Page 48 of Beautifully Damned (Sinful Fates #2)

Ayla

I’m in a red dress, diamonds hanging from my ears, climbing my wrists, even coiled around my ankles. All Roman’s gifts. He’s planned an event tonight—a gathering of mafia syndicates. Mine won’t be attending, even though Roman invited them.

They sent Emir as their representative. I understand why—they don’t want to toast beside the man who set them back decades—but the absence still cuts. They know I was nearly torn apart by dogs, that I could’ve died, but they didn’t come.

The zipper of my dress catches halfway up my back, and I fight with it.

“Come in,” I call when a knock sounds, expecting Elena, but Roman walks in instead. Lethal in a navy suit, he draws out the cold, merciless blue of his eyes. Even dressed for civility, he carries an aura that makes the room heavier.

That night flashes in my mind—him kneeling, begging me to show him how to love. But I’ve spent my whole life loving harder than I was loved back, forgiving people who didn’t deserve it, bending myself until I broke. I won’t split myself open again.

I wasn’t made for peace, or soft edges, or love. Vulnerability has always been my undoing, and I can’t afford it anymore.

We look like opposites reflected together in the mirror.

His presence is steel and scars. Mine is lace stretched thin over bruises.

He lowers his head, pressing his lips to my neck.

His touch is poison and antidote both. It reminds me of him discarding me—the night I gave him my first time, wishing afterward it had been my last. The way my body still burns for him, even while my mind whispers warnings.

He drags my zipper up, his thumb grazing the dip of my spine. “You’re beautiful,” he hums.

I step away, but he doesn’t release me. Without a word, he laces our hands and guides me out of the room. My heels click against the floor in rhythm with my heart, carrying me closer to a hall filled with monsters.

The weight of a hundred eyes hits when we step inside.

The last time they stared at me, I was in white silk, humiliated.

Tonight, they wear different masks. Some laugh like I’m an inside joke, others feign sympathy, and a few simply measure the diamonds dripping from my skin against the worth of the woman wearing them.

“Smile, wife,” Roman breathes against my ear.

I force a smile that stretches too wide. They all remember him turning me into a spectacle. My smile feels like blood on my lips.

We weave through a forest of black suits and whispered greetings. I nod, I laugh, I pretend.

Roman’s mouth finds my cheek, my temple, the curve of my throat.

A man who once swore he would ruin me now acts as though he can’t breathe unless he’s touching me.

And the people stare harder. Confusion shadows their faces.

How can this monster cradle the very woman he once destroyed? I wonder it too.

Roman’s grip tightens when Emir steps forward. His nose is crooked, purpled, swollen—Roman’s work.

“Ayla.” Emir’s voice falters. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“I take care of my wife well. Don’t worry yourself, Emir.”

The sulk in Roman’s voice nearly makes me laugh, though the sound would choke me.

Emir moves closer, arms parting, but Roman blocks him with his body.

I sigh, rolling my eyes. “I’m fine, Emir. Thanks for asking.”

He hesitates. “Did you—” He cuts himself off. Whatever he was about to ask burns between us.

Roman bristles, anger flaring. “Did she what, Emir? Agree to your little escape plan?”

“Roman. Emir. Stop,” I hiss. I turn to Emir, softer. “I know you were trying to help. Thank you for that. But I can’t run. There’s no running from this life, and you know it.”

His face hardens. In that moment, I’m unworthy of words, and he leaves me standing in the wreckage of his disappointment.

Another person I’ve failed. Another who wanted more than I could give. What does he expect? That I’d throw myself into the fire with him? Outrun a shadow as large as Roman’s? He would have died for me. And I would’ve carried that death like a stone in my chest forever.

I brace for Roman’s smugness, but when I face him, his expression is stormy. He isn’t pleased.

I can’t seem to make anyone happy. No matter what I say, no matter what I choose, I’m always too much and never enough.

“I need the ladies’ room,” I mumble.

Roman’s about to follow, but something in my face stops him. The bathroom is mercifully empty. I brace against the sink, head bowed, lungs straining against the panic clawing up my throat.

Heels click against marble. I raise my head, masking my face. A woman appears in the mirror. My echo in another life—similar build, hair the same shade of blonde-brown, fair skin. She applies lipstick.

“You two put on quite a show out there,” she says, dragging red across her lips.

“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.