Beauty in the Broken: A Diamond Magnate Novel Read online

  His lip curls in one corner. “No money?” His gaze trails to my neck. “No diamonds?”

  “I don’t want Damian’s money. Help me find the evidence, and you’ll be rid of me once and for all.”

  “I don’t think so.” He shakes his head, pulling me closer by my hair and whispering in my ear, “Dami will find you. Then he’ll kill you.”

  “I guess it’s a chance I’ll have to take.”

  Laughing softly, he lets go. “Don’t mistake that kind of possessiveness for attachment. You’re just the new toy, but like with all his toys, Dami will grow tired of you.”

  “Why would he want to keep me if he’ll grow tired of me?”

  “Dami doesn’t like for anyone to have his second-hand toys. He likes to keep them locked up safely when he throws them away.”

  My throat constricts at locked up. “How come you know so much about how Damian plays with his toys?”

  “I know how he operates. I’ve seen him in action.”

  It’s not possible. Damian couldn’t have slept with a woman in prison. Could he?

  Zane laughs again. “Did you know they allow sex in prison these days? It reduces rape among cellmates.”

  I swallow, unable to get rid of the tightness in my throat. “Who?”

  “Guess.”

  I can’t, and I can. Oh, my God. “Anne?”

  “Good guess, Mrs. Hart. Did you honestly think he lets her stay because you insisted? He’s just keeping all his toys close.”

  When he lets me go, I take a shaky breath. I refuse to show him how much this information affects me. I didn’t want to care, thought I wouldn’t, but it’s as if someone is pushing a thumb into a bruise on my skin. Damian owes me nothing. He could’ve fucked whomever he wanted in prison, but he could’ve told me his ex-lover is living with us. He made a fool out of me, and I’m naive enough not to have realized. Or maybe he did try to tell me, when he told me Anne is Zane’s sister the day I asked her to stay, and I just didn’t want to listen.

  “Now,” he says, “go back downstairs like a good little whore and take care of your goddamn guests. That’s what Dami expects from you until you run away.”

  “Fuck you.”

  He reaches for me, but my expression must’ve stopped him.

  I’m hurt, and I’m beyond caring who sees the semen on my dress. “If you touch me again, I’ll scream.” I’ll scream the roof off. It’s not the kind of attention I’d like to draw to myself, especially not now, but I’ll do it.

  Clenching his fist, he lowers his hand.

  I use the opportunity to escape upstairs. It’s not until I’m on the landing that I hear the voices coming from Damian’s bedroom, his and a woman’s. I slow my pace, my heart sloshing around in my chest. I’m almost at the door when Anne exits, her hair messy and her cheeks red. When she sees me, she irons out the wrinkles in her dress and gives me a sweet smile before darting pass.

  Chapter 15

  Damian

  At the sight of my wife, I stop dead. “Lina.”

  She’s standing on the landing just outside our bedroom door. Her face is ashen and her big eyes a fraction too wide.

  “What are you doing?” I reach for her, but she pulls back.

  “What are you doing?”

  Is that an accusation in her voice? Could my unwilling little wife be jealous? She saw Anne leave our room. No doubt about that.

  I lift the shawl to show her. It’s a long one that would fall to her knees. “I came to get you this so you could get up from the table, but I see you managed just fine.”

  Yanking the shawl from my hand, she walks past me. “Too little, too late, but thanks for your concern, anyway.”

  I let her escape into our room. This is a conversation we’re having in private. I follow and shut the door. There are too many ears around, tonight.

  At the sound of the click, she flings around. Her eyes turn wider, and her chest heaves with fast, little breaths.

  “It’s not locked,” I say in a placating tone. “The door is only closed for privacy.”

  “Get out.”

  “This is my room, too.”

  She grips her hair and tries to barge past me. “What am I saying? This is your room. Stay. I’ll find another.”

  I take hold of her arm. “Our room, and like hell you’ll find another.”

  “Let go.”

  “Calm down.”

  “I am calm.”

  “You’re not.”

