Chapter 7 - The Scars We Choose
Three weeks later, the swelling in Skylar’s face had finally subsided, leaving behind a fine, pale pink line that traced the curve of her cheekbone down toward the corner of her lip.
She stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the East Wing dressing room, wearing a tailored navy wool dress that Carmela had ordered specifically from an Italian boutique in Manhattan. The fabric was heavy, elegant, draping beautifully over her broad curves without attempting to hide or constrict her size. Her dark hair was styled in soft, loose waves around her shoulders, framing her face in a way that made her deep hazel eyes look luminous.
She reached up, her thumb lightly tracing the raised, silvery track of the scar.
It was permanent. Dr. Evans had done magnificent work, ensuring the skin healed flat and clean, but there was no erasing the fact that a diamond had ripped through her flesh.
"It looks like a medal," a voice said from the doorway.
Skylar turned, her heart skipping its usual nervous beat.
Dominic stood leaning against the doorframe, wearing a dark gray suit with an open-collared white shirt. Over the past three weeks, his presence had become a constant, steady fixture in her life. He stopped by the East Wing every evening to review foundation paperwork with her, patiently teaching her how to read corporate financial ledgers, never once making her feel ignorant or small when she asked basic questions about asset allocations.
"It looks like a mistake," Skylar murmured, lowering her hand self-consciously. "People will stare."
Dominic walked into the room, his long strides effortless, stopping two feet in front of her. He looked at her reflection in the glass, his eyes traveling from the rich navy fabric of her dress up to the pale mark on her cheek.
"People stare at things they cannot comprehend," Dominic said softly. He reached out, his warm, calloused fingers gently cupping her chin, tilting her face toward the late-afternoon sunlight. "In my world, men wear their scars on their knuckles and their backs, earned in back alleys over bags of dirty money. Your scar was earned protecting an old woman who had no one else to stand for her. There is more honor in that single line of tissue than in every diamond Bianca Moretti ever wore."
Skylar felt her breath catch in her throat. The heat from his fingers seemed to radiate straight through her jawline, warming the cold numbness that had lingered there for weeks.
"Mr. Rossi—"
"Dominic," he corrected, his dark eyes searching hers with an intensity that made her knees feel weak. "I told you to call me Dominic."
"Dominic," she whispered, her cheeks flushing a deep, rosy crimson. "You shouldn't say things like that to me. I'm... I know what I look like. I'm not the kind of woman men like you take to galas."
"Men like me?" Dominic’s mouth curved into a faint, dangerous smile. "And what kind of man do you think I am, Skylar?"
"A powerful one," she said honestly, looking down at his crisp white collar. "A man who could have any model, any heiress, any socialite in the country. Someone who belongs in marble ballrooms with women who look like statues."
Dominic’s hand slid from her chin to the side of her neck, his thumb resting gently against the rapid, fluttering pulse at her throat.
"I spent my entire life surrounded by statues, Skylar," he said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated through her chest. "Cold, hollow things carved from stone that shatter the moment pressure is applied. Bianca was a statue. My cousins are statues. You... you are flesh and blood. You are real. You bleed when you're hurt, you fight when someone you care about is threatened, and you take up space in a world that tries to make people like you invisible."
He stepped closer, his chest brushing the front of her dress, completely eliminating the distance between them.
"Never apologize for your size," Dominic murmured, his eyes locking onto her lips. "Never apologize for your scar. And never assume you know what I desire."
Before Skylar could formulate a thought, Carmela’s voice echoed down the corridor, accompanied by the cheerful, chaotic barking of a golden retriever puppy Dominic had bought for his mother the week before.
"Dominic! Skylar! The car is ready for the foundation opening!"
Dominic pulled back slowly, though his eyes never left hers. He offered his arm, a formal, courtly gesture that looked magnificent on him.
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"Shall we, Miss Gallagher?"
Skylar smiled—a wide, unburdened smile that made the pale pink scar on her cheek look like a streak of pure silver light—and slid her hand into the crook of his arm.
