Chapter 6: Fractured Vows

The bridal boutique’s air was thick with the scent of silk and lace, the kind of sweet, suffocating perfume that clung to the throat like regret.

Sarah stood frozen in her bridesmaid gown, the emerald fabric clinging to her hips, the neckline dipping just low enough to tease the swell of her breasts—breasts that Damian’s hands had claimed only days before.

The memory of his rough palms skimming over her skin, his teeth grazing her nipple until she whimpered, sent a traitorous heat pooling between her thighs.

She shifted, the satin lining of the dress whispering against her inner thighs, a mocking reminder of how easily she’d spread for him.

Eleanor twirled in front of the floor-length mirror, her wedding dress a cascade of ivory and delicate beadwork, her face alight with a joy so pure it made Sarah’s stomach twist. 

“Oh, Sar, isn’t it perfect?” Eleanor breathed, pressing a hand to her chest as if she could contain the happiness threatening to burst from her. 

“I never thought I’d find something that made me feel like this—like I’m already his.” She giggled, the sound high and bright, and Sarah forced a smile, her fingers digging into the fabric of her skirt. His. The word echoed in her skull, a hammer blow to her conscience.

Eleanor wasn’t just talking about the dress. She was talking about Damian—about the way he’d looked at her last night over dinner, his thumb tracing the rim of his whiskey glass as he murmured something that made Eleanor blush.

The same hands that had pinned Sarah to the wall of his office, his cock thick and demanding between her legs, his voice a dark growl in her ear: “You’re mine when I want you, Sarah. No matter who’s watching.”

“It’s stunning,” Sarah managed, her voice tight.

The lie tasted like ash. She reached for the champagne flute on the velvet chaise, the cold crystal biting into her fingers.

The bubbles fizzed against her tongue, sharp and bitter, just like the truth she was drowning in. Eleanor was her best friend and ofcourse her own mother. And Sarah had let Damian fuck her against his desk like a cheap whore, her legs wrapped around his waist, her moans swallowed by his filthy, demanding mouth.

Eleanor clapped her hands, oblivious. “We should celebrate! Lunch at La Sirenne—Damian’s treating us. He texted me this morning, said he had a meeting nearby and wanted to see me in my dress.” She beamed, her fingers fluttering over the delicate lace at her collarbone. “Isn’t that sweet?”

Sarah’s grip on the flute tightened. Sweet. Right. Because Damian was the picture of devotion—right up until he had Sarah bent over his couch, her skirt hiked up, his cock buried so deep inside her she could still feel the ghost of him stretching her open. 

“Of course,” she said, the words grinding out between her teeth. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

The mall was a cacophony of polished marble and chattering voices, the air conditioning doing little to cut through the humid press of bodies.

Sarah trailed behind Eleanor, her heels clicking against the tile, the shopping bags swinging from her fingers like dead weight. She could feel the sweat prickling at the nape of her neck, her silk blouse clinging to the curve of her spine. Every step was a reminder: You don’t deserve to be here. You don’t deserve her.

Then she saw him.

Damian stood near the entrance of a high-end watch boutique, one shoulder leaned against the glass display, his suit jacket slung over his arm. His tie was loose, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, revealing a slash of golden skin. The sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled to his elbows, the corded muscles of his forearms flexing as he adjusted his cufflinks. He looked every inch the predatory businessman—sharp, untouchable, hungry.

Sarah’s breath hitched. Her body reacted before her mind could stop it: her nipples tightened, the lace of her bra suddenly too rough against her sensitive flesh, her pulse throbbing between her legs. 

No. No, no, no. 

She tore her gaze away, but it was too late. Damian’s head lifted, his dark eyes locking onto hers with the precision of a sniper’s scope. A slow, knowing smirk curled his lips, and for a heartbeat, the mall faded away—there was only him, and the memory of his hands on her, his cock filling her, his voice in her ear: “You’re going to be a good girl and take what I give you, aren’t you?”

“Damian!” Eleanor’s voice cut through the tension like a knife. She bounced toward him, her dress bag draped over her arm, her face alight. “You came!”

Damian pushed off the display, his smile easy, practiced. 

“Wouldn’t miss it.” His gaze flicked to Sarah for the briefest second—just long enough for her to see the dark promise in his eyes—before he turned his full attention to Eleanor. “You look radiant, mi amor.”

Eleanor preened, rising onto her toes to press a kiss to his cheek. “Wait until you see the dress.”

Sarah’s stomach lurched. She should’ve known he’d be here. Should’ve prepared for the way her body would betray her, for the way her skin would prickle with the memory of his touch. But seeing him now, so effortlessly charming, so hers—no, not hers, never hers—it was worse than she’d imagined.

Damian’s arm slipped around Eleanor’s waist, possessive, proud. 

“I can’t wait.” His voice was smooth, but Sarah heard the undercurrent, the dark thread of amusement woven through his words. H

e knew. He knew what he was doing to her, how every glance, every casual brush of his fingers against Eleanor’s hip, was a blade twisting in Sarah’s gut.

Eleanor looped her arm through his, tugging him toward Sarah. “Look who else is here! Sar’s been helping me pick everything out.”

Damian’s gaze slid to Sarah, slow and deliberate, like a caress. “Sarah,” he said, her name a sin on his tongue. “I didn’t realize you’d be joining us.”

