Page 1 of Savage Beauty

1

Josie

“You’re getting fat as hell.”

I glance at Marc with a sigh. “What did you say?” I ask.

“You heard.” His eyes narrow into a critical glare. “That dress leaves nothing to the imagination, and let’s not kid ourselves. You haven’t exactly been hitting the gym since we landed in the US.”

“We’re supposed to be celebrating.” I seek refuge in the soft folds of my pashmina. “You didn’t attach any conditions when you proposed. Do I need to shed ten pounds before our wedding tomorrow? Because unless there’s a drive-thru liposuction clinic nearby—”

More liketwentypounds.” Marc counts out a stack of bills. “Spare me the sarcasm. I didn’t sign up for a participation trophy wife. If you plan to stand by my side, maintain your appearance.”

This man is the limit. He already made me remove my piercings, and we’re engaged in an ongoing discussion about the length of my hair, which he wants me to grow longer. My curvier figure is his latest source of discontent.

Merry Christmas to me.

Leaving New York marked my escape from my old life. At fourteen, I ventured into the world of selling my body. Some men were willing to part with a small fortune for a young, frightened girl. After a decade of degradation, I yearned for the freedom to beanyonebut the person I’d become.

My journey with Marc kicked off in the summer. I met him in Toulouse during my European adventure, and he swept me off my feet with extravagant yacht trips and opulent dinners, culminating in a Tiffany engagement ring.

But love? Well, I soon discovered love doesn’t make it onto Marc’s radar. His affections extend only to himself. In exchange for a life of security and comfort, I endure his toxic attitude, and he remains ignorant of my troubled past.

Tomorrow, we will be married in a Las Vegas wedding chapel. It’s a far cry from my dream wedding, but it’s what Marc desires. My wealthy investment banker fiancé is all about his own needs, and marrying me is mostly about pissing off his father. Daddy Bonneville doesn’t want a curvy girl with tattoos for a daughter-in-law. I don’t give off the right old-money, Ivy-League vibes.

My fiancé becomes increasingly insufferable each day, but I can’t risk being pulled back into my former life. I’m damaged goods, and the world never lets me forget it. So, I opt for silence and a painted-on smile, all in exchange for the trappings of a privileged lifestyle. It’s a charade of being someone I’m not, and it suits me just fine.

Iusedto want things. But I stopped dreaming long ago.

With Marc tapping his foot impatiently behind me, I seize the opportunity to irk him further. After all, didn’t he just stress the importance of my appearance?

“Just fixing my makeup, honey,” I say, meeting my own gaze in the mirror. “I want to make sure I don’t let you down.”

“Hurry up,” he snaps.

Marc is never this demanding in bed. He’s like a trigger-happy college kid but without the enthusiasm. How he can only last three thrusts yet seem so utterly bored is beyond me, but I must play along; my moans of ecstasy are unrealistic, but his precious ego matters more to him than my pleasure. Besides, I know he fucks around.

My husband-to-be has a thing for whores. It’s more than ironic; somehow, I feel it’s karma. It’s not as though Iwantedto be a call girl, but it doesn’t change the fact that most of my clients were married to lonely women with empty lives. Just like me.

I’m putting my lip gloss wand back in the tube when Marc grabs my arm.

“Now,” he says. “I’m done waiting. We’re going to eat.”

* * *

In the hotel restaurant, Marc and I look like every other affluent couple. You don’t stay at the Venetian without the bankroll to match. The maître d’ clucks and fusses around us, guiding us around the gigantic Christmas tree to our window table. En route, a figure briefly crosses my line of sight, vanishing through a side door in the blink of an eye.

My breath catches in my throat. He looked so much like…no. It wasn’t him.I’m losing my mind.

Back in the spring, my best friend Morgana married Vlad Kislev, the man who is now the pakhan of New York City’s most powerful bratva family. I worked at one of the family’s businesses and spent a lot of time with Vlad’s younger brother, Sasha.

SweetJesus, that man. I wanted him like no one else, and I gave him all the signs—the glances, the flirtatious smiles, the banter. But he was preoccupied with the shit that went down, and then he was at his brother’s side, taking care of legal and criminal business. Soon, he had no time for me anymore.

I didn’t believe I could be any more broken than I already was, but when Sasha distanced himself from me, I understood what I’d done. I’d let myself believe a bratva man could love me. After all, it happened to Morgana. But when Vlad saved her, her rough life hadn’t yet corroded her soul. Not like mine had.

Sasha knew there were things left unsaid between us, and all the time I waited at the airport gate, I hoped he’d run in and stop me, just like in the movies. But he didn’t, and I took my broken heart with me, cursing his name and my foolishness.

I thought I’d left those childish notions behind long ago. Yet, like an idiot, I yearned for something that wasn’t real.

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