It’s been seven days since I saw her on screen, and I haven’t slept well right
since.
I told myself I didn’t care. That Scarlett marrying Zacharias was some cruel little power play she pulled just to make me flinch. Hell, maybe it was. But when the camera zoomed in on her–wearing that goddamn black wedding dress like she was born in the ashes of a dynasty–I felt it. Something tighten in my ribs. Something ugly and familiar.
Jealousy.
I sat on the terrace of my private estate in the countryside, glass of whiskey in one hand, cigar in the other, shirt unbuttoned halfway because I’d stopped giving a damn about anything except breathing and not smashing the TV with the remote again.
The news played in the background. They showed her again–Scarlett standing beside Zacharias outside some rehab clinic. Paparazzi flashing, security guards shoving. And yet she stood there like the queen of hell, chin up, spine straight, eyes empty. Even when Zacharias looked at her like she was air in his lungs.
“Fuck,” I muttered, tipping back the drink. The burn wasn’t enough.
“Still watching your ex play house with your maybe–dead rival?” came Matteo’s voice. My old friend swaggered in through the glass doors, tan as ever, uninvited as always. He dropped into the chair across from me and helped himself to the bottle.
“Didn’t know this was a viewing party,” he added, glancing at the screen. “Damn. She really married him? Thought that was a joke.”
I didn’t answer. Just reached for the cigar cutter and flicked it open. Matteo whistled low. “She looks hot, bro. That black dress? Savage. Never seen someone walk into a marriage like it’s a funeral she planned herself.”
I glared. “Shut up.”
“Relax. I’m just saying. Didn’t she used to cry over you? Wasn’t she, like, obsessed or something?”
I stayed quiet. He kept going.
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“Funny how things flip, huh? She used to follow you like a dog. Now look at her. Ice cold. Walking next to a billionaire coma–prince like she owns the world.”
I downed another shot. “Alina’s still in London,” I said flatly. “She had business.”
“Sure she did,” Matteo said with a chuckle. “Or maybe she needed a break from her grumpy fiancé with a bruised ego.”
I snapped, “I’m not jealous.”
He held up both hands. “Never said you were.”
But he looked at me with that damn smirk like he knew I was lying. Maybe I
was.
Because truth was–Alina hadn’t called in days. We were both pretending to be too busy for each other, and for once, I didn’t mind. Gave me time to think.
About Scarlett.
The last time I saw her–really saw her–was when she whipped that paddle across my back. Rage in her eyes. Her voice like cracked obsidian, sharp and painful and beautiful. And I remembered every goddamn second. The scent of her skin. The way she snarled my name. The way she cried when I walked
away.
Now she didn’t even flinch when the press dragged her name through hell.
She smiled. She smiled standing next to another man.
“You still love her?” Matteo asked casually, like he was asking if I wanted another drink.
“No,” I said. Too fast.
He chuckled. “You sure?”
=
=
I stared at the screen. Zacharias reached for her hand. She didn’t pull away. She didn’t look at him either. That was the worst part. She looked ahead–like the future was hers and nothing behind her mattered anymore.
“Why the hell did she wear black to a wedding?” I muttered. “Why the hell did she wear b
Matteo shrugged. “Because she doesn’t marry for love. She marries for war.”
That stuck with me.
And for the first time in years, I wondered if I was the fool for ever thinking I could tame her.
Scarlett Royce wasn’t a woman you owned. She was a woman you survived. And watching her now–alive, lethal, loved–I wasn’t sure I ever would again.
My Ex–lover Begged for My Love after He Abandoned me
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I leaned back in the leather chair, cigar smoke curling in the air like the ghost of her perfume–jasmine and fire. That’s how she always smelled. Even when she was running barefoot through the estate gardens, even when she stormed into rooms like a hurricane in red lipstick.
I leaned back in the armchair, staring at the empty glass in my hand. The fireplace crackled. The silence clawed at me. And her laugh–God, her laugh- kept echoing in my skull like a ghost with unfinished business.
I remember everything.
More than I should.
“Apply for Alina’s security detail,” I’d said to Paul Royce when I first walked into that cold mansion. “I’ve read her profile. I can blend well, discreet. No distractions.”
He glanced up from his papers and smirked. “Alina’s leaving for London. Scarlett’s staying. You’ll protect her.”
Scarlett.
The wild daughter. The one they kept in whispered tones and long shadows. She wasn’t polished like Alina. She didn’t pretend to be. She met me that afternoon barefoot, eating mango straight from the fruit knife, and said,
“So you’re the new toy?”
“No, ma’am. I’m your new shadow.”
“Good,” she grinned, licking juice from her thumb. “I hate being alone in the dark.”
Back then, I still loved Alina. Still dreamed about her walking down London streets in oversized sunglasses and silk. But Scarlett–she wasn’t the plan. Until she became the only thing I could see.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?!” Scarlett snapped that night, clutching my bloody hand after I punched out one of the masked bastards who tried to drag her into a black van.
“I’ve had worse,” I shrugged.
“You’re bleeding,” she hissed. “You’re bleeding for me.”
“That’s my job-”
“I didn’t ask for a hero,” she snapped. “I asked for you to survive.”
And then she bandaged me up. Sat in front of me on her knees, lips trembling,
A/A
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rapping my hand like I was something precious.
You’re not disposable, Creed! I don’t care if you think you are.”
hat’s when the line between protector and obsession cracked.
