Chapter 19
Roxy
I look around my apartment, the place that has seen me fall apart, the place that has heard all my talks with Luna, that has hidden all my nightmare-filled nights, and I take a deep breath.
I know I'll be back soon, but somehow this moment feels like a final goodbye, and a wave of nostalgia washes over me.
Damien is waiting for me in his SUV to take some of my things to his place, and I decide this is where I want to have the talk with my uncle. He’s the only family member I want by my side on my wedding day, the only one who hasn’t forgotten that I didn’t die on that damned night.
In the hallway, I grab my phone and call him. It takes him a few seconds to answer, but his voice instantly brings a smile to my face.
"I thought you'd forgotten about me, amorino," he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
My mother was the only one who called me amorino. Since she disappeared, he took over the pet name, and just hearing it reminds me that someone in this world loves me.
"Never. Stop being so dramatic," I say, a laugh escaping my lips.
"To what do I owe the honor of this call? We still had four days until our regular call," he asks, and I catch a thread of unease in his voice.
I look down, searching for the right words, but my uncle knows me better than anyone, so I just say it outright.
"I wanted to invite you to a wedding. My wedding."
I hear him breathing on the other end of the line, and I know I've hurt him.
Because I never told him there was someone new in my life.
He doesn't know about Damien, or about The Bloody Dahlia and how he has reappeared in my life.
Because, once again, I'd rather sweep things under the rug, hoping they'll just go away on their own.
"Henry?" I ask quietly, hating the tremor in my voice.
I hear a rustle in the background before he answers.
"Well, congratulations, I suppose? Though I don't even know the groom's name."
I squeeze my eyes shut and press my palm to my forehead. I know him, and he's disappointed. Who the hell wouldn't be? You just told him you're getting married out of the blue.
So, swallowing the lump in my throat, I tell him a version of the truth.
The last thing I need is for him to know about the bastard who's stalking me, because I know he would come here and sit with me at the police station, trying to move mountains just to keep me safe.
When the police gave up on my mother's case, he was destroyed.
For days, I watched him wither away, knowing his sister had been murdered and that the world had stopped seeking justice for her.
"His name is Damien, and everything was very...sudden. I know I haven't talked to you about him, but we sort of kept running into each other these last few months and from there..."
I let him fill in the rest. I've never been good at talking about my feelings. According to his psychological take, it's my defense mechanism, a result of having two absent parents and no emotional guideposts to follow.
He sighs, and guilt spreads through my veins like poison. He's the only person who didn't forget about me after my mother died, and I'm ambushing him with an invitation to my wedding. I'm a terrible person. It's no wonder no one can love me.
"If you're happy, that's all that matters to me. I'll be there," he says in a calm tone, and some of the turmoil in my soul subsides. "Have you spoken to your father and Ivette?"
"No. What's the point? It's not like they'd care."
I know he senses the venom behind my words, because no matter how much I wish it were different, my family doesn't love me. I was a burden to them, an inconvenience, and that's not going to change.
"Roxy...I think you should invite them. At the end of the day, he's your father, and maybe one day you'll regret it," he says softly, gently, just like he’s spoken with me on so many occasions.
"No. He doesn't deserve to be by my side on that day."
"At least let them know about it. Aria is also getting married soon, and I don't think you want to show up at her wedding with a 'husband' out of nowhere."
"I'll inform them," I mumble, though deep down, I know it would be better if they never found out.
I had completely forgotten about Aria's wedding to that parasite she calls a fiancé.
I didn't tell Henry that, during our first meeting, her fiancé tried to convince me to sneak into his hotel room.
When I told Aria, I was the one who came off as unhinged because the guy denied everything and claimed I was trying to break them up.
Of course, they all believed him. Because Roxy is always seeking attention, because nothing she says could possibly be true.
After promising to send Henry all the details in a message, I hang up and look at my bags. I don't have much, having packed only the truly important things. With one last look at the living room sofa, I step out of the apartment.
"Why the hell didn't you call me to come carry these?" Damien's voice rings out as he sees me dragging the two suitcases behind me.
