Page 12 of Darkest Oblivion (Doomed Vows #1)

The silence shredded me, but I pressed on, my voice breaking into a raw whisper. “Dmitri... I need to know. Don’t hide behind silence. If you hate me, if I destroyed something in you, then tell me what it was. Tell me why. Don’t leave me clawing at ghosts.”

The car slowed, the engine’s purr fading. Giovanni stepped out, adjusting his cuffs.

“Stay close,” Dmitri said brusquely as he stepped down from the car.

He hadn’t answered a single question. Not one. As if my words meant nothing to him. As if he no longer had emotions at all—perhaps he truly didn’t. The thought hollowed me, hurt worse than any cruelty he could have spoken.

He didn’t glance back. His silence was a blade, sharper than insult, cutting deep into the places I still remembered him as human. My chest seared, as though carved open by it.

Then the door on my side swung wide. He stood there, hand extended, his face unreadable. My pulse hammered. I placed my hand in his, the touch both a lifeline and a shackle, and he led me out into the grand hall.

Crystal chandeliers blazed like icy suns, casting prisms over marble floors polished to a mirror sheen.

Men in tailored tuxedos leaned against gilded pillars, their sharp eyes glinting with malice.

Women in dripping jewels swept past like predators dressed as peacocks.

Perfume, cigar smoke, and whiskey mingled thick in the air, the waltz echoing like a dirge.

Dmitri’s hand in mine was iron—possessive, protective, suffocating.

Whispers rippled around us, curiosity and envy laced with fear.

He guided me to a high mahogany table, velvet stools gleaming under crystal light. “I need to greet a few friends,” he said sharply. “Stay here.”

Then he was gone, his broad shoulders cutting through the crowd, approaching men in pinstripe suits and fedoras, their cigars glowing like embers.

They were kings. He was their dark prince. And I... I was the pawn he’d left behind.

I shifted on the stool, heat prickling at the back of my neck. That’s when I heard it—whispers slicing through the music.

“Look at her—she barely fits on that seat. God, her ass is spilling over.”

“She must sweat buckets in those clothes. How does he even touch her?”

“Dmitri’s wife? Please. If I had to kiss that mouth, I’d puke.”

Laughter—low, cruel—followed, hidden behind jeweled fans and crystal glasses.

My throat burned, my vision blurred, shame clawing its way into my chest.

Their words burrowed deep, echoing every insult Dmitri had ever spat at me. Heavy. Unremarkable, A burden on the eye.

I sat frozen, nails digging into my palms beneath the tablecloth, fighting not to crumble. They couldn’t see me break. Not here. Not now.

A server passed, his tray glittering with crystal flutes.

“A drink, please,” I said, forcing steadiness into my voice.

He handed me a glass, the champagne’s bitter burn sliding down my throat, failing to still the chaos spiraling in my chest.

This wasn’t a ballroom—it was a labyrinth designed to trap me.

Then I noticed it: a side corridor, discreet, where guests slipped in and out with practiced ease.

Impulse flared, smothering fear.

I rose and walked toward it, heart pounding with the fragile hope of escape.

The corridor spilled me onto a terrace that felt like another world entirely. A den of decadence. Dim torches licked shadows across couches and leather chairs, the air thick with smoke, sweat, and lust.

Bass-heavy music pulsed beneath my feet, while beyond, Lake Como glittered like liquid obsidian.

Shirtless men lounged, their tattoos shifting like serpents under the firelight.

Women in sheer dresses draped themselves across laps, laughter dissolving into gasps.

Against the balustrade, a man pinned a woman, rutting into her as she moaned against the stone. On a chaise, another woman straddled a man, her dress bunched at her hips, her cries sharp as a knife.

Heat surged up my throat.

This wasn’t a terrace. It was a brothel woven into the ball, a playground for the mafia’s darkest appetites.

“Penelope?”

The voice was silk dipped in venom.

I turned, heart lurching, and saw her.

Petite, elegant, her crimson gown painted across her body, diamonds glittering at her throat. Blonde hair swept high, green eyes cutting, her smirk polished to perfection. She moved with the ease of someone used to being adored.

“You’re the new bride, aren’t you?” Her gaze swept me like a measuring tape, from my curves to my plain black shirt. The corner of her lips curved in cruel amusement.

“I’m sorry,” I managed, keeping my voice steady. “Do I know you?”

Her laugh sliced through the night. “Oh, he never told you?” She leaned closer, her perfume cloying.

“He couldn’t be with her because she couldn’t give him a child.

And the mafia demands an heir before he turns thirty-one.

That’s why you’re here. You’re not permanent, darling. You’re a womb. Nothing more.”

Her words gutted me, echoing Dmitri’s cold confession in the car.

My breath hitched.

A child. An heir. Biology as destiny. My purpose reduced to flesh. Rage and shame collided.

Was this her? Seraphina. The ghost he’d compared me to, thrown at me like a knife. Slim, graceful, Desired. Everything I wasn’t.

“Leave.”

The word snapped like a whip.

Dmitri. His voice cut low and commanding, his eyes sharpened to steel.

The woman turned to him, unbothered, a smirk curving her crimson lips. She leaned in, fingers curling around his tie, her body arching against his with practiced seduction.

“Dmitri,” she purred, her voice rolling into a sultry moan. “I’ve missed you.”

“Take your hands off me,” he said, his tone cold and clipped.

“No.” Her refusal was a challenge, her grip on his tie tightening. She pressed closer, her curves molding to him like they belonged there. “She can’t stop you. She never could. You could fuck me right here, in front of her, and she wouldn’t matter.”

My heart lurched, my cheeks burning with humiliation.

My chest ached with something worse than rage—jealousy, sharp and poisonous.

She was everything he’d said I wasn’t. And I stood there, silent, paralyzed, trapped in a nightmare I couldn’t wake from.

My resolve wavered, but it didn’t die. If anything, it hardened. I would not be broken. Not here. Not by her. Not even by him.