Chapter 4: The Rot Beneath the Roses

(Author's POV) The blood in Rosalie's veins turned to ice. A chill shot from the soles of her feet straight to the crown of her head, paralyzing every nerve in her body. She raised her head stiffly, forcing herself to look at the face she'd loved for seven years. Lucian Steel wore that self-satisfied smile, his eyes roaming over her body with the casual assessment of a man appraising merchandise. He actually found her tailored business suits "drab and boring." He was suggesting she should wear more dresses like the wedding gown-outfits designed to please men, simply because they made him feel good to look at. Each word was a poisoned dagger, striking with surgical precision into her heart. Rosalie laughed silently in her mind. Not just with sadness, but with a profound sense of absurdity. Had he forgotten? For the past five years, she'd worn those "outdated" suits he now mocked while fighting alongside him at negotiation tables. Back then, he'd praised her as "Steel Tech's queen." And now that he'd achieved success, she was supposed to shed her armor and transform into a decorative doll whose only purpose was to please him? Looking at Lucian's hypocritical smile dripping with superiority, Rosalie felt her stomach churn violently. Lucian seemed completely oblivious to the emotional collapse happening inside her. His mind was clearly still replaying the stunning image of her in that mermaid gown at the boutique. He reached out, attempting to tilt her chin up for a kiss. His eyes burned with a desire that made Rosalie's skin crawl. She felt an instinctive, physical revulsion, as if a venomous snake were slithering toward her skin. She jerked her head away sharply and shoved the bouquet of Cappuccino roses back into his arms. The thorns scraped audibly against his expensive suit. "I need to use the bathroom," she said coldly. She turned and walked away without waiting for a response. Lucian stood frozen for a moment, annoyance flashing in his eyes. But he quickly adjusted his expression back into that of the "perfect fiancé." He called after her retreating back, "Go ahead. I'll be waiting in the master bedroom. Don't make me wait too long." Rosalie practically fled into the en-suite bathroom connected to the master bedroom. She slammed the door behind her and locked it immediately. Leaning over the sink, she gasped for air in ragged bursts. She turned on the faucet and scrubbed her hands frantically under the cold stream, trying desperately to wash away the feeling of Lucian's touch. It felt like a stain that wouldn't come clean. The woman in the mirror looked ghostly pale. Her lips had lost all color from pressing them together too tightly. As she reached for a towel, her gaze suddenly froze. There, peeking out from the gap beneath the vanity cabinet, was a strip of conspicuous black lace. A terrible premonition swallowed her whole like a black hole. Her fingers trembled as she pulled open the cabinet door. A crumpled mass of black thigh-high stockings lay inside, staring back at her like an accusation. The fabric showed obvious tear marks, especially near the thigh area. That rip carried implications of both violence and obscenity. Rosalie's mind went completely blank. She never wore this kind of cheap, garish style. Which meant that in this Upper East Side apartment-where only she and Lucian had keys-he had brought another woman here. The name exploded in Rosalie's mind like a curse. Delilah Ward. This wasn't just betrayal. This was the complete trampling of her dignity. Rosalie gripped the damaged stocking so tightly her knuckles turned white. Her heart felt like it was being torn apart by invisible hands. Her imagination spiraled out of control, painting vivid, torturous scenes. What had they done in this home she'd carefully decorated? Was it on that wool rug in the living room-the one she'd chosen so they could watch Netflix together? Or on the marble kitchen island where Lucian had promised to make her breakfast? Or perhaps on that custom-made bed that had held all her hopes for their marriage? The nausea hit her again, more violently than before. Rosalie bent over the sink, dry heaving painfully. Everything here felt contaminated. The air reeked of lies. Every piece of furniture seemed infected with the bacteria of betrayal. She dropped the stocking into the sink as if it had burned her. Images of Lucian and Delilah tangled together in this space flashed through her mind like a slideshow she couldn't stop. Endless humiliation drowned her. She stumbled to the drawer and pulled out a pair of sharp scissors. She grabbed the revolting stocking again and began cutting frantically. The harsh sound of tearing fabric filled the small bathroom. With each cut, she felt like she was severing the seven years of stupidity and blindness. Tears blurred her vision. During one particularly violent motion, the tip of the scissors slipped and cut her left index finger. Bright red blood dripped onto the white tile floor. The sharp pain pulled her back from the edge of madness, but the frozen wasteland in her heart didn't thaw even slightly. At that moment, someone knocked on the bathroom door. Lucian's voice came through the wood, artificially tender but unable to disguise the impatience and lust underneath. "Honey, are you done in there? Don't keep me waiting..." His voice was like scalding oil poured over Rosalie's wounded heart, instantly igniting all her pain and rage. This was the man she'd loved for seven years. While she'd exhausted herself building his empire, he'd been staging this sordid performance in their wedding apartment. Who would compensate her for the seven years that had been stolen? Who would pay for the devotion she'd wasted? Rosalie slowly straightened up. Her eyes were hollow and cold. She bent down and picked up the scissors stained with her blood. The cold metal felt unnaturally clear against her palm, bringing her a strange sense of calm. She walked toward the door step by step. Each footfall felt like walking on knife points. Through the door, she could almost picture the hypocritical, greedy expression on Lucian's face. She raised her hand and pressed the tip of the scissors lightly against the door panel. That spot aligned perfectly with where the man's heart would be on the other side. A dark, insane thought roared through her mind. All she had to do was open the door and plunge these scissors deep into his chest. Pierce that hypocritical heart and see whether it was still red inside, or if it had already rotted into something black and disgusting. The bathroom fell into deathly silence. Only her rapid, suppressed breathing remained. After a long moment, Rosalie's bleeding hand slowly reached for the door handle.