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“You’re asking me where the recording of me drugging and raping my sister’s fiancé is?” I ask a little too casually.
Her lips curl into a menacing smile, and she tips her head slightly to the side. “Goodness, perhaps we should have allowed you to take that performing arts class. It would have been nice for you to have at least one class that you were capable of passing on your own.”
Her words strike me exactly as she intends, and her smile turns wolfish when she feels me jolt back. “Now, if we could refrain from the amateur dramatics, all you were doing last night was correcting a mistake. Gulliver was always intended to be yours, and yesterday you rectified that problem. Now where is the video?”
“There isn’t a video, mother,” I tell her with a smirk, knowing I shouldn’t be provoking her like this, but not able to help myself.
“What did you do?” she hisses.
“Do you consider yourself evil? Because I do,” I tell her, watching and waiting for some sign of recognition, like somehow she sees how despicable we’ve become. “I think me, you, and Dad have become monsters,” I whisper.
Blinking slowly, her mouth spreads into a wide, practiced smile. “I’m not evil or a monster,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes like I’m ridiculous. “I’m motivated. I’m doing what any mother would do to secure her daughter’s future.”
I laugh, the sound cold and harsh. “Because it’s all about me,” I drawl sarcastically.
“What are you talking about?” she snaps.
“It’s over.”
“What’s over?” Her tone turns suspicious, and her eyes dart from side to side, like she’s expecting someone to jump out at her.
“It’s all over.” I laugh, yanking my arm from her grip, ignoring the blood that’s dripping from the crescent-shaped wounds.
“Penelope,” Mom whisper-yells, but I ignore her, striding away and using the crowd of people to hide from her view as everyone turns to the stage as my sister and Gulliver make their entrance.
Izabella looks stunning in a deep red gown, and Gulliver looks as handsome as ever in a classic fitted suit, but it’s the way they’re looking at each other that makes an ache start in my chest. I’m not entirely sure what’s going on between them, I know they’re having sex, but until the other day, I honestly thought it was all just an act. Looking at them tonight, it’s obvious it’s not.
Gulliver’s arm is around Izabella’s waist, holding her close like he’s terrified she might leave and he can’t bear to be without her. He keeps looking down at her, like she’s the only thing keeping him sane, and that look is filled with more love than I thought it was possible to give another person. But it’s not all him, she’s smiling too, leaning her back against his chest, knowing that he’s there, that he wouldn’t let her go.
There’s a contentment in her expression that I’ve never seen before. I’ve known for years that my sister was nothing like me, but I’ve never seen it more evident than it is right now. She’s full of light, her smile is only for him, and even though she’s clinging to his jacket, she’s not holding him to her or tying him down, she just wants to be close to him because she loves him.
I wonder if I should look away. If by seeing them this way, I’m accidentally prying into a private moment, but I’m not spying on them. I haven’t caught them in an intimate interlude. The way they’re behaving is just an innocent touch between two people who are so in love they can’t help but show it to the world.
Love…I don’t understand it. Why does she love him? Why does he love her? How do they know?
I don’t think I’m capable of an emotion with as much depth as love, in fact, I’m pretty sure I’m not. But if that’s true, why am I jealous? I don’t care that it’s my sister standing with Gulliver and not me. I’m not jealous of her choice of fiancé, I’m jealous that she found someone to love and who will love her back. And it’s not about money, or power, or influence. It’s just about…love
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Winslow says, calling everyone’s attention as he speaks into a microphone at the front of the stage. “I’m sure you’ll all agree that love is a truly wonderful thing. Tonight is all about celebrating the love between my son and my beautiful, soon-to-be daughter-in-law. Please raise your glasses and join me in congratulating the future Mr. and Mrs. Gulliver and Izabella Winslow.”
Taking a champagne flute from a passing waiter, I raise my glass and join in, toasting my sister and her not-so-fake fiancé. Suddenly my chest feels lighter, and the envelope in my clutch that felt like it was so heavy I could barely carry it, now feels weightless.
“Penelope, we have not finished talking about your behavior,” my mother hisses, her hand gripping my upper arm to prevent me from walking away from her again.
Sighing, I spin around to face her, my glass of champagne held aloft in one hand, rivulets of dried blood making a macabre bracelet around my wrist. “I agree, we’re not finished. But I think this is a family matter, so perhaps you, Dad, Izabella, Gulliver, and I should discuss this together.”
Before she has a chance to argue, I drain the rest of my champagne and deposit the glass on the tray of yet another passing waiter. Swapping my clutch to my now empty hand, I curl my fingers around her wrist and start to walk, towing her along behind me. I don’t dig my nails into her skin the way she did to me, I just weave in and out of groups of people, leading us toward the stage and hopefully my sister.
“Penelope,” Mom whisper-yells, but I ignore her, smiling politely at people as we pass.
Gulliver’s body language instantly changes from happy and soft to alert and on guard the moment he spots me marching across the room toward him. His arm circles my sister’s waist, pulling her to his side and slightly behind him. I barely get a glimpse of Izabella’s shocked eyes before she’s hidden from my view, his body creating a physical barrier between me and her.
Stopping when I reach them, I smile sweetly to the older man who is congratulating them, but he must sense the tension as he quickly leaves.
“Are you okay?” Izabella asks, peering around Gulliver’s body so she can look at me, but not bothering to glance in our mother’s direction.
“I will be,” I tell her, trying to assure her that everything is going to be okay.
She nods, but doesn’t speak again, and we all fall silent.
