Page 31 of Cruel Deception
He didn’t wait for me. Just got out, slammed the door, and walked ahead. I followed, my gown trailing behind me like a ghost. Inside, the foyer was bathed in soft gold lighting and... pink walls.
Pink.
My favorite color.
I stared, unnerved. Coincidence? No. Nothing with Cassian ever was.
Cassian leads me to a bedroom, its minimalist luxury stark: a king bed with black silk sheets, a crystal chandelier casting fractured light.
He opens a walk-in closet, revealing racks of designer clothes—Dior, Chanel, every color, every size, curated for me.
“Our room,” he says, shedding his Tom Ford jacket, hanging it with precision.
He unbuttons his shirt, the fabric parting to reveal inked muscle, his broad chest straining the material.
My heart slams against my ribs, panic rising. If I change, he’ll see my scars, my secret.
I can’t hide it—he’s my husband now, for better or worse. I need to tell him.
“I have to tell you something,” I say, rooted in place, the gown’s weight grounding me.
“Speak,” he says, sinking into an armchair, his eyes unreadable, a king on his throne.
I swallow, my mouth dry. “I had a double mastectomy a few months ago.” My voice trembles, but I force it steady.
“They removed both breasts before the cancer spread. I didn’t want reconstruction... I couldn’t look at my body like that.”
His face shifts, a flicker of something—shock? disgust?—before it hardens into a mask.
His fingers twitch, the only sign of reaction, his silence deafening.
Tears prick my eyes, but I blink them back, refusing to crumble. “Say something,” I plead, my voice cracking.
He doesn’t. His gaze darkens, a storm brewing, and I’m drowning in it.
Not knowing what else to do, I move to sit, my legs shaky, but his voice stops me cold.
“Strip,” he commands, low and unyielding.
I freeze. “What?”
He leans forward, his eyes locked on mine, daring me to defy him. “Strip.”
Anger flares, hot and sharp. “I’m your wife,” I snap, my voice rising. “At least pretend to respect me.”
“You have no rights here,” he says, his tone harsh, cutting. “You’ll do what I say. In this house, in this marriage, your obedience is the only thing that matters.”
“Or what?” I challenge, reckless now, my fear burning away. “You’ll kill me like you killed Nico? Go ahead, Cassian. I dare you.”
His eyes narrow, and he rises, moving to a drawer by the bed.
He opens it, and something skitters out—a black spider, its legs twitching, darting across the floor.
My scream rips through the room, raw and primal, my vision tunneling as panic seizes me.
My mind slips back to that basement at seven—locked in the dark, spiders poured onto the floor by my father’s hand. Crawling up my legs. Down my back. Into my hair.
My chest heaves, my scars throbbing, my breaths shallow and ragged.
