Page 57 of The Cruel Heir
And she kissed me back.
Because in this world?
Survival always tasted like surrender.
ZARA
They straightened my hair, then curled it back up. Like my coils weren’t perfect already in their natural state.
No one asked. No one paused. No one thought about the years I spent learning to love every coil, and kink, that came from my mother’s side of the family. They just heat-trained it flat and glossy, and called it elegant. Called it bridal. Like my crown only had worth, if it mimicked something whiter, smoother, easier to digest.
Even now, just minutes after the chapel doors had closed behind us, I could feel the stiff, unfamiliar texture pressed against my neck. They hadn’t even let me see a mirror, before whisking us off to the upper quarters of the chapel, a private bridal suite Sterling had demanded be prepared in advance. I’d barely had time to breathe.
The dress had come off with the help of two silent attendants, who never made eye contact. My veil was laid on the vanity, like a discarded shroud, and a silk robe was placed at the edge of the bed, its folds neat, impersonal, perfect.
I didn’t get to savor anything. No meal. No toast. No shared glance over candlelight. Just signatures, a kiss I didn’t want, andthen this, being ushered into a room where I was expected to bleed for him, like some medieval offering.
The war wasn’t over.
Sterling stood in the doorway like a shadow, his jacket gone, shirt half-unbuttoned, gold chain glinting against his collarbone. There was blood on his sleeve. Dried. Flaked. Not from today. From some earlier cruelty he hadn’t even bothered to wash off.
His eyes were unreadable. "You look tired, wife."
I said nothing.
"You didn’t eat much." He gestured toward the tray, left untouched on the antique table in the corner, saffron rice, roasted duck, and a glass of juice, now sweating against the silver tray. "You picked at the rice. Didn’t touch the duck."
He crossed the room in two strides, lifting the plate, and carrying it back to me, like he wasn’t the reason I couldn’t swallow.
“Sit,” he said, not unkindly, but not gently either. “You’ll eat. And then we’ll talk.”
My stomach turned, but I sat. Let him feed me the first bite, warm and perfectly seasoned. Let him pretend this wasn’t the final act of control for the night.
"I wasn’t hungry."
“I didn’t tell them to straighten it,” he said quietly. “That wasn’t me.”
“Does it matter?” I whispered. “You own the leash.”
His jaw flexed, but he didn’t argue.
Instead, he turned, moving to the nightstand, where a single drawer waited open. From it, he pulled a clean, bleached-white sheet. Set it down. Smoothed it out.
The dread started at my ankles, and crept upward.
“Sterling-”
“I told you,” he murmured, voice lower now, “I protect what’s mine. And I don’t let anyone, not even them, question what thatmeans. You’re not a whore. You’re not disposable. Remember to play the game, Zara.”
He pulled a blade from his back pocket. Something small. Sharp. Familiar. He’d used it before. Not on me. But I’d seen what he could do with it.
He dragged the blade across the inside of his palm, not flinching. Let the blood drip onto the pristine sheet.
“Now no one gets to say you weren’t pure,” he said. “No one gets to say this was anything but mine. Not even you.”
The silence after his words rang louder than a slap.
I should’ve run. Should’ve screamed.
