Page 41 of Darkest Oblivion

“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.