The air between them crackled, charged with something electric and dangerous. Sarah’s fingers curled into fists, her nails biting into her palms. “Mom invited me,” she said, her voice steady despite the storm inside her. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

Damian’s smirk deepened. “Nonsense. The more the merrier.”

Eleanor laughed, tugging him forward. “Come on, you two. Let’s eat!”

Sarah followed, her legs moving on autopilot, her mind a whirlwind of fuck and this is a mistake and why does he have to smell like that—like cedar and whiskey and sin. 

The restaurant was all polished chrome and low lighting, the kind of place where deals were made and secrets were buried.

Damian pulled out Eleanor’s chair with a flourish, his hand lingering on the small of her back as she sat. Sarah’s chair scraped against the tile as she took her seat, her skirt riding up just enough to tease the tops of her thighs.

Damian’s gaze flicked to the exposed skin, his pupils darkening for the briefest second before he turned his attention to the menu.

The waiter arrived, reciting the specials in a smooth, practiced tone. Damian ordered for the table without hesitation—oysters to start, steak for him, the seafood risotto for Eleanor.

When his gaze landed on Sarah, she felt the weight of it like a physical touch. “And for you?”

She swallowed. “Just the salad.”

His eyebrow arched, a silent challenge. “You sure? The scallops are excellent.”

“I’m sure.”

Eleanor chattered on, oblivious, her fingers tracing the rim of her water glass. “Damian’s been so busy with work, but he insisted on making time for this. Isn’t he the best?”

Sarah’s fork clinked against her plate. The best. Right. The best at ruining lives, at making women beg, at playing the doting fiancé while his cock was still wet from another woman’s cunt.

Damian reached across the table, his fingers brushing Eleanor’s wrist. “Anything for you, mi vida.”

Sarah’s appetite vanished. She pushed her salad around her plate, the lettuce wilting under the dressing. Every time Damian laughed, every time Eleanor leaned into him, Sarah’s chest tightened, her guilt curdling into something darker, something ugly. She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t want him. But god help her, she did. She wanted his hands on her, his mouth on hers, his cock filling her up until she couldn’t remember her own name.

The main courses arrived, the scent of garlic and seared meat thick in the air. Damian cut into his steak with practiced ease, the knife glinting under the chandelier light. Sarah watched his fingers, remembered how they’d felt tangled in her hair, pulling just hard enough to make her gasp.

She couldn’t do this. Couldn’t sit here and pretend.

Sarah set her fork down with a sharp clink. “I need to use the restroom.”

Eleanor barely glanced up. “Okay, sweetie.”

Damian’s gaze followed her as she stood, his expression unreadable. Sarah’s heels clicked against the marble floor, her pulse roaring in her ears. The restroom was a sanctuary of cool tile and soft lighting, the scent of jasmine hand soap cloying. She gripped the edge of the sink, her reflection a stranger—cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes wild.

What the hell are you doing?

She splashed water on her face, the cold shock doing little to clear her head. She was playing with fire. No—she’d already been burned. And yet, here she was, still reaching for the flames.

The door swung open behind her. Sarah didn’t need to turn around to know it was him. The air changed, charged with his presence, his heat. His reflection appeared in the mirror, tall and broad-shouldered, his suit jacket gone, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. 

“You’re trembling,” Damian murmured, stepping closer. His fingers brushed the small of her back, and Sarah jerked away, her hip hitting the sink.

“Don’t touch me.”

He chuckled, low and dark. “That’s not what you said last time.”

Her face burned. “That was a mistake.”

“Was it?” His hand shot out, gripping her wrist, pulling her against him. The hard ridge of his cock pressed against her stomach, thick and demanding even through the fabric of his slacks. Sarah’s breath hitched, her body betraying her, her nipples hardening, her thighs clenching. “You were begging for me, Sarah. Moaning my name like a good little whore.”

“Stop it,” she whispered, but her voice lacked conviction.

His other hand cupped her jaw, his thumb tracing her lower lip. “You want me to stop?” His mouth hovered over hers, his breath hot, tinged with whiskey. “Or do you want me to remind you how good it feels when I fuck you?”

Sarah’s knees nearly buckled. She should push him away. Should scream, should run. But her hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, her body arching into his. “Damian—”

The door swung open.

Sarah froze.

Eleanor stood in the doorway, her smile faltering, her eyes widening as she took in the scene—Damian’s hands on Sarah, Sarah’s lips parted, her body flushed with guilt and desire.

“Oh,” Eleanor breathed. “I—I didn’t realize—”

Damian stepped back smoothly, his expression shifting into something easy, unconcerned. “Sarah was just telling me about the dress fittings. Weren’t you, Sarah?”

Sarah’s heart hammered against her ribs. Eleanor’s gaze flicked between them, confusion clouding her features. “Oh. Right. Of course.”

Damian’s hand found the small of Sarah’s back again, possessive, claiming. “We should get back to the table. Wouldn’t want the food to get cold.”

Eleanor’s laugh was bright, forced. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

Sarah let Damian guide her out, her legs unsteady, her mind reeling. The restaurant blurred around her, the clink of silverware and murmur of conversation a distant hum. Eleanor was talking, laughing, but Sarah couldn’t focus. All she could feel was Damian’s hand on her back, the heat of his body beside hers, the unspoken promise in his touch.

This isn’t over.

And god help her, she didn’t want it to be.