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Chapter 8: The Ghost in the Glass
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2026-01-19 22:38:24
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Dirty Valentine’s Secret Chapter 12: The Red Gala
The Red Gala was not merely a party; it was a blood sport dressed in silk and bathed in champagne.The Metropolitan Museum of Art had been transformed. Giant, cascading arrangements of black-magic roses hung from the ceilings, their scent so heavy it felt like a physical weight. The lighting was a deep, bruised crimson, casting long, sharp shadows against the ancient Egyptian stone of the Temple of Dendur.I stood in the dressing room of the penthouse, staring at the woman in the mirror. The dress Ethan had chosen—the liquid-black silk—clung to every curve, the plunging back exposing the skin he had claimed as his "investment." The black diamond necklace sat heavy against my collarbone, cold and unyielding."You look like a queen waiting for her executioner," a voice murmured from the doorway.Ethan stood there, resplendent in a tuxedo that made him look like a dark god. He walked toward me, his reflection joining mine in the glass. He didn't touch me at first. He simply watched."Ton
Dirty Valentine’s Secret Chapter 11: The Night the Rain Turned Cold
Flashback Seven years AgoThe glow of our first night together hadn't even faded before the shadows of my father’s life came crawling back.I was walking home from the diner, the smell of grease and cheap dish soap clinging to my skin, when I saw the black sedan parked outside our rusted-out trailer. It didn't belong in this neighborhood. It was too clean, too expensive, and it looked like a hearse waiting for a body.I found my father, Victor, slumped at the kitchen table. His face was a map of terror, his hands shaking so hard he couldn't hold his cigarette. Standing over him was a man in a sharp, cheap suit—the kind of man who didn't use his own hands to hurt people."Aria," my father gasped, his eyes darting to me. "Aria, thank God you’re home.""What is this, Dad?" I asked, my heart dropping into my stomach.The man in the suit turned to me. He had eyes like a shark—flat, black, and devoid of anything resembling a soul. "Your father has been very irresponsible, Ms. Monroe. He’s s
Dirty Valentine’s Secret Chapter 9: The Fitting Room
Part 1: The Debt The morning after the rehearsal brought a new kind of silence to the penthouse. Ethan had disappeared before the sun hit the glass of the skyscrapers, but he had left behind a "gift" on the mahogany dining table: a single, cream-colored envelope. Inside was a black titanium card and a note written in his aggressive, sharp cursive.“Eleven o'clock. Madison Avenue. Be ready. — E.”I spent the morning staring at the card. It felt heavy, like a piece of shrapnel. By the time the black SUV arrived to whisk me away, I had practiced my mask until it felt as rigid as the diamonds Ethan expected me to wear.The boutique was called L’Eclat. It was one of those places that didn't have prices on the tags because if you had to ask, you didn't belong in the building. The doors were locked to the public; for the next two hours, the entire three-story temple of fashion belonged to Ethan Hawke.And by extension, it belonged to me."Ms. Monroe," a woman with a razor-thin frame and hai
Dirty Valentine’s Secret Chapter 9: The Fitting Room
The morning after the rehearsal brought a new kind of silence to the penthouse. Ethan had disappeared before the sun hit the glass of the skyscrapers, but he had left behind a "gift" on the mahogany dining table: a single, cream-colored envelope. Inside was a black titanium card and a note written in his aggressive, sharp cursive.“Eleven o'clock. Madison Avenue. Be ready. — E.”I spent the morning staring at the card. It felt heavy, like a piece of shrapnel. By the time the black SUV arrived to whisk me away, I had practiced my mask until it felt as rigid as the diamonds Ethan expected me to wear.The boutique was called L’Eclat. It was one of those places that didn't have prices on the tags because if you had to ask, you didn't belong in the building. The doors were locked to the public; for the next two hours, the entire three-story temple of fashion belonged to Ethan Hawke.And by extension, it belonged to me."Ms. Monroe," a woman with a razor-thin frame and hair pulled back so t
Dirty Valentine’s Secret Chapter 8: The Ghost in the Glass
The rest of the rehearsal was a blur of mechanical movements and Ethan’s suffocating presence. Every time Damian so much as glanced our way, Ethan’s grip on me would tighten, his thumb tracing the line of my ribcage through the thin silk of my dress—a silent, physical claim.When Ethan was finally pulled away by a frantic phone call from his head of acquisitions, I retreated to the ballroom’s terrace. I needed air that didn't smell like his cologne or the cloying scent of lilies.The terrace was a stone ledge overlooking the city, the wind whipping my hair into a tangled mess. I leaned against the railing, my fingers tracing the cold ruby on my left hand."It’s a beautiful shackle, isn't it?"I didn't turn around. I knew the voice. "Damian. You shouldn't be out here. If Ethan sees us talking—""He’s currently screaming at a CEO in the hallway. We have five minutes," Damian said, stepping up to the railing beside me. He didn't look at me; he looked out at the skyline. "You look tired,
Dirty Valentine’s Secret Chapter 7: The Dancing Shadows
The ballroom of the Imperial Hotel was a cavernous, gilded nightmare. Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen explosions from the ceiling, their light reflecting off the freshly waxed floors. This was the venue for the Valentine’s Gala, the stage where Ethan and I were supposed to perform the ultimate lie.The air was thick with the scent of lilies and floor polish. A string quartet stood in the corner, tuning their instruments—the discordant scrapes and plucks of the violins setting my teeth on edge."Again," the instructor snapped. She was a woman named Madame Valeska, a skeletal figure who looked like she hadn't smiled since the Cold War. "Ms. Monroe, your posture is that of a wilted celery stalk. Shoulders back! You are to be a billionaire’s bride, not a beggar!"Ethan stood a few feet away, watching me with a clinical detachment that made me want to scream. He was in his shirtsleeves, his vest fitted perfectly to his frame. He stepped toward me, the quartet beginning a haunting, min
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