  She makes a visible effort to control herself, breathing in and out slowly.

  “That’s better. Deep breaths.” I let go, ready to grab her if she tries to flee again. This isn’t claustrophobia. It’s something else, and it makes a huge red flag pop up in my mind. I’ve been ignoring this for long enough. I’m done giving her slack.

  “Why are you afraid of closed doors, Lina?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me Anne is your mistress?”

  “For the obvious reason that she’s not.”

  “I saw her. You. Coming out of here.”

  “It’s not what it seems like.”

  She huffs. “You know what? You don’t owe me an explanation.”

  I catch her wrist when she tries to slide past me again. “Yes, I do. I’m your husband.”

  “Oh, come on. It’s not like we married for love or promised to be faithful.”

  Wrong thing to say. The gentleness the situation requires vanishes as the patience I set out with snaps. Despite the inner voice of my reason, I slam her body against the wall, hearing the little humph as her breath leaves her.

  “You’re wrong on that one, wife. You promised faithful along with your obedience, body, and affection the day you said your vows in a black dress.”

  She stares at me with her pretty blue eyes, her anger gone and caution in its place. “Affection can’t be forced.”

  “Obedience can.” Wrapping my hand around her neck, I let my thumb rest on the frantic pulse of her jugular vein. “Maybe I haven’t been clear enough. Let me spell it out for you. If you touch another man, he’s dead. How’s that for communication?”

  “I didn’t take you for a hypocrite.”

  “I didn’t touch Anne. I came upstairs to fetch you a shawl. She followed me. She made a pass at me. Yes, she tried to kiss me. I said no. End of story.”

  “I don’t care,” she whispers, averting her eyes.

  “You do.”

  She refuses to look at me. My wife is every bit as possessive as I am, and my chest glows warm with satisfaction, enough to calm me. Lina may not love me, but she doesn’t want to share me. I stroke my thumb up and down the arch of her neck. She’s so breakable, so small.

  “You’re the one who asked her to say,” I remind her gently. “Say the word, and she’s gone.”

  Her gaze lifts back to mine. “You didn’t tell me you fucked her.”

  “I never did.”

  Her brow wrinkles. “I thought she was your girlfriend in prison.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “That’s what Zane said.”

  The muscles in my face tighten. I feel it in the pull around my eyes and the strain in my jaw. “What exactly did he say?”

  “That sex is allowed in prison.”

  “That’s true. Husbands and boyfriends get to sleep with their partners, and prostitutes are brought in for the rest. Doesn’t mean I hooked up with anyone.”

  “Why wouldn’t you? Six years is a long time.”

  Tracing her stubborn chin, I give her the truth. “I was waiting for someone special.”

  She looks away again. “I’m not special.”

  Gripping her chin, I force her to face me. “I waited six years for you, Lina. Six long fucking years.”

  Uncertainty plays in her eyes as she searches mine. “Why?”

  “I always get what I want, especially when someone tells me I can’t have it.”

  “Ah.” She nods. “It’s the chase.”

  “The chase and so much
more.”

  She doesn’t ask about the more. Thank God. I don’t know if I can explain it, if I want to explain it. How does one put obsession in words? How do I look her in the eyes and confess that I’ll hunt her to the end of her days? I’ll never set her free from our vows, and maybe it’s better I don’t admit that, right now. Maybe it’s better I don’t spell out another truth. One is enough for tonight. It’s not like she doesn’t know this is her prison. All I can say to make it better, is, “I’ll give you everything in my power to make you happy.”

  Biting her lip, she considers the statement. It’s not new. I made it not so long ago. I meant it then and I mean it now.

  “Just give me this, Lina. I’m not asking for more.”

  “Give you what?” she asks softly.

  “Take what I’m offering. Try to be happy.”

