Beauty in the Broken: A Diamond Magnate Novel Read online

  “It’ll be fine.” Damian stands behind me in his dressing room, facing the mirror. He kisses my cheek and drags his hands over the silk of the evening dress, stopping on my hips. “You look beautiful.”

  It’s a blue dress with no sleeves. Damian’s choice, of course.

  “What are you afraid of?” he whispers in my ear.

  “You know.”

  He traces a finger along my arm, the pad caressing the bumpy lines. “The people who’ll be here all have scars. Worse ones. You just don’t see them.”

  The longer I put this off, the longer I’m dragging out my apprehension. I take a breath and turn with determination. “Let’s get this over with.”

  He blocks my way. “Not so fast. I’m not done.”

  “Done with what?”

  “Turn around and bend over.”

  “Damian, no. We’re already running late.”

  “I want you to remember who you belong to when you go down there.”

  I show him the enormous rock on my finger. “How can I forget?”

  “A ring doesn’t close a hole. Turn around.”

  “You’re crass.”

  Gripping my waist, he twirls me around and pushes my upper body down with a palm. I have to grab onto the vanity counter to keep steady. Before I have time to get to my senses, he flips the skirt up and tears off my thong. I brace myself at the sound of his zipper and look at his reflection in the mirror. He’s not undressing, just freeing his cock through his open fly. My period’s been over since yesterday, and of course, Damian knows it. He spits in his palm and rubs it over my slit. No time for foreplay. No time to make sure I’m wet, although my eager body is already preparing itself for his invasion.

  He places the head of his cock at my entrance and makes eye contact. He reads my face as he slams in, too full and stretching me too fast. Too deliciously. What does he see that makes him grip my hip harder? My expression is a mixture of painful ecstasy and unbearable pleasure. My eyes are unfocussed and my grimace something straight from a porn movie. I burn under his hands. I bite my lip to keep the sounds in. There are caterers downstairs. The sound will drift through the open door.

  When he pulls out slowly and pushes back roughly, I choke out a moan. His face flushes with satisfaction. He covers my mouth with a broad palm and brings the other around to the front of my body, between my legs. Pivoting his hips, he pinches my clit and catches my whimpers. I break apart, crying out my climax in his hand as he flexes his ass and comes. While emptying himself inside me, he watches me, witnessing my weakness, my body’s helpless surrender. When he’s done, he pulls out and cleans himself with a tissue, finally allowing me to straighten on shaky legs.

  As I take a step toward the bathroom, he catches my arm. “Don’t clean up.”

  I gape at him. “I won’t be able to sit.”

  “Yes, you will. You just won’t be able to stand up, again.”

  “Damian.”

  “When my cum dribbles between your legs and dry on your thighs, remember who owns you.”

  I can only stare at him.

  “Fix your lipstick,” he says. “I smeared it all over your face.”

  Looking in the mirror, I see he’s right. I wipe away the red traces and apply a fresh layer before brushing out my sex-ruffled hair. I’m already uncomfortable as I move to the door. His semen is running down my leg all the way to my evening shoe and I smell like sex. I just want this dinner to be over. The guests should be arriving any minute.

  “There’s something else,” he says. “Come.”

  Over-conscious of my state under the dress, I follow him to the bedroom. He stops in front of the linen chest at the foot-end of the bed and pushes it aside with his foot. Oh, my God. There, underneath the rug he rolls up, is the trapdoor I’ve been looking for. He lifts it to reveal a safe with an old-fashioned turning knob. I know the type. Harold had one in his home office. I can’t see the number sequence, because his back blocks my view, but I listen to the grating sound of the mechanism as it turns, and count the seconds. One. Three. Two. Four. I memorize the sequence for what it’s worth. My heart is in my throat. Everything I want may be hidden in that iron vault at the foot of his bed.

  He carries a flat, velvet box toward me. Flipping the lid, he reveals a necklace of black diamonds. They’re the latest rage. Duller than white diamonds, they sparkle with an understated shine. They’re big, well cut, and perfectly set. Whoever made the necklace knew what he was doing.

