Shattered princess

Chapter 3

Scarlett’s POV

The shower spray ran freezing cold, but it couldn't wash away the stinging burn of Christian’s words. I pulled my knees to my chest right there on the wet tile, sobbing until my throat hurt. He used me. He ruined me. And then he handed me right back to my father. For five years I had loved a monster and I had no time to grieve.

The heavy thud of my bedroom door closing signaled his departure, instantly followed by the click of my stepmother’s heels in the hallway. Beatrice. She didn't even knock before throwing the door open, her sharp eyes scanning my disheveled state with suspicion.

"Get up, Scarlett," she sneered, tossing a garment bag onto my bed. "Your father’s guests are arriving. Do not disappoint him today."

I had already disappointed him and it was only a matter of time until he found out. I stiffled tears and walked out of the bathroom, clutching my towel around my body.

Inside the bag was a pristine, long-sleeved white silk dress. It was designed to make me look like a pure, untouched angel—the perfect mafia currency. Salvatore loved me fiercely; I was his ultimate pride, his perfect princess. I knew he only wanted this perfect alliance to secure my future. A future I had already ruined by f*cking my stepbrother.

After Beatrice left, I rushed to the vanity mirror. My heart stopped. Christian’s teeth and fingers had left dark, bruising marks along my neck and down toward my collarbone.

Panic spiking, I grabbed my concealer and layered it over the dark purple hickeys. I brushed my hair over my shoulders, hoping it would hide the rest, and forced my face into a mask of submission.

When I walked down to the dining room, the air was thick with cigar smoke and expensive alcohol. My father, Salvatore, sat at the head of the long mahogany table. The moment he saw me, his stern face softened into a warm, adoring smile.

"Ah, there she is. My beautiful Scarlett. The pride of the family."

Today, his words felt like a bullet.

Opposite him sat Damian—the brutal Underboss my father had chosen to be my husband. Damian was broad, imposing and handsome. But he wasn't Christian. My chest hurt.

"A fitting bride for the future leader of our northern territories."

“It's a pleasure to meet you Damian.” I greeted with a tense smile and sank into my seat slowly. I only hoped no one had noticed my unusual gait, the repercussion of my sin.

Damian didn't smile. He just stared at me, his gaze tracking the nervous twitch of my fingers, the way I kept adjusting my hair, and the stiff posture of my neck. He leaned forward, resting his heavy forearms on the table. "You look tense, Salvatore's princess. Are you afraid of me?"

"No," I whispered, my voice trembling slightly.

"Then look at me while I speak to you," Damian commanded.

I reluctantly tilted my chin up and the chandelier’s light found my face and neck.

Damian’s eyes narrowed instantly. I froze at the suspicious look in his eyes. Could he see through the pretense in my eyes?

Before I could react, Damian reached across the table, his rough fingers gripping my jaw tightly. I whimpered but he didn't care. He twisted my head to the side, his thumb rubbing brutally against my collarbone.

“Damian!” Father yelled but he didn’t relent. The friction wiped away the makeup completely, exposing the dark, unmistakable hickeys Christian had left just an hour ago.

Damian shoved me away hard and my head snapped back. He stood up, his chair screeching violently against the floor.

"What is the meaning of this, Salvatore?!" Damian’s voice was a lethal hiss.

My father froze, his cigar hovering inches from his lips. "Damian, what are you—"

"Look at her!" Damian roared, pointing a finger at my neck. "You offered me a virgin princess to seal our alliance! You swore she was untouched! Instead, you hand me a used whore who still carries the fresh marks of another man's mouth! The scent of him is practically dripping off her!"

I should have showered again but I couldn't help but keep Christian's scent. It was the only thing of his I had left.

Father stood up, his face turning, dangerous as he looked from Damian to my bruised throat. "Damian, wait—"

"The deal is off," Damian snarled, slamming his palms on the table. "I reject her. Keep your soiled garbage. I won't take another man's leftovers." He turned on his heel and stormed out of the house, his bodyguards trailing closely behind him.

The heavy dining room doors slammed shut and the silence that followed was suffocating.

My father slowly turned his gaze toward me. The adoration that usually filled his eyes was completely gone, replaced by raw fury. To him, my purity was his ultimate gift to an ally, and I had just humiliated him.

"You worthless, ungrateful bitch," he whispered, a tone far deadlier than shouting. He closed the distance between us in two strides, his hand flying across my face. The force of the slap threw me out of my chair and onto the floor. My white dress stained with the spilled red wine from the table. Tears rolled down my eyes for the second time this morning. Another man who I loved, hated me.

"Who was it?!" he roared, kicking a chair aside. "Who touched you?!"

"I won't tell you," I choked out, tasting blood from my split lip. I would die before I gave up Christian's name. If my father knew it was his own son, he would slaughter us both.

"Lock her in her room," my father ordered his guards, his voice cold as ice. "No phone, no visitors, no food. Until she decides to speak, she lives like a prisoner in this house."

A few days later, my father's anger subsided and he permitted the servants to send me meals. But he never visited me again.

-----------------------------

It had been a month since the agonizing isolation but over the last few weeks, a different kind of torture had begun. Every morning, I woke up with a spinning head and a burning, empty ache in my stomach.

This morning, I couldn't even make it out of bed before the wave of nausea hit me. I scrambled into the adjoining bathroom, falling to my knees in front of the toilet and heaving as I emptied my stomach of its content.

I sat back against the cold tile, wiping my mouth. My hands were shaking as I reached into the bathroom cabinet. Days ago, I had managed to convince Amelia, my favorite maid to bring me a pregnancy test.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I waited for the lines to form on the small plastic stick.

One line.

“Dear Lord, help me. Please.” I prayed, eyes shut, clutching the device. When I opened my eyes, two lines stared at me.

Positive.

Air left my lungs and tears ran down my eyes, wetting my dress. Two months. Christian. I was carrying the child of the monster who had broken my heart and abandoned me.

This wasn't possible. It was just one time. Once! How could this happen?

I was still trying to fathom the whole situation when the bathroom door swung open with a loud bang.

I gasped, dropping the test, but it didn't roll far enough. Beatrice stood in the doorway, her eyes dropping to the floor. Before I could scramble to cover it, she lunged forward and stepped on my fingers with her heels, snatching the plastic stick off the tiles.

She looked at the two dark lines, and then a wicked, triumphant smile spread across her face.

"Well, well, well," Beatrice purred, her eyes snapping up to meet my terrified, pleading gaze. "A bastard child. Wait until your father hears about this, Scarlett. He will kill you himself."

She didn't waste a single second. Turning on her heel, she rushed out of my bedroom. Father was away on a business trip and he would return in a few days.

I dialed Christian's number immediately. It was the only number I knew by heart even though he had never called me.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

"Come on, Christian. Please. Just answer," I whimpered into the receiver, tears blurring my vision.

“The subscriber you are trying to reach is unavailable—”

A sob ripped from my throat. I hung up and dialed again. And again. Fourteen times.

Two days later, my phone buzzed. No text. No voice message. Just a notification from an offshore banking app. A wire transfer of fifty thousand dollars.

“Don't call me again.” He sent me a cold message too.

He didn't want my voice. He didn't want my tears.

The inevitable look of disappointment on father's face would be a second heartbreak that I just couldn't bear. With Amelia's help, I fled my father's house that night and never looked back.