause.

What if she doesn’t wear it? What if she looks at it and refuses to put it on? I picture her slipping into something else, something plain and dull, somethinghepicked for her.

The thought burns through me.

Be patient.

She will wear it.

She will wear it becauseIchose it. BecauseIcarved this moment into her life with my own hands.

Because, in the end, she’s mine.

After a busy morning, I return home around noon with Julian to get ready for the gala tonight. I’m looking forward to the event, but more than anything, I just want a moment to breathe before the busy evening unfolds.

I set my bag down and shrug off my coat, already anticipating the routine ahead—shower, makeup, dress. Julian walks past me, stretching his arms as he heads toward the kitchen.

“It will be a long night, but at least there will be good champagne,” he muses. “You should try to enjoy yourself a little.”

He flashes me a half-smile before heading toward the bedroom. I hesitate before following. My mind is still tangled in the events of yesterday.

Thelibrary.

The dark corner where he had me pinned, his breath against my ear, his fingers trailing fire along my skin. His words had been a trap; one I had unconsciously stepped right into.

I can still feel the heat from that magazine pulsing inside me, the warmth flooding between my thighs. My breath quickens, just from the memory of the slow, firm pressure as his hands mapped every curve of my body, the ache, the rawness of it all.

“Damn, Mira.”

Julian’s voice snaps me back. He is standing by the bed, staring at something. My stomach drops.

“That’s the dress you picked?”

He steps closer, eyes roaming over the deep red silk draped across my bed. He exhales sharply.

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