CHAPTER 145: LOATH OR LOVE

Alexia – POV

I woke up sore.

Not tired. Not lazy. Sore.

It was the kind of soreness that reminded you of every second you’d rather forget. A deep, pulsing ache between my thighs that throbbed with each small movement—like a cruel echo of his dominance still embedded in me.

I blinked slowly, adjusting to the soft light bleeding through the curtains. For a moment, I didn’t even realize I was in bed. My memory came back in pieces—the jar of water, his voice, the mirror. The feel of his hands on my hips. His eyes. The rage in them.

My body twitched.

I could still feel him. Inside me. Even though he wasn’t here.

I forced myself to sit up, wincing at the sharp pull in my core. My legs trembled as they slid over the side of the bed, and I stood slowly—carefully. My knees nearly buckled under the weight of everything, not just the physical. The humiliation. The fear. The guilt I refused to let grow roots.

He hated me. And I... didn’t blame him.

My nightgown clung damply to my skin, wrinkled and crumpled, like a flag of surrender I didn’t mean to raise. I peeled it off and shuffled to the bathroom. Even the cool tile felt harsh against the rawness inside me. I didn’t dare look at the mirror. I didn’t need to. I already knew what I’d see.

A girl who used to be a princess. A brat. A tyrant in silk. A girl who once screamed orders from a throne now couldn’t even take a step without remembering what it felt like to be conquered by her former slave.

My slave.

The shower was long. Longer than it needed to be. I just stood there, hands braced against the wall, letting the water sting down my back, trailing over the bruises I could feel forming. It wasn’t just my body that was sore. My pride—what was left of it—felt threadbare. Torn.

I couldn’t stop replaying the way he looked at me.

Not with lust. Not even with satisfaction. With loathing.

And that—more than the pain—was what scared me.

Because once upon a time, he had looked at me with something like awe. With hunger, yes, but the kind that begged—not demanded. The kind that reached out but didn’t dare touch. Now?

He didn’t even see me as human. Just a body. A symbol. A vessel for revenge.

Maybe I deserved that.

I wrapped a towel around myself, the heat of the shower doing nothing to loosen the knot in my chest. I could barely walk straight. Every step reminded me. But I refused to limp. I refused to show weakness—not even to Tobias when he arrived a few minutes later.

He knocked softly.

"Miss... Alexia? Mr. Cross sent me to assist you in getting ready for the event."

My lips parted, but no words came out.

"I’ve brought a stylist," he added quickly, sensing my hesitation. "You don’t have to leave the house. Everything’s being done here. He’ll return with the car when it’s time to head out."

I almost laughed. The idea of being dolled up

after the morning I’d had felt obscene. But Aiden clearly didn’t care what felt obscene anymore. This was all just a performance. A show for the press. For his company. For his mother’s will.

And I was the dressed-up puppet.

Still, I nodded. "Okay."

Tobias didn’t ask questions. He never did. But I could see the way his eyes flicked over me, just for a second—reading too much in the way I moved, the stiffness of my posture, the towel clutched tighter than necessary. I turned away.

The stylist was fast, polite, and overly cheerful. Her hands were gentle, even if my body flinched every time she brushed against a sensitive spot. She dressed me in a custom-tailored champagne dress, sleek and tasteful, something that hugged the body without revealing too much.

I stared at my reflection once it was all done.

Hair perfectly curled. Makeup subtle but expensive-looking. Eyes rimmed in soft gold. A hint of highlighter on my cheekbones.

Nobody would guess.

Nobody would see the bruises beneath the fabric. Or the way my insides still clenched from being used like that. Nobody would hear the echo of his words ringing in my head.

"From a princess to a waitress and now my slut of a wife."

I didn’t even recognize myself. Not just because of the look. But because of the silence inside. The lack of fight. I used to scream. Command. Dominate.

Now, I just... obeyed.

By the time Aiden arrived, I was standing by the window, pretending to be calm.

I heard the door open before I turned.

And then I felt his gaze.

Not heard.Felt.

Like a hot iron searing across my skin, burning past the clothes, past the glamour. His eyes traveled the length of me—slow, deliberate—and I knew he hated what he saw.

Not because it wasn’t beautiful.

But because it was.

Because even now, even after everything, I could still stop him in his tracks. And I hated it too. Hated that something in me still wanted to be wanted by him. That I still found him devastatingly magnetic—even when I feared him most.

His jaw flexed once. His expression unreadable.

"You look the part," he said simply.

I said nothing.

He didn’t come closer. Didn’t offer his arm. Just turned and walked, knowing I’d follow.

