The Devil’s Bride

Chapter 14: Broken Grace

Moore’s POV

The house felt like a beautiful, multi-million-dollar tomb—silent, luxurious, and utterly suffocating.

I hadn’t been allowed outside the iron gates in days. Ethan kept me securely locked in this cage of glass and marble, and the walls were slowly crushing whatever remained of my broken spirit. My body still throbbed from his relentless punishment, a deep, dull ache localized between my thighs and dark purple bruises blooming across my hips like corrupted flowers.

I couldn’t breathe in this silence anymore.

So, I did the only thing that had ever brought me true peace.

While Ethan was away at executive meetings and Suzie was occupied on the far side of the estate, I slipped barefoot down the corridor and into the grand ballroom. The moment my bare soles touched the floor, a sharp, icy chill shot straight up my legs. The marble was freezing, polished to a mirror-like finish that perfectly reflected the massive crystal chandeliers hanging high above.

The room smelled faintly of lemon wax and expensive air freshener—sterile, clinical, and completely lifeless.

I stood dead in the center, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling mirrors that displayed my vulnerability from every single angle. A small, broken girl wrapped in a thin black silk nightgown, her hair messy, her eyes entirely haunted.

Then, I started to dance.

The first plié sent a familiar, deeply missed stretch through my calves and thighs. My muscles protested instantly—tight, swollen, and unused after weeks of domestic abuse—but my muscle memory took over. I surrendered to it. I felt the soft swish of silk against my skin as I moved, heard the faint, rhythmic slap of my bare feet on the unforgiving ground, and felt my breathing grow deeper.

I moved faster, letting the momentum take me.

Arabesque. My leg extended perfectly behind me, toes pointed, my arms maintaining an elegant line despite the weight in my chest. Pirouette after pirouette,the grand ballroom spinning around me in a beautiful blur of white stone and glittering crystal light. For a few precious, fleeting minutes, I wasn’t Ethan Vance’s broken wife. I wasn’t a ten-million-dollar transaction. I was just Moore—the girl who once dreamed of performing on the world's real stages.

But the marble floor was brutal.

It offered absolutely no give, no structural forgiveness. Every single landing sent sharp, agonizing jolts of pain straight through my soles. My feet, softened by weeks of forced luxury and a complete lack of rigorous practice, began to split open. The wet, sticky warmth of blood appeared first on my right heel, then my left. The distinct, metallic scent of it immediately mixed with the synthetic lemon polish.

I refused to stop.

Fouetté turns. Grand jeté leaps. My silk nightgown clung to my sweat-damp skin, the fabric growing increasingly heavy. Sweat trickled down my spine and pooled between my breasts. My lungs burned like fire. My feet screamed in agony with every single landing, leaving dark red smears and crimson footprints across the pristine white marble—a gruesome, beautiful painting of my utter desperation.

The physical pain felt honest.

Unlike the trauma Ethan is inflicting , this pain belonged entirely to me.

Tears completely blurred my vision as I pushed myself harder, spinning faster, entirely ignoring the burning agony in my torn arches. The sound of my ragged, desperate breathing echoed loudly in the cavernous space. Blood smeared in long, horrific streaks as I danced right through it, the warm wetness making each subsequent step slick and incredibly dangerous.

I executed one final, desperate leap and collapsed entirely to my knees in the dead center of the ballroom.

The cold marble bit into my raw skin. Blood pooled slowly beneath my torn soles, warm, thick, and sticky. The metallic odor grew suffocatingly strong. My chest heaved violently, my nightgown completely soaked through with sweat. Silent, heavy tears rolled down my cheeks and dripped onto the floor, mixing with the fresh blood on the white stone.

This was all I had left of my soul.

Ballet had been my only escape since early childhood. It had carried me through poverty, through my stepmother's critical illness, and through constant fear. And Ethan had systematically stripped everything else away from me.

The soft sound of a shoe shifting against the doorway made me instantly freeze.

I looked up slowly, my heart pounding erratically against my ribs.

Ethan stood there. He was leaning casually against the ornate doorframe, watching my ruined form in complete, terrifying silence.

His dark eyes burned with an terrifying intensity I had never seen from him before. It wasn’t a flash of anger. It wasn’t his usual cruel mockery. It was something significantly deeper. He looked entirely transfixed. Unsettled. His jaw was clenched tight, his powerful frame completely still as he took in the bloody footprints, the tears staining my face, and my trembling body still desperately trying to hold a graceful posture even in complete ruin.

The silence stretched between us—heavy, electric, and suffocating.

I quickly tried to tuck my bleeding feet beneath the shredded hem of my nightgown, an overwhelming wave of shame flooding my chest.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered hoarsely, my voice cracking under the strain. “I just… I needed to dance. Please don’t punish me for—”

He said absolutely nothing.

He simply stared at the bloody, mess I had made of his perfect, pristine marble floor. At the broken ballerina bleeding out in the center of his palace.

For one long, agonizing heartbeat, something almost human flickered across his cold, beautiful face. A shadow of an obsession that was deepening far past his control.

Then, his voice came, low, controlled, and entirely empty of emotion.

“Get up.”

I struggled to my feet, wincing violently as fresh, blinding pain shot through my torn soles. Blood left dark, fresh prints on the floor with every single step I took toward him.

Ethan’s gaze never wavered from my face. Something dark and unreadable flickered in the depths of his eyes.

“Come with me,” he said finally, turning on his heel toward the grand hallway. “I have a surprise waiting for you in our room.”

My stomach dropped into a bottomless void.

The way he said it—calm, steady, almost gentle—sent pure ice straight through my veins. With a man like Ethan Vance, surprises were never, ever kind.

I followed him slowly, leaving a trail of bloody footprints behind me on the cold, white marble, the dread twisting tighter around my throat with every agonizing step.