Chapter 145

[ 921 words ]

Delia’s POV

As he stepped inside, I sank to the floor, parting my legs among the petals, and started finger-fucking myself. I let out a low, heavy moan, calling his name.

“Julian… ah, Julian p>

The door swung shut, cutting off the noise of the wind. Julian stopped dead, his gaze dropping to where I sat exposed on the floor. For a heartbeat, I looked down at my own pussy, then back up at him, and I knew I had him.

I thought the sight of a Kensington woman begging, working herself into a lather right at his feet, would finally force his hand. I waited for him to drop his bag, to growl, to tear the robe off my shoulders.

Instead, Julian looked straight at my pussy and scoffed. It was a short, jagged sound of pure, raw dismissal.

I didn’t care. I didn’t stop. I was past the point of pride. I was tired of playing the nice, patient wife while he spent his nights in the city. I deserved his dick more than the models he frequented, and definitely more than my sister.

I’d seen the way he looked at my sister lately, and the jealousy was a poison in my veins. He walked right past me, the soles of his expensive shoes crunching the rose petals into the floor, leaving me there moaning his name to his retreating back.

He went straight to the table, poured himself a glass of dark red wine, and took a slow, agonisingly calm sip. I scrambled up, my robe fluttering open, and turned to face him. I didn’t stop moving my fingers; I wanted him to see the desperation.

“You can stop the show, Delia,” he said, staring into his glass as if the wine were more interesting than my naked body. “I told you before, looking at you doesn’t even make my dick perk, not one bit p>

“Julian, please,” I begged, my voice cracking under the weight of the humiliation. “Just this once… just fuck me. I’m your wife, Julian. Look at me p>

Julian finally looked at me, but there was no heat in his eyes, only a cold ice. “If it were your sister on that floor, finger-fucking herself the way you are doing right now, trust me, I could have fucked the living shit out of her p>

The words felt like a physical blow to my chest, knocking the air right out of my lungs. I froze, my hand falling away from my body as the reality of what he’d just said settled in.

“You know why, Delia?” He took another sip of wine, his voice dropping into a low, cruel register that made my skin crawl. “Because your sister is my type. Women like her turn me on. She has fire. She has something real. Not some desperate whore like you, begging for scraps of attention in a room full of dead flowers p>

He set the glass down on the table with a finality that sounded like a gavel. I felt the hot, stinging rush of tears. I yanked my robe closed, clutching the silk to my chest as if the fabric could shield me from the venom he’d just spat at me.

“Julian, I am your wife!” I yelled, my voice echoing off the high, vaulted ceilings of the mansion.

“Since when?” he asked, his brow arching in a mockery that cut deeper than any insult.

The words died in my throat. I couldn’t answer him because I knew the truth. I knew exactly what our “marriage” was—a piece of paper, a hollow lie. I wasn’t his wife in any way that mattered to a man like him.

“Good night, Delia,” he said, turning his back on me and heading toward the stairs without a second glance. “You might want to fuck one of my guards. I’m sure they like desperate sluts like you. They probably won’t be as picky about the ’type’ they’re getting p>

He disappeared upstairs, the steady rhythm of his footsteps a mocking countdown to my total failure. I stayed there, standing among the crushed rose petals, wiping my tears with shaking hands. The rejection was a knife, but his words about Katia were the real wound.

Katia is my type.

The thought of her—the sister who had always been the disappointment, the one who had disappeared to Vegas and come back a mess—being the one he truly wanted was more than I could bear. She had been gone for six years, and in one week, she had managed to capture the attention of the man I had spent my entire life preparing for.

“I am going to send you back from wherever you are coming from,” I whispered into the dark, empty living room. My voice was trembling, but the grief was already hardening into a cold, sharp purpose. “Six fucking years, Katia. Six years of freedom, and the one man you decide to look at has to be mine? I will show you. I will show you what happens when you try to take what belongs to me p>

I looked down at the ruined petals on the floor and kicked them aside. The horny, desperate girl was gone. In her place was something much more dangerous. I was a Kensington, and I was going to remind everyone in this house exactly what that meant. If Julian wanted fire, I was going to burn his entire world to the ground, and I was going to start with the sister he so clearly craved.

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