Page 92 of Shadows of Steel
I click my tongue, turning my attention to the gathered women. “Spinning tales for attention? How utterly crass.” I gasp, pressing a hand delicately over my heart. “Surely, ladies, we can all agree, such behaviour is terribly unbecoming, no?”
The other woman shifts uncomfortably, glancing at Marta with something bordering on pity. Satisfied, I smirk, stepping past Marta and exiting the bathroom with the same confidence I walked in with.
Mario is waiting outside, arms crossed, a smirk plastered across his face. “Well played, signora. Well played.”
I roll my eyes but wink at him before walking off.
As the evening drags on. Dante and I move through the crowd, playing our roles flawlessly. He introduces me to men who bore me with business talk and women who flash fake smiles. I sip my drink, feigning interest, nodding at the right moments.
Eventually, Dante is drawn into yet another conversation, engaged in weighty discussions with men. Mind numbingly bored, I lean in slightly. “I’ll be at the bar.” I murmur, my tone smooth.
His grip on my waist tightens, just for a fraction of a second. He wants to follow. I can feel it. But before he can act, another man speaks, diverting his attention, forcing his focus elsewhere. I smirk and slip off.
Once at the bar, I take a seat, sipping my martini as I watch my husband from across the room.
He looks like a king among men, his broad shoulders encased in a sharp black tux, his movements powerful.
And then, as if conjured from thin air, Marta materializes. I watch as she boldly slips her hand into the crook of his arm, pressing herself closer, an intrusion cloaked in sheer audacity. Dante doesn’t register it at first, too engrossed in conversation, his focus elsewhere.
She leans in, murmuring something into his ear. His brows furrow, only now does he seem to realize who it is. Without hesitation, he removes her hand, an unspoken dismissal. But Marta isn’t finished. She places a hand against his chest, her fingers trailing downward, brazen. Then, as if emboldened by her own impudence, her hand drifts lower, fingers trailing over the fine leather of his belt, venturing dangerously close to his cock.
I freeze.
Without a moment’s pause, I turn away, unwilling to bear witness to such a spectacle.
A sharp, vicious ache cleaves through my chest, slicing through me like the edge of a finely honed blade. Tears prickle at my eyes, hot and unwanted. I lock them tight, so fucking tight because I refuse to let them fall.
This is precisely why I don’t succumb to emotions.
I grip my glass so tightly I’m almost surprised it doesn’t splinter beneath my hold. This is why I’ve always been cautious, why I’ve kept my walls fortified, because, in the end, people will always reveal exactly who they are.
And yet, beneath the ache, and the quiet devastation clawing at my chest, anger stirs, unforgiving and raw.
I am not a woman who will ever be publicly disgraced, much less reduced to a spectacle. If my husband believes he can stand idly by while another woman puts her hands on him, in front of his wife, no less, he is sorely mistaken.
I am mere seconds from rising when a presence slides into the seat beside me. The first thing I notice is the cologne, expensive, yet overindulgent. Then, the slow, practiced smirk. He’s handsome enough. Unremarkable, yet polished. But there’s something… off.
With a wave, he signals to the bartender. “Another martini for the exquisite lady.” I arch a brow, assessing him with quiet scrutiny.
“What’s a woman as captivating as you doing here all alone?” I barely resist the urge to sigh at the sheer predictability of it.
Still, the situation calls for a game.
I lean in, my voice a quiet whisper laced with amusement. “You saw the ring on my finger.” His smirk remains unwavering, insolent. “And yet, you still want something that belongs to another?”
He mirrors my movement, closing the distance, his breath warm against my skin as he murmurs, “I enjoy taking what belongs to others. Toying with what isn’t mine.”
His voice drips with arrogance, with blatant disrespect, and then, his fingers drift, tracing against the exposed skin of my back. Just as I prepare to put him in his place, he makes a mistake.
A grave one.
His hand dares to slide lower, skimming over my hip, hovering at the curve of my ass. I feel the shift, the intention, he’s about to squeeze.
Rage coils in my chest, a sharp, burning thing, as I brace myself to knock this arrogant bastard into the floor, another hand intervenes.
Large. Rough. Calloused.
It clamps down on the man’s wrist with an unforgiving grip, halting him mid action. I glance up, straight into the enraged, murderous eyes of my husband. His entire frame wound tight with pure, unrelenting wrath. He is so utterly, seething with fury it should be illegal.
