Page 75 of Beautifully Damned
“I don’t know what you mean.” My voice is even, detached.
Her eyes gleam. “Roman plays obsessed husband convincingly, doesn’t he? No one out there would imagine he was at his club, asking for me mere weeks before your wedding.”
I remember him returning reeking of cheap perfume, but we had no claim over each other then. We might not now, either. Her words are knives, but dull ones. My walls are too high. “I don’t care.”
Her brow arches.
“You can be his dirty little secret,” I say. “That’s all you’ll ever be. A body to use in the dark. But me? I’m the one he parades in the light.”
I’m not defending territory—Roman isn’t mine, never was. He belongs only to the Bratva and his past. But I want to hurt her back. I need an outlet.
Her lipstick pauses. My reflection overlaps hers. “You’ll never matter more than the heat of his body at night. You’ll never wear the diamonds. You’ll never sit at his table. You’ll always be nothing but a walking fuck.”
Her mask slips. She shuts her bag with a snap and leaves.
“Next time,” I call after her, “choose a man who remembers your name after he’s finished.”
The door slams. I breathe deep, trying to steady myself. Roman finds me the second I exit the bathroom. The woman brushes past him, her hand sliding toward his arm, but he shoves her off.
My eyes shoot fire at him.
“I didn’t touch her,” he blurts out the second he’s close enough.
I shrug. “I don’t care.”
“I want you to care,” he snaps. “I want you to hate the thought of anyone else touching me the way I can’t stand the idea of anyone else on you. Do you hear me? Since you walked into my life, I haven’t touched another woman. Not once.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out—only shock when he kneels in front of me.
“Your buckle’s loose,” he murmurs, low.
The room freezes. Whispers ripple. Eyes lock on us. Roman doesn’t care. He takes my ankle, buckles the strap of my heel.
Then he bows lower. His lips press to the top of my foot, then my toes—with half the city watching. The woman who tried to touch him stares, her mouth wide open.
And I realize: this is why he held this event. Not for business or power. For this. For humiliating himself the way he once humiliated me. For making it clear this isn’t a game anymore.
He’s giving me back everything he took.
Roman, the man everyone fears, kneeling at my feet in front of the entire mafia world.
It should be laughable.
But no one laughs.
?Chapter XLIX?
Ayla
Light always promises to come after the dark. They say the sun returns, steady and sure. But I’m not sure it shines for me—and if it does, I doubt the source is Roman Volkov.
Yes, he knelt in front of the same people who saw him break me. But that doesn’t mean I’m grateful. It doesn’t mean I feel whole again. It doesn’t even mean I feel loved.
I collapse on the bed, sobs tearing through me until my face is streaked with mascara and snot. Inside, I’m a contradiction. My chest aches for him to stay, yet my head screams for distance. I want him close and I want him gone.
The door bursts open, and Roman storms in, chest heaving.
“Why are you crying?” His brow cuts deep with frustration, but his tone is low, almost pleading. “You just had the devil himself kneel in front of you. I gave that back. I made them watch me fall for you.” He steps closer. “If it isn’t enough, I’ll do it again. We’ll redo the wedding. I’ll kneel then too. Anything. Anything to show you I—”
