Page 44 of Bound in Ruin

"It's a meeting with the Command Council," he says, his voice lowering into that heavy, commanding tone he uses with his soldiers. "The men there are traditional, aggressive, and disrespectful. You met them during the wedding dinner. I’m not having them stare at my wife all night. Put the dress on, Rosalia."

"I am not one of your soldiers!" I fire back, my eyes flashing with absolute rebellion as I step right into his space, chin held high. "And I am certainly not your property. If you think for one second that you get to order me around and dictate what I wear on my own body, you're out of your mind!"

"I'm protecting you!"

"You're controlling me!" I snap, my chest heaving as I glare up at him, refusing to yield an inch. "There is a massive difference, Dominic! I spent ten years being told what to wear, how to sit, and when to speak by a man who thought he owned me. I will never let another man do that to me again. Not even you."

Dominic freezes, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle ticks beneath his shadow of stubble. For three tense seconds, the silence in the room vibrates like a drawn bowstring as he stares down at the fierce, unyielding fire in my eyes.

I turn my back on him, stride straight into the walk-in closet, and grab the outfit I want to wear—a sleek, sharp silk trousersuit with a plunging neckline and structured shoulders that screams power, confidence, and absolute defiance.

I throw it on in record time, zip the heels, and sweep my hair over one shoulder.

When I step back out, Dominic is still standing by the bed. His dark eyes track me from head to toe, burning with a mix of heavy frustration and unreadable intensity. He opens his mouth, looking like he's about to re-ignite the argument, but the hard, uncompromising wall in my posture shuts him down before he can make a sound.

He clenches his jaw, swallowing whatever command was on the tip of his tongue, and simply steps aside.

"I'll be waiting at the car," I say coolly, not bothering to check if he's following.

I pick up my clutch, stalk out of the bedroom, and head straight downstairs to the courtyard, my heels clicking loudly against the marble floor with every proud, rebellious step.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

DOMINIC

The heavy oak doors of the private casino lounge close behind us, cutting off the muted buzz of the main floor and sealing us into a room that reeks of aged whiskey, cigar smoke, and astronomical wealth.

I feel Rosalia stiffen beside me the moment the council members turn to face us. Her spine goes rigid, her chin tilting upward in that defensive posture she wears whenever she feels cornered.

I offer her no reassuring hand at the small of her back. I don't reach out to steady her. If she is going to navigate this world at my side, she needs to learn how to stand in the pit without looking for a lifeline.

I know she can do it. She has proved herself to me many times.

"Boss," Abram greets, his voice dripping with easy, practiced charm. He steps forward, gesturing to the sleek, manicured woman at his side whose smile is as sharp and vacant as a diamond and introduces his wife to Rosalia. "Please meet my wife, Elena.”

Introductions roll around the room like a choreographed dance. Handshakes are exchanged, thin smiles are flashed, and polite, superficial compliments are tossed toward Rosalia.

Marcus introduces his wife, Beatrice, with a brief nod, while Yulian presents his young wife, Anya, who offers Rosalia a tight, rehearsed smile.

"She’s lovely, Dominic," Elena coos, her eyes sweeping over Rosalia with the calculating efficiency of an appraiser evaluating jewelry. "It’s always nice to see a new face among us."

Beside Elena, Beatrice and Anya nod in silent, synchronized approval, their expressions polished to a flawless shine that hides whatever venom brews beneath.

Rosalia offers a tight nod, her jaw set so hard I can see the faint pulse in her cheek. She loathes every second of it—the performative laughter, the suffocating politeness, the unspoken hierarchy that places her under a microscope.

She shoots a brief, burning glance toward me, silently demanding I shift the attention away from her.

I meet her gaze with complete indifference, taking a slow sip from my glass and letting the silence stretch. Let her sweat.

Before the tension in the air can snap, the heavy velvet curtain near the back of the private room rustles. A casino staff member in a crisp, tailored vest steps out, bowing his head in quiet deference.

"Good evening, gentlemen, ladies," the employee announces smoothly. "Your table is ready."

He gestures toward the center of the room, where a plush velvet poker table sits beneath a low-hanging brass chandelier, surrounded by leather armchairs that practically invite ruin.

"Shall we?" Marcus murmurs, gesturing toward the green felt as Yulian unbuttons his suit jacket and steps forward.

The wives drift toward the lounge seating along the perimeter, their quiet murmurings instantly resuming as they gather like silk-clad vultures. Rosalia stands frozen for a fraction of a second, caught between the cold reception of the women and the high-stakes table where the men are already taking their seats.