  She stares at me for a long time. Just when I think she’s going to turn me away, she drags her fingers through my hair and pulls me down. The kiss knocks me sideways. I anticipated more resistance, more fighting the attraction, but she takes what I offer and gives me her mouth. She hikes up her skirt and wraps her sex-drenched thighs around me, grinding her pussy on my dick and making me crazy. Bracing my palms next to her face, I hold back as much as I can. The moment is too sweet. I will not bulldoze over it with my overeager cock.

  I give her space when she reaches for my belt. I let her take out my cock and pump it in her fist until I hiss. I support her ass when she slides her pussy over the length of my rock-hard shaft. I take nothing more than what she gives. I let her ride me, go with her rhythm, and let her chase her own release. I watch as she rubs her clit and obliges when she tells me to move. I drive a little deeper, a little harder, and watch her come.

  It’s raw and beautiful. It’s fragile. It’s our pact, our give and take, although I’m not sure who’s on the giving or receiving end. It’s entangled—our limbs, our tongues, our breaths, our pleasure. Our vows. For as long as I live, I’ll strive to make her happy. All she has to do is stay. She belongs to me. It’s inevitable. It has always been a given.

  Spearing my fingers through the roots of her hair, I pull back her head and force her to focus. “Don’t try to escape, Lina. Ever.” My cock is still buried deep inside her. We haven’t caught our breaths yet, but a dark force drives me to say this, to be sure she understands. “I’ll always find you.”

  Soberly, she stares at me. “How does our story go when you find me?”

  “I’ll make you pay, and then I’ll make you happy.”

  Like a vicious circle. Like an infinity sign. No beginning, no end. Just me chasing, me catching, and me pleasing. As long as it takes. I’m committed to forever.

  She lowers one leg to find her footing. My cock slips from her pussy and cum runs down the inside of her thigh over the dried traces of earlier. Her hair is a mess, and her dress is stained. Mascara is smeared under her eyes. Her lips are swollen from my kisses, and her neck is red from my stubble. It’ll take more than a brush and a tube of lipstick to hide what we’ve done.

  “I have to get back to our guests,” I say with more regret than she’ll ever know. “Want to come?”

  I already know what her answer will be, but it’s important that I give her a choice. Small freedoms are integral in the absence of a big freedom. It keeps a person sane. Ask me. I know that from prison. It’s the books, the laptop, the correspondence degree, and the freedom of plotting my revenge that kept me whole.

  She shakes her head.

  “I’ll try to get rid of them quickly,” I promise.

  “Take your time. I’m going for a shower.”

  I kiss her hand, reminding her no matter how hard and dirty I fuck her, I always remember she’s a lady. “I’ll offer your excuse.”

  “What will you say?”

  It matters to her. She wouldn’t have asked otherwise.

  “The truth,” I say. “That you’re tired.”

  She nods. “Thank you.”

  Cupping her breast, I steal a caress before returning to duty, to the people who drink and laugh in my house as if they’re my friends.

  Lina

  This is harder than I remember. My breathing is heavy, and my lungs burn as I work up a sweat on the treadmill. Phillip, or Phil as he asked me to call him, is at my side, counting down and uttering every clichéd encouragement in the book.

  “Almost there. You’ve got this. You’re your only limit. No pain, no gain.”

  If my collapsing lungs would let me speak, I’d tell him to shut up.

  Damian is sitting on the sofa in the lounge area, reading a newspaper. He’s dressed in a suit and Italian shoes. A Rolex peaks out from under his shirtsleeve. He’s wearing black diamond cufflinks and his wedding ring. Despite the ring, the girls on the treadmills next to me stare. Drool is a better word. His attire screams money. In Harold’s circles, men would never be seen with the shoes, watch, and cufflinks. A good suit and shoes would’ve been enough. Anything more and you show the world you’re used to nothing. New money. Money is definitely rolling in for Damian.

  Damian’s black diamonds are so much in demand the mine can’t keep up the supply. There’s no doubt Tony’s fine work with the necklace put the black diamonds on the map. From the minute the photo of the necklace went viral, the price of colored black diamonds shot up around the world. How does Harold feel about Damian’s success? People who come from Old Money don’t respect New Money. That’s what Harold used to say. What’s he saying now that he can’t afford more than a bachelor flat in one of the poorest suburbs of town? It’s no coincidence he ended up there, of all places. Damian sent him there when he couldn’t find an affordable place elsewhere. Zane told me. It’s Damian’s way of taking revenge by reversing the roles.

