The Secret Savior He Threw Away

The silence in the ballroom was absolute. You could hear the ice clinking in the glasses across the room. Nobody dared to breathe.

Henrietta shrank back, her face flushing a mottled red. Tatum suddenly found the floor very interesting, her earlier bravado evaporating under her grandfather's furious gaze.

Montgomery Alston ignored his daughter and granddaughter. He turned his piercing blue eyes to Curtis, who was standing frozen by the bar, his drink still in his hand.

"Curtis," Montgomery barked, the single word a command that brooked no argument. "Come here."

Curtis set his glass down with a sharp clink. He walked across the room, his face a careful mask of neutrality, though Diana could see the muscle ticking in his jaw. He stopped in front of his grandfather.

"Your wife is unwell," Montgomery said, his voice low but carrying in the quiet room. "Take care of her. Now."

It wasn't a suggestion. It was an order from the man who controlled the Alston empire. Curtis couldn't refuse. Not here. Not in front of the board members and the society pages.

"Of course, Grandfather," Curtis said, his tone deferential but tight.

He walked over to Diana. He didn't ask if she was okay. He didn't offer a gentle hand. He reached out and wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her upright. But his fingers dug into her side like iron clamps, a silent punishment for the scene she was causing.

Diana gasped at the sudden pressure on her tender abdomen, but she forced herself to stand straight.

Montgomery nodded once, a dismissal. "Good. Take her to sit down. Stay with her."

Curtis guided her away from the pillar, his grip never loosening. He led her to a velvet settee near the edge of the dance floor and practically shoved her down onto the cushion. He sat down beside her, his body rigid with suppressed fury.

To the rest of the room, they looked like a devoted husband tending to his ailing wife. But the reality was a cold war.

Curtis leaned in, his face inches from hers, a fake smile plastered on his lips for the benefit of the watchers. But his voice was a venomous hiss.

"You think you're clever, don't you?" he whispered. "Running to my grandfather. Playing the victim. You just love making me look like a fool."

Diana stared at her hands folded in her lap. They were still shaking. "I didn't... I didn't run to anyone. I was just standing there."

"Shut up," he muttered through his smile. "You manipulate everyone around you, Diana. But you forget who holds the leash. You pull a stunt like this again, and I'll make sure you regret it."

He shifted away from her, putting a solid foot of space between them on the small sofa. He crossed his legs and stared straight ahead, ignoring her completely.

The rest of the dinner was a special kind of torture. Diana sat there, a mannequin in a red dress, while Curtis chatted with the people who approached them, acting as if she didn't exist. The pain in her belly was a constant, throbbing ache, and the diamond necklace felt like it was choking her. Every time she shifted, his hand would snap out and grip her knee, a silent warning to stay still.

Finally, after an eternity, the guests began to leave. Curtis stood up immediately, not offering her a hand.

"We're leaving," he said.

The ride back to Manhattan in the back of the Bentley was suffocating. The partition was up, sealing them in the dark, leather-scented cabin. The driver, Hogan, navigated the dark roads in silence, sensing the explosive tension in the air.

Curtis didn't look at her once. He stared out the window, his fingers drumming an angry rhythm on his thigh. The silence was so heavy it pressed down on Diana's chest, making it hard to breathe.

When the car finally stopped in the underground garage of their building, Curtis was out the door before the engine died. He strode to the private elevator, Diana trailing behind him like a ghost.

The elevator doors opened into their penthouse. The moment they stepped inside the foyer, Curtis spun around.

He grabbed Diana by the shoulders and slammed her back against the wall. The impact knocked the air from her lungs, and a sharp spike of pain radiated from her lower back. She cried out, her hands flying up to grip his wrists.

"You think you can embarrass me in front of my family?" he snarled, his face inches from hers, his breath hot and smelling of whiskey. "You think you can use my grandfather against me?"

"Curtis, stop, you're hurting me," she gasped, trying to push him away. But her strength was nothing compared to his rage.

"You wanted my attention, Diana? Is that what this is?" He pressed his body against hers, pinning her to the wall. "You wanted me to look at you instead of Carla?"

"I wasn't thinking about Carla," she sobbed, tears of pain and frustration spilling over. "I just wanted to survive the night. I'm sick. I'm hurt."

"You're sick, alright," he sneered. "You're sick with jealousy. You can't stand that she's everything you're not. She's talented, she's genuine, and she doesn't have to play games to get my attention."

He released one of her shoulders and grabbed her chin, forcing her face up to his. His eyes were dark, burning with a mix of anger and something else-something cruel and possessive.

"Let me show you what you are to me," he whispered.

Before she could turn away, his mouth crashed down on hers.

It wasn't a kiss. It was an invasion. His lips were hard and punishing, his teeth scraping against hers, bruising her mouth. He forced her lips apart, taking without asking, claiming without caring. It tasted like bourbon and bitterness.

Diana struggled, pushing against his chest, turning her head to escape the assault. But he just followed, his grip on her chin tightening until she felt like her jaw would crack. She was trapped between the cold wall and his hot, angry body, completely at his mercy.

A sob caught in her throat. The physical pain of the kiss merged with the agonizing cramps in her belly and the shattered remains of her heart. She went limp, her hands falling to her sides, submitting to the punishment because she had no fight left.

He pulled back abruptly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He stared down at her, his chest heaving, his eyes full of disgust.

Diana slid down the wall, unable to stand anymore. She collapsed onto the hardwood floor, her red dress bunching around her, her head bowed.

Curtis looked at her crumpled form. There was no regret in his eyes. There was only cold satisfaction.

"Remember this, Diana," he said, his voice flat and hard. "You are not my partner. You are not my equal. You are a piece of decoration I bought to make the house look good. And decoration doesn't speak unless spoken to."

He stepped over her legs, not caring if his shoe caught the hem of her dress. He walked toward the bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt.

"You're sleeping in the guest room tonight," he threw over his shoulder. "I can't stand the sight of you."