#5 - A Trap

We didn’t have sex.

Men in books clearly have stronger self-control than men in real life.

Or maybe Damian Salvatore is just the kind of man who doesn’t touch what he doesn’t trust.

I woke up with that line stuck in my head and a pillow soaked with disappointment.

Somewhere between consciousness and regret, I remembered the way his eyes burned into mine last night and how he still walked away. He didn’t even kiss me.

Which was smart of him.

He didn’t say a word after that moment.

He saw me, hand between my thighs, lips parted, heat radiating off me like a fire about to consume the room—

And he turned his back like I was invisible.

Cold. Calculated. Classic Damian.

So I did what any sane woman in a fake marriage with a broken moral compass and a raging libido would do:

His look crushed the need I felt.

I rolled over and went to sleep pretending that didn’t happen.

Later that day, Grandma pulled me aside after brunch.

“You look different,” she said, brushing a curl behind my ear. “Brighter. Stronger. Did something change between you and Damian?”

I almost choked on my mimosa.

If only she knew what almost happened.

Before I could answer, he entered the room. Fresh suit. Clean cut. Same storm in his eyes.

“We need to talk,” he said, voice tight.

Grandma gave us a look. “Don’t bully my grand daughter-in-law.”

“Sure Grandma, it’s just husband and wife private discussion.” He lied without a conscience.

“It’s okay Grandma,” I smiled, touching her hands softly.

I followed him down the hall and into his study, which smelled like leather, espresso, and expensive ego.

“I’m not here to play husband,” he said the moment the door closed.

“Then stop acting like one,” I snapped.

His jaw clenched. “What you did last night—don’t ever pull that stunt again.”

“Stunt?” I laughed bitterly. “You act like I don’t have desires.”

He stepped closer. “You think this is a game, don’t you?”

“Aren’t we all playing parts? You. Me. Grandma. Everyone. I’m just more committed to the role.”

He looked at me then. Really looked. As if peeling back the layers of silk and sarcasm to see the girl beneath it all. And I hated how it made me feel.

Vulnerable. Real.

“I don’t trust you,” he said quietly. “And I never will.”

“Good,” I whispered. “Because I don’t trust you either.”

For a moment, we stood there. Silence pulsing between us.

Then he said, “Get dressed. You’re coming with me to the charity gala tonight. Don’t be late.”

That night, I wore blood red.

Not for style. For war.

We arrived arm-in-arm like the picture-perfect couple we weren’t. Cameras flashed. Whispers followed.

Damian played his part well, hand on my waist, whispering things that made me look like I was blushing. I wasn't. I was just trying not to vomit at the hypocrisy.

People gasped and complimented Damian for having such a beautiful wife. I smiled a fake smile, nodding and muttering thank you.

The ballroom shimmered with gold and crystal, the chandeliers casting fractured light across faces hiding behind fake smiles.

Vivian entered like a queen draped in emerald silk, her fake innocence stitched into every step.

She looked at me with surprise. I’ve never really dressed up for any event but tonight I took it to another level. Ashley loves fashion, well Arianna could pass as a nun. The slit on my dress was long up to my thigh just as I planned to tear apart any one blocking my path.

She gave me a tight-lipped smile as the projector screen behind the stage came to life.

“Damian, I wanted to show you something,” she purred sweetly, taking his arm with the desperation of a woman clinging to a trophy.

I knew this scene already.

It was in the book.

A video was supposed to play, of me. Of the old Arianna.

One where she cried, begged, screamed for Damian not to leave her. One where her mascara ran and her voice cracked as she said she’d rather die than lose him again. The video that made public look down on her.

Pathetic.

That version of me is dead.

Literally.

But lucky for me… I’d read ahead.

So instead, when the screen flickered what the crowd saw wasn’t my tear-streaked breakdown.

No. I’d switched the footage.

Now, every guest including Damian was watching Vivian.

She was in a hotel room, tangled in silk sheets… with a man twice her age. The camera angle wasn’t forgiving. Neither was the audio. Every moan, every whisper, every sickly-sweet “Daddy” echoed like a funeral bell.

I scanned the room.

There he was. In the back corner. The man from the video.

He was here. Face flushed. A high-ranking official. Damian business partner.

Let the show begin. Sadly the only thing missing was my popcorn.

“Turn it off!” he shouted suddenly, his voice cracking like a whip. “Turn that damn thing off!”

Vivian gasped. “No, that’s not… That’s not the video! That’s fake! I didn’t—”

Her voice shook, and for once, those perfect lips of hers didn’t know how to lie fast enough.

I looked to Damian.

His face was unreadable, but his jaw ticked—once, twice. Anger. Confusion. Calculation.

Then his eyes slid to me.

Not accusation. Not curiosity.

Just a silent, simmering warning.

Like he knew. Or suspected.

But he said nothing.

And that made me grin.

“Poor Vivian,” I whispered to no one. “Still playing games with people who brought the rulebook.”

I turned away, scanning the room again.

Lot of hot guys here actually.

And there he was.

The amber eyed man in the corner, dressed in black, standing apart from the chaos like it didn’t affect him at all.

He looked at me like he already knew me. Like he’d been waiting.

I was about to walk toward him when a voice cut through the noise.

“Arianna?”

I turned.

A girl with short brown hair and a crooked smile stepped closer. Her dress shimmered silver, but it was her eyes that gave her away.

I knew her.

Or I should have.

She looked at me like she missed me. Like we had inside jokes and sleepovers and secrets no one else knew.

“Sorry who are you?” I said.

Her eyes widened. “You don’t remember me?”

“Barely,” I admitted with a shrug. “My memory’s a mess.”

“It’s Emily, I’m kinda disappointed.” She pouted.

Emily, Arianna closest friend. I read about her in the book. She hated Damian and advised Arianna to divorce him. I could use a friend in this unfamiliar world.

“Emily.” I said pulling her into a tight hug. “You fell for my trick.” I laughed hard hoping she buys it.

Emily laughed. “I figured. You don’t look so love-sick anymore. That’s a good thing.”

I smirked. “I’ve been detoxing.”

“Did you ever figure out the truth?” she asked suddenly.

My smile faltered. “What truth?”

She frowned. “You didn’t tell me much, but the last time I saw you… you were pale, shaking. You said you were onto something, something big. But you wouldn’t say what.”

That wasn’t in the book. That wasn’t anywhere.

My pulse quickened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Emily looked confused. “Are you sure you’re okay?” she mumbled concerned.

“I’m fine.” I said. “I just have a lot going on right now.”

A waiter passed us, offering glass of golden champagne.

I took one without thinking, still trying to decipher what she meant.

Arianna was onto something, but what?

I only drank a sip.

But my body noticed before I did.

The heat crawled up my neck, down my spine. My skin tingled, my vision blurred slightly. I felt dizzy—no, heavy. Like the air itself was melting.

“I need some air,” I muttered, stepping away from Emily’s concerned face.

I moved fast, weaving through bodies and fake laughter. I didn’t tell Damian. I didn’t look for him.

I just needed out.

The doors were open, the night air cool against my flushed skin. I staggered as I walk, sucking in oxygen like I’d been drowning.

My vision pulsed. My limbs buzzed. I needed a cab. So I headed to the road.

But before I could say a word—

A screech.

A flash of headlights.

I turned just in time to see a car speeding toward me.

Metal.

Glass.

Screams.

Then—

Darkness.

Did I die again?