  “What do you think?” he asks.

  “It’s beautiful.” Not as expensive as their white cousins, but I have enough experience to recognize priceless when I see it. The quantity and craftsmanship alone should put it on the market for a few million.

  “They’re from the mine.”

  “I thought the mine is dry.”

  “Not the bedrock.”

  “You found a deposit of black diamonds?”

  “They’re colored.”

  If they’re colored, the diamonds must have a lower grade. “It’s profitable?”

  “Very. The yield is high, and colored black diamonds are gaining popularity by the day. The demand will soon be higher than the offer.”

  Very clever. If demand continues to rise, so will the value. “How did you know the bedrock is rich in deposits?”

  “Always knew they were there. I was just biding my time.”

  To get out of jail. “Congratulations.”

  “It suits you.”

  “Me?”

  “I had it made for you.”

  “For me?” I cover my collarbone with a palm where the diamonds would reach if they were draped around my neck. “Why?”

  “You’re my wife. Turn around.”

  I’m his wife. A showpiece for his guests. Suddenly, I understand why I’m showing off this particular necklace tonight. Damian is creating his own market. It’s more than a business dinner. It’s publicity, and I’m his advertising board.

  He removes the necklace and chucks the box on the bed. “Turn around, Lina.”

  There’s no point in arguing. Giving him my back, I lift my hair so he can hang the diamonds around my neck and fit the clasp.

  “There.” He brushes his lips over the arch of my neck. “Perfect. Like you.”

  “You haven’t seen what it looks like on me.”

  “I don’t need to.”

  Standing like this, with my back to his chest, I feel comfortable despite the situation and myself. Safe, almost. I don’t have to hide my expressions or rely on my legs to carry me. I can lean on him while the weight of the necklace and the world pull me down.

  “Now you’re ready,” he says, sounding pleased with himself. He offers me an arm. “Shall we?”

  There’s nothing left to do but take his arm and descend to the lounge where Zane and Anne are already mixing with our dinner guests. A new shift of guards came on duty, and for once, I miss Russell’s reassuring presence. The scrawny man who showcased the diamonds for my ring is there with a redhead at his side. Damian introduces the couple as the man who designed the necklace, Tony, and his wife, Belinda, and then excuses us to greet his mining manager.

  Before we’re completely out of earshot, Belinda says to a blonde woman, “She’s more nuts than they say. Tony said she refused to choose a diamond for her engagement ring. Have you ever heard anything like that?”

  The blonde replies, “Oh, my God. I can’t look at her arms. Hasn’t she heard about skin grafts?”

  There’s not enough skin on my body for the grafts needed to fix my scars.

  Damian squeezes my hand where it rests on his arm. “As I said,” he says soft enough for only me to hear, “they have much uglier scars. Theirs are etched on their souls. It’s called jealousy.”

  “Etched on their souls?” In an effort to hide my discomfort, I laugh. “Being poetic doesn’t suit you.”

  “What can I say?” He flashes me a wolfish smile. “You’re very…” His eyes drop to my crotch. “Inspiring.”
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  His jest is playful and meant to put me at ease. It would’ve worked if he’d said something nice about my personality instead of making it sexual. It reminds me of what we are. We’re physical. What we have is as dark, cold, and hard as the diamonds around my neck. My grandfather would’ve died before mining black diamonds. He would’ve said they’re a sad substitute for the real thing. That’s exactly what we are. A sad substitute for the real thing.

  “You need a drink,” Damian says.

  I quickly wipe the grim look from my face, replacing it with a plastered-on smile. People are always observing, and I’m not putting my imperfect life on display.

  “You all right?” he asks, handing me a glass of Chardonnay.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I know that look on your face.”

  “What look?”

  “Brooding.”

  “I’m not brooding.”

  “Then what?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You should know by now I don’t settle for nothing.” He gives me a warning lift of his eyebrow.

  From across the room, Anne watches us, whispering to Zane.

