The Devil's Wife

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The gala was a swirl of glitz and glamour, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfumes and the murmur of hushed conversations. Alia's heart raced as she stepped into the grand ballroom, her arm tucked into the crook of Damien's elbow. His hand felt cold and unyielding, a stark contrast to the warmth of his embrace earlier that day.

They mingled with the city's elite, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries. Alia's smile felt plastic, a mask hiding the tumult within. But she played her part well, charming and poised, the perfect trophy wife. The evening passed in a blur of champagne and small talk until a tall, handsome man approached her, his smile easy and charming.

"Alia, isn't it?" he said, extending a well-manicured hand. "I've heard so much about you."

Damien's grip tightened on her arm, his eyes narrowing as he took in the newcomer. "Mr. Castellanos," he said curtly. "What brings you here?"

The man, Castellanos, chuckled. "Business," he replied, his gaze lingering on Alia. "And the pleasure of meeting the beautiful Mrs. Castellanos."

Alia felt a spark of irritation at the blatant flirtation, but she maintained her smile. "Thank you," she said politely. "It's a lovely event."

But Damien's smile was anything but polite. His jaw clenched, his eyes darkening. "If you'll excuse us," he said, his voice tight with tension.

Castellanos stepped closer, his hand on Alia's elbow. "I was just getting to know your lovely wife," he said, his smile never wavering.

With a speed that belied his calm demeanor, Damien's hand shot out, gripping Castellanos by the throat. "Take your hands off her," he snarled, his eyes like ice chips.

The room fell silent, all eyes on the tableau unfolding before them. Alia's heart thudded in her chest as she watched the man's face turn red, his eyes bulging with fear. She'd never seen this side of Damien before, the ruthless mafia boss lurking beneath the charming facade.

Castellanos stumbled back, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender. "I-I didn't mean any disrespect," he sputtered.

Damien released him with a shove, his eyes never leaving the other man's face. "You're lucky I don't break your neck right here," he murmured, his voice low and deadly.

The crowd parted like the Red Sea as Damien led Alia away, his hand firm on the small of her back. She could feel the heat of his anger, a palpable force that seemed to radiate from him.

As they made their way to the safety of their table, she whispered, "What was that about?"

He didn't look at her, his eyes scanning the room. "A warning," he said, his voice clipped. "To everyone here. You're mine."

Alia's stomach twisted. The weight of her new reality grew heavier, the walls of their sham marriage closing in around her like a prison. She knew now that she'd entered a world where love didn't exist, only power and possession. And she was just another asset to be claimed.

The rest of the evening was a tense dance of appearances, Damien's grip on her arm never loosening. Every smile and nod was a silent battle, a performance for the watching eyes. But behind the scenes, in the shadows of the grand ballroom, the whispers began. The rumors of Damien's possessiveness grew into a murmur, then a roar.

The flustered gala organizer approached them, his eyes darting to the bruised and cowering Castellanos, now nursing a glass of water. "Mr. Castellanos has had a bit of an accident," he said, his voice quaking. "Perhaps it would be best if you could escort him to the hospital?"

Damien's smile was cold and sharp. "I'll take care of it," he said, his voice a promise of retribution. He turned to Alia, his eyes flashing. "Stay here," he ordered before stalking off into the crowd.

Alone at the table, Alia felt the eyes of the room on her, the whispers growing louder. She picked at her food, her appetite gone, and sipped her champagne, the bubbles doing nothing to ease the knot in her stomach. The orchestra played on, the music a discordant backdrop to the silent film of her unraveling world.

When Damien returned, his eyes were colder than ever, his jaw set in a firm line. "Let's go," he said, his voice a whip c***k.

They left the gala, the chilly night air a stark contrast to the stifling heat of the ballroom. The car ride home was a tense silence, the air thick with unspoken words. As they pulled into the driveway of their opulent mansion, Alia knew she had to find a way out. This wasn't the life she wanted, not a life where a simple flirtation could end in violence.

But as they stepped into the marble foyer, the sound of shattering glass echoed through the house. Damien's grip on her tightened, his eyes darting to the source of the noise. "Stay here," he said, his voice a lethal whisper.

Alia watched him disappear into the darkness, the sound of his footsteps fading. And in that moment, she knew she was in deeper than she'd ever imagined. Her heart raced as she waited, the silence of the house suddenly oppressive. What had she gotten herself into?

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