Buried Secrets: The Wife Who Refused to Fade

Chapter 6

Rosalind's fingers tightened around the stem of her wine glass, her gaze locked on Nicholas Rivera, the sleazy man now writhing in pain. His gang of thugs hesitated, glancing between her and their leader, unsure whether to intervene. The air between them crackled with tension, the scent of sea breeze laced with alcohol and arrogance.

"You little—" Nicholas hissed, cradling his broken wrist. His rage twisted his face, and his free hand fumbled for the bottle he had dropped earlier.

Rosalind sighed, taking a slow sip of her drink, her disinterest only fueling his anger. She had dealt with men like him before—bullies who thought money or muscle made them untouchable.

"You want to go another round?" she asked, tilting her head slightly, the glint in her eyes daring him to try.

Nicholas's pride couldn't take the hit. His grip tightened around the bottle's neck as he lunged—

A hand shot out of nowhere, seizing Nicholas's wrist in an iron grip.

The world seemed to pause as the familiar voice sliced through the tension.

"Enough."

Rosalind's lips parted slightly as she turned toward the source of the voice.

Tristan.

His hold on Nicholas's wrist was merciless, his knuckles pale from the pressure. The man in front of him paled, whatever bravado he had vanishing under Colton’s piercing gaze.

"Mr. Bajusz—" Nicholas stammered, his confidence crumbling.

Tristan’s jaw clenched, his fury barely contained. He wrenched Nicholas’s arm back sharply, making the man whimper in pain before shoving him away. The once-cocky thug staggered backward, barely keeping his balance.

"Get lost before I make sure you can’t use either of your hands again," Tristan said, his voice ice-cold.

Nicholas hesitated for only a moment before scurrying off, his gang following him without another word.

Silence settled between Rosalind and Bajusz, thick and suffocating.

She took another sip of her drink, unfazed. "I had it handled."

Tristan’s eyes darkened as they roamed over her, taking in every inch of her transformation—the striking red dress, the confidence in her posture, the way she looked as though she belonged among the elite.

This wasn’t the Rosalind Lopes he had married.

And it infuriated him.

"You're really something else," he said, his voice low. "First, you show up here, dressed like this, and now you're picking fights with dangerous men?"

She raised an eyebrow, a slow, amused smile tugging at her lips. "Funny. I don’t recall needing your permission to exist."

A muscle in Tristan’s jaw twitched. He took a step closer, towering over her, the space between them shrinking.

"You knew I’d be here," he accused, his voice sharp. "Are you that desperate for my attention?"

Rosalind laughed, a soft, mocking sound. "You think too highly of yourself, Colton. Not everything revolves around you."

She turned, her silk dress brushing against him as she started toward the banquet hall. But before she could take another step, he caught her wrist.

Her pulse jumped at the sudden contact.

"Let go," she said, her voice steady but laced with warning.

Tristan's grip tightened. His eyes, burning with unspoken emotions, searched hers.

"Why are you really here?"

She met his gaze head-on, her lips curving into a knowing smile.

"If you’re so curious, Tristan, why don’t you stick around and find out?"

With a deliberate motion, she pulled her wrist free and disappeared into the crowd, leaving him standing there, fists clenched, watching as she slipped further out of his grasp.

And for the first time in his life, Tristan Bajusz had the sinking feeling that he was the one being played.

As Rosalind disappeared into the grand hall, another pair of eyes followed her movements from the shadows.

A man, seated in a dimly lit booth, swirled the golden liquid in his glass, watching her every step with a smirk.

"Venom Rose, huh?" he murmured to himself.

"Interesting."

The past wasn't done with her yet.

And neither was he.