Page 73 of The Beast's Broken Beauty

"That's the spirit," I say, feeling a genuine smile spread across my face. "They may have the guns and the power, but we've got each other.”

"Always," Naomi replies, her grip on my hand tightening. "Just like old times. Only this time, we're not just surviving."

"We're thriving," I finish. "And showing these mafia men what we're really made of."

And as I hold my best friend, I realize it's true. Whatever my mother, the Greeks, or even Antonio have planned, they've got another thing coming. Because this ballerina? She stitched herself back together more than once and her spine? It’s made of the steel they thought they burned.

"Now, tell me what's been happening in Ireland? What's going on with Connor?"

As soon as the question leaves my lips, Naomi flops onto my bed with a dramatic groan. The mattress bounces slightly,and I'm reminded of all those sleepovers we had as teenagers, whispering secrets into the night.

"What's going on with my supposedly booming-with-laughter husband?" she asks, staring at the ceiling. "The one who's more growl-y at home than a dog with a bone?"

I settle next to her, the familiar scent of her perfume - jasmine and vanilla - wrapping around me like a comforting blanket. "That one," I confirm, my voice soft. "There's something happening there, Naomi. The way he looked at you... The way he seems to care. It's different."

Naomi turns her head to face me, her eyes filled with a mix of emotions I can't quite decipher. She lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug, but I can see the tension in her jaw. "It's all a ploy," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "All of it. We're really married and fake dating. I'm a virgin. I'm the virginest married mafia lady out there. I swear if I were going to write my own story, it’d become a bestseller for tension but not dick action."

She presses a finger to her lips, a bitter smile twisting her mouth. "But psssttt... don't tell anyone. Our marriage could be annulled. This is ridiculous." As she sits back up, she hugs one of the pillows. "You want the dirty details of our wedding night? Buckle up, buttercup, 'cause it's a wild ride of absolutely nothing happening."

I can't help but lean in, curiosity piqued. "Spill."

"Picture this," Naomi begins, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "I told him before the wedding. I said the wedding night needs to be mine."

She pauses, her fingers twisting in the bedspread. "I want you to at least pretend to want me," she continues, shaking her head like the memory burns her like acid.

I lean in, catching the faint scent of her shampoo – the same brand she's used since high school.

"I told him that with all the shit that had just happened, I wanted to play pretend for a day. On my wedding and our wedding night. Some romance..." Naomi's voice trails off, her eyes distant.

"It was going to be the night," she says softly. "Even if in the morning I remember none of the choices were mine, that night was my choice. And he was my choice for that night."

She lets out a humorless laugh, the sound sharp in the quiet room. "So, here I am after the Irishest ceremony of Irish wedding ceremonies, dolled up in some ridiculous white lace number that probably cost more than my college tuition."

Naomi's lips twist into a wry smile. "And Connor? Still rocking the kilt, looking like he's trying to solve a Rubik's cube with his eyes."

"Sounds... romantic?" I offer.

"Oh, it gets better," Naomi continues, her voice a mix of amusement and exasperation. "Mr. Broody McIrishman stalks over, right? I'm thinking, 'This is it, fireworks time.' And then he hits me with this gem: 'Make some noise, love. Gotta convince the lads we're consummating this shite.'"

I nearly choke on air. "He didn't!"

"Oh, he did," Naomi confirms, nodding vigorously. "So there I am, auditioning for Porn Star of the Year, while Connor's treating it like a spectator sport. Sipping his whiskey, watching me with those damn intense eyes of his."

"And then?" I prompt, caught between horror and fascination.

Naomi throws her hands up. "And then nothing! Zip. Nada. The great Connor passes out in his chair, leaving me high and dry and questioning all of my life choices."

She pauses, and I catch a flicker of something in her eyes - frustration, confusion, maybe even a hint of desire? "But here's the kicker. Sometimes... sometimes I catch him looking at me like he wants to eat me alive. And don't even get me started onthe coffee he leaves by my bed every morning, with those little Gaelic notes I can't understand."

I squeeze her hand. " Sounds... complicated," I offer, feeling as useless as I did trying to explain quantum physics in high school. My own messy situation with Antonio flashes through my mind, making my stomach clench like it did before a difficult performance.

"Complicated?" Naomi snorts. "It's like trying to read Oscar Wilde backwards while drowning in the arctic sea." She flops back on the bed with a groan. "I swear, this man is going to drive me insane. And the worst part? Part of me kind of wants to let him."

She inhales deeply. “Anyway. On the bright side? Ireland is gorgeous. His castle – because yes, he has a castle – is pretty modern. The views? Breathtaking. But our marriage is a sham. I’m living the life as you can see.”

I sit there for a moment, my mind whirling like I've just come off a series of fouettés. Naomi's words hit me in the gut, harder than any fall I've taken on stage. The weight of her situation, of both our situations, settles over me like the suffocating heat before a thunderstorm.

"Shit, Naomi," I finally breathe out, my voice barely above a whisper. "That's... that's beyond..." I try to find the right words but all I come up with is “... fucked up.”

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