Page 8 of Sweet Deception
“I don’t need your love,” he said. “But I will have your loyalty. One way or another.”
I stared at him, breathing hard.
“I’ll never be loyal to you.”
His eyes gleamed. “You will. When I show you the truth of your blood.”
He stood.
“You have two minutes to say goodbye,” he said, nodding at Elisabetta’s corpse. “Then you will bathe, change, and dine with me. Like the wife you now are.”
He stood, towering over me, and I braced myself. But he didn’t strike. Instead, he turned to the wall, a massive oil painting of a stern woman in a fur coat, her eyes dark and piercing. Hismother, I realized, the resemblance unmistakable. He stared at it, silent, then pulled a knife from his belt. The blade gleamed, still flecked with Elisabetta’s blood.
“What are you...” He slashed the canvas, a vicious diagonal cut from her throat to her waist. The sound, ripping fabric, splintering frame, tore through me. I flinched, hands gripping the wheels. He didn’t stop. Another slash, then another, until her face was ribbons, the painting sagging in ruin.
My breath caught. “Why?” He turned, knife in hand, blood dripping from the tip. “Your mother took her from me.” His voice was ice, each word a shard. “She set the fire that burned her alive.”
I stared, stunned. “That’s impossible.”
He stepped closer, the knife hovering near my face, not touching, but close enough to feel its chill. “Your family destroys. I rebuild. That’s why you’re here.”
He grabbed my wrist, yanking me forward in the chair. The sudden jolt sent pain shooting through my useless legs. His grip was iron, his breath hot against my ear. “You’ll give me a son or I’ll carve every piece of you they’ve touched until there’s nothing left to mourn.”
He released me, shoving me back. I caught myself on the armrests, trembling, as he wiped the blade on his sleeve. “In five minutes, you’ll sit across from me, wear your grief like a crown, and remember what happens to those who betray you. Or this...” he gestured to the shredded painting, then to Elisabetta’s corpse...“is just the start.”
He walked out, the knife still in hand, leaving me with the wreckage, ashes, blood, and a threat that sank into my bones. I didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not until the echo of his boots faded, and the silence pressed in, heavier than his hands ever could.
Left me with the blood, the silence, and a grief so sharp it carved through my ribs.
And still, I didn’t cry.
I braced myself, muscles trembling, and pushed against the chair. Stand. Just stand. For once. My legs twitched, a flicker of hope, then buckled. Pain shot through my hips as I slid forward, my jaw slamming into the table’s edge. I crumpled to the floor, a gasp tearing from my throat, the bruise throbbing hot and sharp. Useless. Always useless.
I dragged myself back into the chair, every inch a battle, my breath ragged. The silence pressed in, heavier than his threats, as I clutched the wheels, ash-streaked and bruised.
I wheeled away, the wreckage blurring past me, until the bedroom door shut out the blood and silence swallowed me.
Gleb’s voice still echoed in my bones.
My fingers trembled against the wheel rims. The dress clung to me, stiff with dried blood. I gripped the velvet where Elisabetta’s hands had once smoothed it, trying to remember the warmth.
Five minutes. That’s all I had. I’d already wasted two just breathing.
In the next two, I changed.
The dress was silk. Black. Heavy.
It clung to my skin like mourning.
I chose it on purpose.
He hadn’t given me options. The wardrobe was curated, like a dollhouse for a grieving wife but I still made it a weapon. I didn’t brush my hair. Didn’t apply makeup. Didn’t cover the bruise forming at my temple.
Let him look.
I descended the stairs slowly. My leg ached with each step, but I didn’t flinch. I made him wait.
He was already seated, posture straight, cutlery perfectly placed. His suit was charcoal. Tie loose, like the aftermath of a funeral.
