Page 38 of Darkest Oblivion
His eyes flicked to me, cunhurried, raking from my toes to my face. Heat crawled up my neck, shame and fury tangling as I dragged the duvet tighter around me—a useless shield against the man who had already stripped me bare with words.
“You’ll speak to your parents when we return,” Dmitri said at last, his voice steel. “It depends on your behavior at the ball tonight. Convince my rivals you’re in love with me, and your request will be granted. If they doubt...” His lips curved in the ghost of a smirk. “...it’s denied.”
Disbelief crashed into me, suffocating, my heart pounding so hard I could barely breathe. “I’m supposed to pretend I love you?” The words came out raw.
Pretending to love a man who forced vows into my mouth, dragged me to Lake Como, and humiliated me with her name—Seraphina, the elegant phantom I could never compete with—was nothing short of madness.
My stomach twisted.
“Yes.” His answer was deliberate, his gaze lingering on me like a hand I couldn’t brush away.
He didn’t wait for my protest. Turning, his boots silent on the marble, he strode out, the door clicking shut with a finality that rang like a lock snapping closed.
My chest tightened—not from asthma but from the crushing weight of his control.
Well, I don’t see that happening. Hell, I don’t even know how to act—how to pretend to be someone I’m not.
I swung my legs off the bed, and stumbled into the bathroom.
As the water coursed over me, my thoughts spun in circles I couldn’t escape.
The ballroom loomed like a battlefield, an arena where I’d be forced to wear his mask—smile as if I adored him, bleed loyalty with my eyes. Only then would he allow me what I craved most: a chance to speak to my parents. The thought curdled in my stomach.
I didn’t linger. Time was already slipping away. I had woken just past seven, and by now it was nearing eight.
Stepping out of the bathroom, steam trailing me like a ghost, I moved swiftly toward the wardrobe. Its doors opened with a hush, revealing rows of meticulously arranged clothing.
I refused to play along. A gown would have suited the stage he planned, but I reached instead for my favorite jeans and a black shirt.
The denim was soft, the shirt loose but fitted, a small rebellion stitched into fabric. They were me—Penelope Romano. Not his bride. Not his pawn.
I dressed quickly, defiance stiffening my spine, and turned to the mirror.
For a moment, I didn’t see strength. I saw curves that felt too soft, thighs that pressed too close together, arms that carried the words he’d thrown like knives—heavy, a burden.
Would they all see it too? The women at the ball with their swan-like necks and waists I could circle with two hands—would they look at me and wonder why Dmitri had chosen this? Would they whisper behind their jeweled fingers, weighing me against Seraphina’s ghost?
My throat tightened, shame prickling hot under my skin.
And yet... my jaw set.
My eyes burned back at me from the glass. I wasn’t Seraphina. I wasn’t a swan. I was Penelope Romano. And even if Dmitri tried to erase me, I’d cling to myself, however imperfect, however unwanted.
A pawn, maybe. But one that refused to topple.
I turned from the mirror and walked into the living room.
Dmitri paced like a caged panther, his phone pressed to his ear, Italian rolling from his tongue.
His gaze flicked to me the second I entered, narrowing on the jeans, on my curves, on the choice I’d made. I braced myself for one of his barbs, ready to spit my reply—
But instead, his mouth quirked. “I’m not complaining,” he murmured into the phone, though his eyes never left me. Almost approving. Almost amused.
My cheeks burned, my stomach flipping with anger and something I hated to name.
Why did his approval sting as much as his insults?
He strode out, suit jacket flaring, and I followed, exhaling shaky bursts, my inhaler a reassuring weight in my pocket.