  “I’m just aware of being naked,” I lie, “and what’s dripping between my legs.”

  “So am I, angel,” he says in a husky voice, assessing me with those dark eyes and letting me feel the static energy of his similarly dark intentions.

  A waiter with a tray of hors-d’oeuvres saves me. I pop a bite-sized ricotta tart in my mouth, chewing but tasting nothing. At least, my full mouth prevents me from having to answer.

  A young couple enters the lounge. The woman pushes a stroller, and the man carries a large diaper bag. Nadia Naidoo, a social butterfly and one of the most successful fashion columnists in the country, follows in their footsteps.

  My feet automatically carry me to the couple with the stroller. A baby is wrapped up in blue blankets, his tiny porcelain face perfect as he blinks up at me. An overwhelming cauldron of emotions twists in my chest. Pain flashes through my heart, sharp and unforgiving, while endearment melts it. Yearning is a palpable taste in my mouth.

  “I’m so sorry,” the woman gushes. “Our regular babysitter cancelled at the last minute.”

  “That’s no problem at all.” Reaching out with so much longing my fingertips tingle, I ask, “May I hold him?”

  “No,” the woman cries before grabbing her baby and pressing him to her chest. “I mean… He’s just eaten. He may burb on you.” She’s flustered, trying to make excuses for her instinctive reaction.

  I lower my arms. What was I thinking? Which mother would let an insane woman with self-harming tendencies hold her baby?

  Her husband steps up quickly. “If we can just find a quiet room to lay him down, please? We brought the monitor, so we’ll hear him if he fusses.”

  It’s hard to hide my feelings and regain my balance. “Of course. We’ll use the reading room next door. He won’t be disturbed there. I’ll show you.”

  Damian watches me from across the room as I lead the couple to the hallway. His gaze is questioning, intent, and I drop my eyes so he won’t see my secrets.

  “What’s his name?” I ask when I show them into the reading room.

  “Davie,” the woman says, still clutching him to her chest as if she’s afraid I’ll rip him away.

  “Family name?”

  “Yes,” the father says, seeming proud.

  I don’t stress the young parents further with my presence but leave them to their privacy to get their baby settled. When I return, Nadia immediately corners me.

  “Oh, my.” She leans closer to admire the necklace. “That is a piece of art.”

  “Tony’s creation,” Damian says next to me.

  She takes a smartphone from her evening bag. “May I? This deserves to be splashed all over social media.”

  “Of course,” Damian says.

  As if he senses my unease at being photographed, he rests his hand on my lower back, preventing me from stepping away.

  Out of sorts about the reaction the incident with Davie has stirred, I smile stiffly.

  Damian rubs his thumb over my spine. “Relax, angel,” he whispers in my ear, planting a kiss in my neck.

  A flash goes off. I blink as Nadia takes another photo.

  “Perfect,” she says with a satisfied smile as she regards the screen. “May I use this in the column?”

  “Anywhere you like.” Damian lets me go and steers her toward Tony. “Let me introduce you to the designer.”

  She digs in her heels. “One moment. I was wondering if you’ve seen this.” She flips over her telephone screen and holds it up to Damian.

  His expression darkens. “False allegations.”

  Her gaze darts to Anne. “Is that so?” Turning the screen to me, she asks, “What do you say, Lina, being newlywed, and all?”

  It’s a gossip column. There’s a head-and-shoulder shot of Anne and one of Damian alongside. The subtitle reads, Is Hart having an affair? Mine magnate’s honeymoon didn’t last long.

  Zane is there in a heartbeat, as if he knows what the conversation is about. “My sister denies those allegations.”

  Damian takes Nadia’s arm and steers her to where a fiddling Tony waits. “This is Tony. I’m sure you have lots of questions for him.” He says under his breath to Zane, “Deal with it,” before jovially calling for more wine.

