Page 110 of Dirty Game
"You know what the saddest part is?" She pulls tighter, and my vision goes gray at the edges, darkness creeping in like fog. "You actually think he loves you. That virgin payment thinking she's found her happily ever after. Like you're some fairy tale princess who tamed the beast with your innocence."
The world tilts.
My legs give out completely, but she controls my fall, keeping the wire tight as I sink to my knees.
She's done this before, knows exactly how much pressure to apply, how long a person can go without air before permanent damage.
"I could kill you right now," she muses, like she's discussing the weather. "Make it look like you killed yourself. Couldn't handle the pressure. Couldn't compete with his past. He'd believe it. You're so fucking fragile. So broken already. Uncle who sold you, brother who burned you. It would make perfect sense—poor little Rosalynn, finally found something good and couldn't handle it."
My vision tunnels.
My hands stop clawing, falling limp to my sides.
This is it. This is how I die—not from my family's cruelty or a buyer's violence, but from the woman who had him first.
Who marked him permanently.
Who gave him what I never can.
Then, just as the darkness takes me completely, just as I'm ready to let go, she releases the wire.
I collapse, gasping, choking on air that burns like acid down my traumatized throat.
Each breath is a razor blade, each cough brings up flecks of blood.
My throat feels crushed, like she's restructured it from the inside.
I can't see through the tears streaming down my face, can't hear through the roaring in my ears.
When my vision clears—slowly, painfully—she's crouched in front of me, studying my face like a scientist examining a specimen.
She cocks her head to the side, and she reaches out to wipe a tear from my cheek with mock gentleness.
"But killing you would be too easy," she says, her voice philosophical. "Death is so final, so... boring. I want you alive.Want you to watch as he chooses his son over you. Want you to see the exact moment you realize you were never enough. Never the first choice. Never the priority."
She stands, smooths her perfect hair that hasn't moved despite the violence. "Besides, Mikhail has plans for you. Special plans. He's quite creative when it comes to breaking pretty things."
I try to speak, but only a croak comes out, my vocal cords traumatized.
"Oh, and Rosalynn?" She pauses at the door, hand on the frame. "That thing you found in the shipping manifests? The weapons? We wanted you to find them. Every breadcrumb, every pattern, every discrepancy—all carefully planted for your clever little brain to discover. Varrick's walking into a trap right now, and it's all thanks to your brilliant discovery."
My blood turns to ice. The port. The weapons. I sent him into an ambush.
The door opens. She calls out sweetly, maternal mask back in place, "Dante, baby, come say goodbye to Daddy's friend."
He appears in the doorway, sees me on the floor, and his swollen eye widens.
He knows this scene, has probably seen his mother leave other women like this.
"Is she hurt?" His small voice carries genuine concern.
"She just fell," Sienna lies smoothly, naturally. "Clumsy thing. Some people just can't handle the altitude up here."
Dante looks between us, and I see Varrick's intelligence in that small face, see him processing the lie.
He knows she's lying, but he also knows better than to contradict her.
That's probably what earned him the bruised eye in the first place.