And I did.

We sat side by side in the back seat of the sleek black car Tobias had prepped. The silence between us was razor-sharp. There was no music. No conversation. Just the quiet hum of tension and the occasional sideways glance I caught him giving me—like he was still trying to decide whether to hate me or fall apart all over again.

My legs were crossed tightly, every bump in the road a new jolt of pain. But I didn’t flinch.

He wasn’t going to see me suffer.

I refused to give him that satisfaction.

The launch event was grand. Press everywhere. Smiling executives. Toasts. Flashbulbs.

We were perfect together—on the outside.

He held my waist.

I smiled up at him like he was my sun.

We danced a little. Spoke to board members. Toasted to new beginnings.

But I felt like a ghost.

A porcelain doll in a custom dress, designed to distract from the cracks.

He leaned down once, lips near my ear as he whispered so only I could hear:

"Smile wider. They’re watching."

I smiled.

Not because he told me to.

Because they were watching.

And I would rather die than let anyone see how close I was to shattering.

The lights were blinding. Cameras flashed with a rhythm all their own, like mechanical applause. The crowd buzzed with champagne laughter and curated charm, but I felt like a fraud standing in the middle of it all. A woman dressed in diamonds, yet hollow on the inside.

Aiden had his hand at the small of my back—firm, claiming, perfectly placed.

The CEO and his wife.

A love story for the papers.

Every smile I gave was practiced. Every glance timed. Every step I took beside him calculated so no one would notice the slight wobble in my gait, or the fire burning between my thighs with every subtle shift. But even beneath all that...

He looked at me.

And it wasn’t with the hatred I expected.

For a moment—just a moment—it was soft.

Like a breeze brushing against a wound. Like his eyes forgot who I was and simply remembered who I used to be to him.

A man who hated me didn’t look at me like that.

A man who loathed his wife didn’t graze his knuckles across the curve of her cheek like she was something fragile. Didn’t lean down and whisper, "You’ll make them all jealous," with a voice like velvet over steel.

I should have been terrified.

Instead, I was confused.

Because it didn’t make sense.

Not after this morning.

Not after the way he bent me, broke me, took what he claimed he was owed. His body had spoken with rage, with old fury, with punishment wrapped in pleasure.

But now, here in public—he touched me like I was precious.

He kissed my temple once, and the heat that rushed to my chest had nothing to do with the champagne. I turned my head slightly, catching his eyes. He didn’t look away.

And that was what scared me the most.

Because this wasn’t the first time he’d looked at me like that. I remembered the first few months of our fake marriage, before the past clawed its way back into our lives. When we hadn’t said the word love, but something in our actions had whispered it anyway. When his hands lingered too long. When he kissed me like I was the only woman in the world.

When I still believed he might have forgiven me—even without remembering what I did.

And now?

Now that he remembered everything...

Why did he look at me like he hadn’t?

Why did he still brush his thumb along my lower back when he thought no one was watching? Why did his mouth curve into the softest smile when I laughed too loud at a comment made by a board member?

And then it happened.

A woman with a press badge stepped forward. Bright smile, too much perfume. "Mr. Cross! Aiden! Can we get a shot of the two of you? Maybe a kiss for the papers?"

I felt my stomach twist.

I expected him to fake it. A quick peck. A dutiful show of affection.

But he turned to me—slow, deliberate. His eyes met mine. And there it was again.

That gaze.

That unbearable softness. That thing I hadn’t seen since the night he told me he loved me.

It wasn’t fake. It couldn’t be.

And then he kissed me.

Not a performance.

A kiss.

The kind that pulled breath from your lungs. The kind that made your knees go weak. The kind of kiss that remembered every inch of you, every fight, every truce. Every shattered moment and every one you wished you could fix.

He kissed me like he used to—when we’d made the pact to keep emotions out of our arrangement.

He kissed me like he still wanted me.

And for one treacherous second, I kissed him back.

My hand found his chest. His hand cradled the back of my head. And everything fell away—the party, the lights, the press. I forgot what I’d done. What he’d remembered.

It felt like... hope.

But when he pulled back, his face was unreadable again.

Emotionless.

The way only Aiden could be.

I tried to smile for the cameras. I tried not to shake. I tried not to chase the ghost of that kiss, even though my lips still tingled and my heart beat far too fast.

We posed for a few more pictures. Said a few more meaningless things to smiling executives. But all I could think about was him.

What he was thinking.

Whether it was all pretend.

Or whether, buried beneath all the loathing, Aiden still felt something for the woman who ruined him in another life.

And if he did...

Did that make it better?

Or so much worse?