Page 60 of Darkest Oblivion
I let the hot water cascade over me, burning away my tears but not the ache in my chest.
Every drop felt like defiance, every shiver like a heartbeat of freedom.
When I returned to the bedroom, Dmitri and his phone were gone, leaving only the quiet weight of my act and the lingering storm of what might come next.
Hours passed. I must have dozed, drifting between consciousness and a restless, uneasy sleep, only to wake with a start.
The clock glared 3 AM.
He wasn’t on the bed beside me.
The empty space felt like a cavern, swallowing me whole.
He had left me utterly alone—no friends, no warmth, no reassurance—just the suffocating weight of his absence pressing against my chest.
We were married, but there was no comfort in his silence, no acknowledgment of my presence, no trace of humanity.
I was a wife in name only, a vessel for an heir I didn’t want, a pawn in a war whose rules I barely understood.
My heart thudded painfully.
My mind twisted. Was he with Seraphina now?
Her perfume on his skin, her lipstick staining his collar? The thought burned like acid in my chest. Betrayal, jealousy, and a foolish, lingering love for the boy he’d been—sweet, laughing, gentle—tangled with the monster he’d become.
Sleep was impossible.
My eyes, wide and unblinking, fixed on the ceiling as the alarm clock’s red digits glared back like a judge.
When the shrill beep finally sounded, it tore through the silence, dragging me into a day I wasn’t ready to face. My body felt hollow; my soul felt crushed under the weight of gold-plated walls and cold marble floors.
I shuffled to the wardrobe, hands trembling as they reached for a Polaroid I had hidden—a fragment of my past.
Me at fifteen, Dmitri beside me, his smile soft, untainted, his hand holding mine.
I clutched it, tears hot against my cheeks, and with a trembling hand, tore it in half.
The rip echoed in the silence, a visceral punctuation to my heartbreak.
I sank to the floor, the fragments scattered around me like shards of my soul, my sobs stifled but raw.
Depression settled like a lead weight over my chest, a gilded cage that threatened to suffocate me entirely.
Chapter 16
PENELOPE
A sharp knock shattered the fragile silence of my despair, dragging me from the depths of the wardrobe where I huddled, surrounded by gowns that mocked my every curve.
My chest tightened.
Could it be Dmitri? Of course not. He wouldn’t knock politely; he would barge in, his obsession so tangible it would leave no space for anything but him.
“Who is it?” I called out, my voice raw from hours of tears.
“Giovanni, ma’am,” came the measured reply. “Mr. Dmitri has been shot... he’s in the hospital. Barely conscious.”
The words slammed into me like a physical blow.
