Chapter 4 : Thorns Behind Roses
1047 Words
The name still echoed in my chest long after Dominic left the room.
Sabine.
He had whispered it like a sin, like a scar no one was allowed to touch. But now that I’d heard it, I couldn’t forget. I didn’t want to. There was something about the way he’d said her name—fear laced with grief—that made my blood run cold.
He was hiding something. Not just from the world—but from me. And maybe from himself.
As I stood alone in the penthouse, everything around me felt different. The marble floors, the priceless art, the skyline stretching beyond the glass—it all felt like a stage. A beautiful prison. One where I was both the ornament and the audience, watching a man unravel behind perfectly tailored lies.
I wasn’t just curious anymore. I was angry.
Because I wasn’t just his bride. I was a person with instincts, with a right to know what kind of fire I had been dragged into. And if Sabine had been the flame that once burned him, I needed to know how close I stood to getting scorched myself.
That was the night I stopped surviving and started watching for cracks.
---
The next morning, the penthouse felt like a foreign country. Every hallway stretched too far. Every room echoed with things unsaid. I moved through it like a visitor, tiptoeing around the man I was legally bound to but barely knew.
Dominic had left before dawn, his suit immaculate, his eyes unreadable. He hadn’t said a word about last night. Not about the contract. Not about the call. Not about Sabine.
But I remembered. Every syllable.
I didn’t eat breakfast. Couldn’t. Instead, I wandered the library again, hoping the silence would calm me. It didn’t.
When I found the same leather-bound box tucked beneath the shelves, my pulse quickened. The last time I’d touched it, I’d stopped myself.
This time, I didn’t.
Inside were photos, papers, and a small silver locket. I picked it up gently, as if it might burn me. It clicked open to reveal two tiny photos: one of Dominic—smiling, younger, softer—and the other, a woman.
She was beautiful. Dark-haired, light-eyed. Elegant.
Sabine.
---
That night, Dominic and I were expected at the Kingsley Gala—another event in the glittering world I’d been dragged into. He texted me one word around noon: Red.
At exactly four, a dress arrived. Silk. Crimson. More expensive than anything I’d ever worn. It felt like armor.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror once I was dressed.
A stranger stared back.
---
Dominic barely glanced at me when I stepped into the living room. But something flickered in his eyes—something I couldn’t name.
“You clean up well,” he said, his voice unreadable.
“Don’t lie. I know this dress is a strategy.”
He didn’t deny it.
“It’s a statement,” he said. “The Kingsleys respect strength.”
I tilted my head. “So I’m just a chess piece to impress billionaires?”
His lips twitched. “No. You’re the queen.”
He offered his arm.
I took it, not because I wanted to, but because I wanted to survive.
---
The Kingsley estate was everything I expected—opulent, cold, calculated. Glass walls. White marble. Crystal chandeliers the size of cars. It reeked of old money and older secrets.
Dominic guided me through the crowd like I was part of his brand. People stared. Smiled too widely. Whispered behind champagne flutes.
I played my part. I smiled, nodded, laughed at the right times.
But I watched.
Listened.
Waited.
And then I heard it.
“Sabine would’ve never allowed this,” someone said behind me.
The name hit me like a slap.
I turned slowly, pretending to admire a sculpture.
Two older women stood near the hors d'oeuvres, talking in hushed tones.
“Dominic is reckless,” one said. “Replacing her so soon…”
“She was different,” the other replied. “Alessia’s not even close.”
So they knew Sabine.
And they saw me as a replacement.
I forced a smile and walked away before they noticed me.
Dominic found me minutes later. His expression tightened.
“What did they say to you?”
“Nothing. But they said plenty when they thought I wasn’t listening.”
His jaw clenched. “Ignore them.”
“Who was she?” I asked. “Tell me the truth.”
He exhaled slowly. “Not here.”
---
Back at the penthouse, silence thickened between us. He poured whiskey. I kicked off my heels and leaned against the kitchen island.
“She died in a fire,” I said quietly. “Didn’t she?”
He looked up sharply.
“How do you know that?”
“I looked. I found articles. And that box in the library.”
His eyes darkened. “I told you not to dig.”
“You told me nothing. I had to find answers myself.”
He set the glass down. Hard.
“Yes. She died. In Paris. In an apartment I owned. There was a fire. And I wasn’t there in time.”
“Was it an accident?”
He hesitated.
Then—“No. It was targeted.”
My breath caught. “Why?”
“Because of me.”
The words were flat. Final.
“Someone wanted to hurt me,” he said. “And they used her to do it.”
I swallowed. “So what happens now? With me?”
He stepped closer, eyes shadowed. “I married you to settle a debt. But I kept you because… I didn’t want history to repeat itself.”
“Then stop treating me like a stranger,” I whispered.
He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “And if I do? Will you stay?”
Before I could answer, a sharp beeping broke the silence.
He looked at his phone.
His face went pale.
“What is it?” I asked.
“They breached the lobby.”
My heart skipped.
“Who?”
He met my eyes.
“The same people who lit the first fire.”
---
END OF CHAPTER 4
- Writer