  I inhale deeply and let the air expand in my lungs. It’s a small moment of reprieve. I don’t have time to dissect my emotions or battle the onslaught of so many hurtful sensations crammed into such a short space, because soon I’m surrounded by Fouché, his wife, and Belinda who all admire the necklace. It’s awkward to be a mannequin for a showpiece, and I execute the role poorly, almost relieved when we at last take our places at the table.

  Seated between Damian and Fouché, I endure the curious stares at my arms, the fake compliments, and the envious glances at the diamonds around my neck and on my finger. Fouché is kind enough to refrain from mentioning my turbulent past or Harold’s downfall. Instead, he tells me about his admiration for Damian’s vision and management policy. I’ve never been interested in the mine, but the facts he shares with me make me curious about the changes Damian has made.

  When it’s time for cognac to be served in the lounge, some of the guests follow Damian. With a stain on my dress, I have no choice but to remain seated. Fouché and his wife trickle away with the others, eventually leaving me alone with Belinda and Tony.

  Belinda scoots closer. “I feel like I already know you. You’re such an easy person to talk to.” Gripping my fingers, she turns my hand to the light. “Tell me, did you really refuse an engagement ring?”

  I give Tony a hard look, not that I can blame him for sharing the juicy piece of gossip. “I’m sure Tony told you all about it.”

  He turns red and suddenly finds the bottom of his wine glass very interesting.

  “Why ever would you refuse?” Belinda asks. “Is it a humanitarian thing?”

  She must’ve seen Blood Diamonds. She should know better than to base her assumption of the business on a movie.

  “Yes.” Let her think that or whatever she wants. The somber details of my life are not their entertainment.

  “I admire you.” There’s not a drop of admiration in her voice. “I can’t resist bling. So, how did Damian convince you to wear the ring?”

  “Incentives.”

  “What?”

  “He has the most effective incentives.”

  Tony coughs. “It’s getting late. I think we should go.”

  Belinda launches into a long explanation of the family birthday party they’re attending tomorrow, who’s going to be there, and what they plan for lunch. It takes her twenty minutes to say goodbye, and then I’m alone in the dining room. Laughter comes from the lounge, accompanied with a waft of cigar smoke. Someone tells another joke. More laughter. No one will miss me if I sneak off to Damian’s room. If I go through the kitchen, I can ma
ke it unnoticed. I’d hate for anyone to see the evidence of what Damian and I had been doing on my dress. Getting through the stares during dinner was humiliating enough.

  Keeping my back to the wall, I make it to the entrance without being spotted, but my luck runs out on the staircase. I’m halfway up when Zane comes down. I glance at the double doors of the lounge. From this angle, no one can see us. The look on his face makes me tense. He drank too much during dinner. He looked at Damian a little too much, too. Anyone clever enough to pay attention would’ve discovered his secret.

  When we reach each other, I try to dash past, but he grabs my wrist in a painful hold. The best defense is attack.

  “They shouldn’t be smoking,” I say. “There’s a baby next door. You’re the housekeeper. Go tell them to smoke outside.”

  “The parents left with their baby as soon as Fouché lit up.”

  “How rude of him.” I pull on his grip. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  He squeezes harder, hurting my bones. “You’re the hostess. Go back down and see to your guests.”

  “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

  He inches closer, invading my personal space. “Don’t believe you’re suddenly something because you’re wearing a diamond necklace. You’re still Dami’s whore.”

  “Let go.”

  He does, only to fold his fingers around my neck. It’s a bold move. If someone exits the lounge, he’d be caught. I consider screaming, but he’s squeezing too hard, cutting off my air and pressing the sharp little corners of the diamonds into my skin.

  “This is what’s going to happen,” he grits out. “You’re going to leave.” He lets go with a shove.

  Grabbing the rail to steady myself, I gasp for air.

  He’s not done. He twists my hair around his fist and yanks me closer. “What will it take to get you to leave? Huh? Tell me.”

  My scalp pricks. The pain makes my eyes water. “The evidence.”

  He narrows his eyes. “That’s it? The evidence?”

  “If I have the evidence, I’ll be gone.” He can have Damian all to himself.