Chapter 9

DARIAN

The applause was deafening. Cameras flashed like strobe lights, capturing the performance I’d perfected down to the last breath. I held her hand, Zaria’s delicate, her trembling fingers curled into mine and forced the smile I’d practiced in the mirror a hundred times.

My bride.

The world’s most beautiful lie.

“Smile,” I muttered under my breath, teeth clenched. “They’re eating it up.”

She whispered something back, all breath and nerves. I didn’t care to listen, not really. Not after what she’d done. Still, I kept my gaze soft and my hand firm. Everything had to look perfect.

It was always about appearances.

Her vows stumbled. Of course they did. She choked on them like they were thorns. Part of me took pleasure in that. The part of me that hadn’t yet forgiven her for what she took from me.

I leaned in, brushing my mouth near her ear, so no one else would hear. “Don’t mess this up.”

She replied with the same forced grace she wore on her face.

The kiss came next. She was soft, still so damn soft and for a second, a memory flickered, I remembered it. But would rather keep it buried. That man was gone. The boy who used to pull her into empty corridors just to hear her laugh? Dead and buried with Roman.

“You hesitated,” I murmured, my lips still touching hers. “Don’t let it happen again.”

The officiant pronounced us husband and wife.

Perfect.

Another illusion wrapped in applause.

At the gala, I slipped into character like a second skin. The crowd adored us. We posed, smiled, and said sweet nothings to each other covered with venom.

“Zaria, show us the ring!”

“What does it feel like marrying the most powerful man in the city?”

I didn’t flinch. Power meant control, and control meant she stayed within reach.

I could feel her stiffen every time I touched her. Good. She should be uncomfortable. She should feel the weight of what she did.

“You’re selling it well,” I muttered between clenched teeth.

She gave me that sharp little smirk. “I learned from the best.”

Ah, there she was. The fire beneath the guilt. I almost missed it.

“You always did know how to lie with a smile,” I told her. I meant it.

The car was silent for all of ten seconds before it started.

She turned to me, still in that goddamn white dress, and I felt something ugly twist in my chest. A part of me wanted to reach out, touch her, pull her close like I used to. But I didn’t.

Instead, I dug the knife deeper.

“Are you enjoying the spotlight?”

She fired back with the same venom. “Are you?”

That’s the thing about Zaria. She never learned when to stop.

“I can fake anything,” I said coldly. “Even love.”

She turned then. Her voice was small. Broken. “This isn’t what I wanted.”

I almost laughed.

“No? Then what did you want, Zaria? A fairytale? A happily ever after?” I paused, heart twisting. “To leave another body in your wake?”

She looked like I’d slapped her.

“Darian, I didn’t…”

“Don’t. Just don’t.” My voice was low and measured. I didn’t need to raise it. That’s how she knew I meant every word. “You let him die. You knew what you were doing. You knew what it would cost. You didn’t stop it.”

Tears clung to her lashes, but she tried to protest again.

“Don’t say you couldn’t,” I hissed. “You didn’t.”

That’s the truth she’ll never outrun. Her choice. Her silence. Her betrayal.

She looked hollow when she whispered, “Then why marry me?”

I stared out the window. My chest felt tight. The ache was familiar now. Like a wound I’d learned to live with.

“Because keeping you close is more satisfying than letting you rot somewhere far away.”

And it was. I needed her near. I needed her to remember every day what she cost me.

“What about love?” she asked.

That word used to taste sweet on her tongue.

I didn’t even look at her when I said, “That word died with Roman.”

At the estate, I got out of the car first, spitting orders like routine. Her dress trailed behind me like a ghost. She was quiet now….or wounded, but either way that was good

“Soft colors only,” I said flatly. “No red. I don’t want the press thinking you’re mourning.”

Her voice trembled. “I am mourning.”

I didn’t answer.

I couldn’t.

Because part of me, some ruined, bleeding part, was still mourning too. Not just for Roman, but for us. For the version of Zaria I once loved so fiercely I would’ve burned the world down for her.

Now?

Now I was just trying to burn what was left of her.

I left her in the hallway and I didn’t turn back.

Not when the staff bowed.

Not when she stood there looking small and lost.

Not even when she said “no” to the maid with pity in her eyes.

Because if I turned around…

If I softened for even a second…

I’d remember too much and I can’t afford that.

Not when revenge is the only thing keeping me alive.

I shut the door to my wing with more force than necessary.

Silence.

I welcomed it, I embraced it.

The jacket came off first. I tossed it on the edge of the armchair and began to unbutton my shirt, each snap of thread a beat in the rhythm of my unsettled thoughts.

Zaria.

Always her.

She was still etched in my mind, the way she looked standing in that hallway, pale and shaken, drowning in that white dress that didn’t belong to either of us. My hands were still mid-button.

Why did she still look like the girl I used to love?

Why the hell did I notice the way her lip trembled when I said Roman’s name? Or the flash of guilt in her eyes when I spoke of betrayal?

I hated her.

I did.

But under the layers of rage, beneath the bitter taste of what she'd done, there was still something else.

It felt pathetic and human.

A twisted part of me wanted her to reach for me. To scream, to fight and to explain.

Instead, she just stood there.

Taking it.

Swallowing every barb like it was deserved.

I sank into the chair, shirt half-open, chest heaving like I’d just come from war.

Because maybe I had.

Because being near her… looking at her… pretending, it took more out of me than I’d admit.

She ruined everything.

But somehow, she still had the power to make my hands shake.

And I hated that even more than I hated her.

Just as I reached for the tumbler of scotch on the tray beside me, there was a knock and it sounded urgent and… wrong.

Followed by a voice I didn’t like hearing at this hour.

“Sir,” one of the maids said from the other side. “It’s… It’s your wife.”

A pause.

“She’s bleeding.”