  The brunette next to me steals another look at my husband. With his dark hair neatly combed and his face clean-shaven, he looks like a respectable businessman. He’s easily the most handsome man I’ve seen. Nicest smelling, too. He drips of maleness and virility. Resting an ankle on his knee, he seems absorbed in the article he’s reading. His casual posture may fool the girls into thinking they can gawk unnoticed, but he doesn’t deceive me. He’s aware of everything that happens around him.

  When Phil touches my arm again, rambling about mind over muscles, Damian lifts his gaze to us. It’s brooding and dark enough to make Phil retract his hand. Inwardly, I roll my eyes. Damian insisted on accompanying me. He refused to let Russell bring me. Now I know why. It’s so he can wrestle Phil with killer looks.

  When the hour-long training is done, I wipe my face on a towel and walk to where my husband sits innocently. He lowers the newspaper and watches me with so much sexual intent my cheeks heat.

  “Do I have time for a shower?”

  He’s already wasted an hour of his time, plus the time it took him to drive me here. I’m sure he has better things to do.

  “I’ll wait,” he says.

  I cock my hip a little, giving him attitude just because people surround us, and I can. “Is this going to be regular thing?”

  He narrows his eyes. “You know how I feel about nothings and things. Express yourself correctly.”

  “Are you going to sit here every time I work out?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Does it bother you?”

  “I hate wasting your time.”

  His gaze trails over me. “It’s no waste of time.”

  “Why don’t you just work out at the same time?”

  “If I work out, I won’t be able to watch you.”

  He says it darkly, deeply, and my lower region contracts at his tone. I’m not sure if he means watching as in enjoying the view or as in making sure I don’t escape, but it’s wicked and hot and unfair, and it tightens my nipples.

  Grabbing my towel, he flicks my butt. “Ten minutes. I’ll wait outside the showers.”

  I bet he will.

  I go ahead while he gathers his newspaper. A pretty girl passes me
on the stairs.

  “You’re so lucky,” she says with a sigh, looking back toward Damian.

  If only she knew.

  A part of me wants to agree, though, and that scares me. I can’t get attached to him. I can’t settle for spoiled captive. I’d rather be poor and free.

  Damian

  It takes me another day before I finally find the time to visit Willowbrook. It’s just over an hour’s drive southeast. The private institution is situated on an acre of land, a far enough distance from the nearest town to make running away improbable. Escaping would have to be on foot. No busses service the town that’s not even mentioned on a map, and Uber is non-existent out here.

  I announce myself at the modest but well-secured gate. There are cameras, barbwire, and an electrified wire warning sign. An armed guard exits a guard post on the inside of the property after checking the appointment schedule. He uses a pedestrian gate to meet me. After he searches the car and pats me down, he opens the gates and waves me through.

  The house is a three-story, modern building with narrow windows. They’re not barred, but a body can’t fit through them. Precaution against suicide and escape, I assume.

  I park in the guest lot at the front and ring the bell at the entrance. The double doors open to reveal a short woman in a white uniform with a broad smile.

  “Mr. Botha,” she says, shaking my hand. “What a pleasure. Please follow me.”

  When I made an enquiry, there was a questionnaire as well as a list of required documents, one of those being a salary slip. I guess my monthly income is the reason for the warm welcome.

  The nurse doesn’t introduce herself but walks me through an entrance resembling an art gallery. It’s contemporary, colorful, and acoustic. Our steps echo up a marble staircase. Expensive. Cold. The space smells like toilet flowers, the kind that comes from a canister.

  “The dining room, laundry, and kitchen are downstairs,” the nurse explains. She stops in front of the first door. “This is Dr. Dickenson’s office. Tea? Coffee?”