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Fuck, I groan and swing my feet over the edge of the bed and reach for my glass of water.
The tepid liquid does nothing to soothe my soul.
My mind has been trapped in a coil of nightmares this entire week, each one progressively worse.
A forced marriage.
A loveless home.
Children that look like Jimmy.
I shudder. The thought of him trying to touch me, or kiss me makes me gag.
I won’t marry him.
Nico and Enzo aren’t saints, not by any means, but they love me. Nico is the only one who has said it, but I know Enzo feels the same. I can see it in his eyes and on his face. Hell, I can even hear it in his words to me, and especially in his touches.
How could I settle for less? No, there’s no one for me but them.
I’m wide awake now and it’s too early to see if anyone else is awake.
I take out my laptop and log onto my school portal to see what homework assignments I can get ahead on, losing myself in studying for the exams at the end of the week.
Becoming an attorney is another dream I refuse to give up on.
By the time I look up again, the sun is rising. I look out at the backyard through the window next to my desk.
I guess it’s as good a time as any to get ready.
The main event today is meeting with my mom and Jimmy’s mom to talk about the wedding.
Gross.
I take as long as I can, brushing my teeth and filling myself with affirmations.
I will not marry Jimmy. I will find a way out.
When I can’t put it off any longer, I walk to my mom’s room, thankful that Albert isn’t home.
She’s standing next to her vanity, tucking her hair behind her ears as she twists her face to better see her own reflection.
She looks beautiful and elegant.
I lean against the doorjamb, arms crossed tightly against my chest, desperately searching for evidence of the woman I used to know.
What happened to you? What did he promise you, mom? Why are you doing this?
“Please don’t make me go,” I say, watching my mother put on her makeup through the mirror.
She doesn’t startle, she just spritzes her perfume on and turns to me.
My heart sinks when I see her face. She’s in lawyer-mode, not mom-mode.
Shit. Does she feel any guilt? Is there any point in even trying?
“We’re going,” she says. “End of conversation.” She smooths the back of her hair down, doing a final check through to make sure we’re ready.
“Is that what you’re wearing?” She asks, frowning at my outfit. “Where’s your makeup?”
