Page 59 of Darkest Oblivion
My knees buckled, and the marble blurred beneath me as my body gave way.
Three nights ago, he had handed me a velvet box, inside it a crystal bottle of perfume—expensive, rare.
I remembered the warmth that had flooded me, the foolish spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, he was softening, that he had remembered my love for perfume, my obsession with scents.
I had cradled it in my palms like a treasure, smiling in the privacy of my room, inhaling it as though it were proof that beneath the monster, the boy I loved still lingered.
Now the truth gutted me.
It hadn’t been thoughtfulness.
It hadn’t been him reaching for me, remembering me. It had been Seraphina. Always Seraphina.
My gift was nothing more than her shadow wrapped in glass and ribbon, and my joy nothing more than a cruel joke.
The realization split me open. My stomach heaved, my chest seized, and tears burned hot down my cheeks as the memory of my own happiness turned rancid inside me, humiliation sinking its claws into my heart.
He continued, relentless, his voice the blade that wouldn’t stop cutting. “I’ll divorce her, send her back to her family, and take you as my wife once she bears my first child. That’s her only purpose here—beyond suffering for her sins and the shame of her parents.”
The wall scratched against my palms as I slumped to the floor, my body trembling violently. My heart raced, my lungs burning—not from asthma, but from panic, from the betrayal that hit me sharper than any physical blow.
The words clawed at me, gnawed at my chest, each syllable a reminder that Dmitri—the man I feared, hated, and still somehow longed for—could mock me in private, elevate another, and crush me with a single sentence.
Tears streamed freely, hot and helpless, tracing the curves I had always hated, soaking the fabric of my sleeves.
My body shivered, wracked with both fury and despair.
I hated how small I felt, hated the rush of betrayal that left me weak and exposed.
He had promised—sworn—that he wouldn’t mock me, wouldn’t body-shame me again. Yet here he was, speaking to someone else, a woman I was certain was Seraphina, laughing at me without shame.
All of it crashed over me at once—Antonio’s cruelty, the woman’s taunts at the ball, Dmitri’s hypocrisy—every insult cutting deeper than the last.
My stretch marks, my curves, my rolls—the things he had once called beautiful—felt grotesque, flaws branded into my skin.
Every promise, every twisted claim of ownership, felt like chains tightening around my soul.
I pressed my palms against the marble, grounding myself, hating how my body betrayed me—shaking, trembling, helpless.
My chest heaved as sobs wracked me, every inhale a sharp stab, every exhale a ragged whisper of pain. And yet, beneath it all, anger simmered, fiery.
When I crawled back to the cinema room, curling into a leather seat, I let the more tears fall freely, the hot streaks a release, a rebellion.
My hands gripped the edges, knuckles white, my body shaking with a mix of rage, and disbelief.
Hours—or maybe minutes—passed in a haze of grief and rage.
When my headache and sobs subsided enough for clarity, resolve hardened inside me like steel.
I stood, wiping at my tears, and marched to the bedroom.
Dmitri’s desk loomed in the dim light, his phone and wallet casually placed on the wardrobe’s edge.
I reached into my pocket, fingers brushing the cold metal of the device.
My pulse spiked, fear and determination coiling together as I pressed it against his phone, the magnetic snap reassuringly silent.
The deed done, I fled to the bathroom, the marble floor chilling under my bare feet.
