I try to swallow, but my throat is clogged, so all I manage is a strangled, “Mom.”
“Yes, Jameson.” She speaks clear, confirming, “Your account is now joined with his. There will be no more delay. No more freedom. No more ‘Trouble.’”
My spine straightens, my eyes narrowing, and she walks toward the door, pausing as her shoulder passes mine.
Her head turns, and she stares me dead in the eye. “Now, get in the fucking car.”
I have no voice.
No fight.
No choice.
I’ve always done what my mother required of me, and she always appreciated my lack of emotional connection to, well, everything.
I never cried, never complained or got angry.
My nanny told her once she was concerned because I didn’t smile unless someone was watching, and I didn’t laugh at things that, according to her, a child should.
My mom responded with a question that was left unanswered and consisted of three words. Isn’t she brilliant?
Gabriella Filano didn’t love, but she sure seemed to love my lack of life.
I was dull and uninterested when alone, and when I wasn’t alone, I was whatever I was supposed to be.
I never asked for anything and went along with all; my arranged marriage was simply one of the many examples of this.
My mother asks; my mother gets.
That was the rule.
In our house, rules were to be followed and breaking them meant breaking mentally. To do as you please was weak, because it took drive and strength to be what you should, or so she would claim.
To be honest, when the idea of having my life planned out for me was presented, I had no concerns or reservations whatsoever—something my mother banked on, I realize. She knew how I was and packaged her needs with a pretty little bow to ensure I accepted with open arms and the smile she suggested I use when spoken to.
I wanted a clear understanding of my future.
I wanted to protect myself, to remain numb and go through the motions of life rather than risk an ending like my father’s.
I wanted all those things, and she knew it, she’s the one who forever reminded me of what led Dad to his last day, glorified the idea of impassiveness.
I want none of those things anymore.
Looking around the large space, my eyes travel toward the stairway that leads to the window Anthony and I stood in front of when he brought me here. It will serve as my reminder of how large the world around me is, but how incredibly untouchable it will be from the side I’ll be standing.
This isn’t happening...
“You can begin redecorating whenever you’re ready.” My mother spins, looking at me as if she’s a realtor and I’m nothing more than a client she’s trying to sell a shitty deal to rather than her youngest daughter.
“And while you’re clearing things out...” She trails off, dropping her lipstick in her bag. “Be sure all the trash goes with it.”
“Trash is subjective, Mother, and as far as I’m concerned, you’re the filthiest.” I shock myself with my words, but I don’t care. “Get out.”
“Careful, daughter.”
“No.” I shake my head. “I have no need to be ‘careful.’” I look around this stupid fucking house. “He has all that’s mine now, right? And without a wedding...” I tip my head at her. “I wonder what he’ll do if I step out of line?”
“Jameson—”
“I’ll give you credit, Mom. You were pretty damn thorough, but you didn’t think it all through, did you? I mean, why would he bother to buy the cow now, when he’s getting the whole fucking farm for free!”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“I’m being dramatic?!” I bellow, and in my peripheral, a maid scampers by.
Great. A fucking in-house maid?
“You are giving me to a man you hardly know! Leaving me across the country with no real way of being sure I’m fine, well guess what, Mother, I am not fine!!! I’m not fine!” My pulse beats out of control and I feel dizzy. “Are you seriously going to do this? All because you didn’t have a son to leave your legacy to? We both know you never wanted daughters, which is why you named us after men!”
“We don’t always get what we want, so we adapt,” she says simply, as if any of this is simple.
“You do. You’re getting all you want, and for what? For a second generation of fortune, as if the one you have isn’t enough?! As if your success in one part of the nation isn’t astronomical and more than most people could ever hope for?! Do you know how many people wish they had even just a little of what you did to help their families? To give their families what they need just to survive?” I think of Ransom and his sister, of Beretta and the fishermen on the pier, of Arsen and the young, orphan boys he lives with. “Are you really so greedy for—”
“You know nothing!” she shouts, clipping my words, and my entire body locks.
My mother never shouts.
She never loses control.
And yet, her neck is bright red, and her chest rapidly rises. Her eyes are narrowed in uproar, and her knuckles are growing white around her handbag.
I stagger back, my hand slapping over my mouth. “Holy shit,” I mumble into my skin, slowly dragging my hand down.
“That’s... not what this is about, is it? You’re not telling me everything.” I spin, my fingertips lifting to my temples as I pace. “Mom, what are you not telling me?”
“Hush.”
“Do I not deserve to know who I’m living with?!” I scream, whipping around with a glare. “What kind of mother—”
“I said SHUT UP!” she snaps, louder than before, but it knocks her back into her comfort zone.
Again, at her foreign tone, I straighten before I can stop it.
“As I said, you know nothing, and there is nothing you need to know.” She takes a calming breath, tugs her blazer down, and pushes her hair over her shoulder. “You will do as you’re told, Jameson, and you will see, you will be happy.”
Her voice grows quieter, and her eyes seem to soften as she steps toward me.
My body is so confused on what to do and my mind is all over the place. Parts of me I never knew existed ache, and it’s not on the surface.
It’s inside.
Something is wrong.
Something’s breaking.
Am I breaking?
“Sweetheart.” My mother’s soft whisper draws my attention, and when her palm touches my cheek, I jolt, my eyes lifting to hers. “It’s okay.”
“Mom...” I grip her wrists, subconsciously seeking her affection.
“You want this,” she promises, nodding as if she’s coaxing me along. “Trust it. You know you’re attracted to him, and he to you. Everything will be okay.”
“No.” I shake my head.
“Yes.”
“Mom...” I swallow, my lungs strained and muscles coiling beneath my skin, twitching and aching as I open myself up to my mother, confessing something for the very first time. “I need more.”
Her thumbs stroke my cheek, and she whispers, “No, honey, you don’t.”
My mother’s parting instructions are for me to familiarize myself with the home and to prepare for Anthony’s arrival. By prepare, she means pretty myself up, but even if I wanted to, there’s no time left for that.