I stop and look at his dead-serious face, his brow furrowed, and I can't stop the flutter of damn butterflies that comes to life in my stomach.
"I'm not as fragile as you think, you know," I say sharply, demonstrating this by lifting one of the suitcases myself to put it in the trunk.
In the next second, his back blocks my view, and he takes the bag from my hands as if I were a small child he's just snatched a lollipop from. When I turn to get the other bag, he sighs, then he places his hand over mine.
"Stop fighting me over such trivial things. Is it so hard for you to believe that I care and want to do these things for you? Please..."
I look at him, surprised. There are these moments when I see no trace of the joking, ever-smiling Damien, but instead a man who is fully committed.
To me. And maybe it’s the conversation with Henry or the melancholy weighing on my chest at the thought of staying in a strange place for a while, so I give in.
"Fine."
Before I can move away, he closes the distance between us and presses a kiss to my cheek.
"Thank you," he murmurs, his lips still against my skin, and I wish I didn't feel the urge to breathe in his scent of musk and leather, a scent that seems to short-circuit all my senses.
With my cheeks on fire, I get into the passenger seat, and a few moments later, Damien settles behind the wheel.
"Before we go, I want to give you something," he says, and I turn toward him.
His hand slips into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulls out a small, black velvet box. My heart must have taken flight, the way it's trying to hammer its way out of my chest right now.
"Roxanne Tatcher, will you be my wife?" he asks and opens the box, revealing the most beautiful ring I have ever seen.
When I look up at him, his eyes are a light brown, and I could swear they're shining right now.
"You were supposed to get on one knee," I whisper, my gaze dropping to the ring, an Ashoka cut red diamond set on a yellow gold band.
"Damn it," he says and starts to get out of the car, but I instinctively stop him, pulling him back.
My eyes can't tear themselves away from that red diamond because it's not about the grandeur of the jewelry, but the effort it must have taken to get something like this in such a short time.
I work in the wedding industry. I know jewelers all over America.
I know diamond cuts, I know the waiting lists, and now I'm wondering how long Damien has been planning to ask me this.
Who said he originally got it for you? That annoying voice in my head pipes up, and a sharp pang hits my chest.
Swallowing the sour taste that suddenly rises in my throat at the thought that he went to so much trouble for someone else and I'm just the convenient spare he landed on, I say, "I'm sure the woman you originally ordered it for wouldn't want someone else to wear it.
I already told you I'd be your wife, Damien.
There's no need for an engagement ring."
I don't dare to look up at him, afraid he'll see the pain behind my words. How could I have believed, even for a fraction of a second, that someone would go to such lengths for me? God, I'm pathetic.
His fingers gently lift my chin, and I whisper, "Don't make me look into your eyes while you give me another woman's ring. Please."
"Roxanne, look at me." His tone leaves no room for argument, so I take a deep breath and raise my gaze to his.
With his other hand, he pulls out his phone and, with a few taps, calls someone. I frown at the device, and after five seconds, a man's voice comes through the speaker.
"Mr. Kaminski, is there a problem with the ring?"
"No, Leopold. I just wanted to make sure you wrote down the correct name of my wife, for whom I commissioned this ring, for future pieces," I hear Damien say, and the air is knocked out of my lungs.
After a few moments, the man on the other end of the line replies, "Roxanne. We have Roxanne Kaminski noted down. Is that correct?"
I stare at the man in front of me, who has the widest smile on his face as he says, "Yes. That is more than perfect."
After he hangs up, I'm too ashamed to look at him.
"One day, when you're ready, I'll explain why I feel everything I feel for you. Until then, if it helps you sleep better at night, just think of me as a man with resources. And I'm damn determined to lay them all at your feet."
Without waiting for another response, he takes my hand, slides the ring onto my finger, and turns back to the steering wheel.
I don't know how many minutes pass, minutes when I just stare at the jewelry that I'm sure cost as much as a luxury apartment in Chicago, before I find myself answering him.
"Yes. I want to be your wife."
My voice is weak, but I know he heard me by the way his breath hitches.
You don't deserve this much attention. You don't deserve for someone to go to this much trouble. But when I look at the man to my left, that annoying voice falls silent.