“You’re sorry?” I question, rudely with hatred. “What exactly are you sorry for?”
“Oliver, please don’t make this harder than it is.”
The nerve she has to stand in front of me, playing the victim once again. I am sick of her mind games. She doesn’t fucking deserve me, and I refuse to let her walk away without feeling guilty for her pathetic actions.
“Don’t make this harder than this is?” I laugh, running my hands through my hair, frustrated at myself. “You promised me you would be there for me today. In fact, when I confided in and trusted you, you continued to promise me that.”
“I promise I can explain—”
“Let me guess? Sebastian wooed you with a life you supposedly don’t want, and Daddy dearest threw in a bunch of money? Not shy of a whore if you ask me.”
“That’s uncalled for!”
“I trusted you,” I yell, causing people around us to stop. “Do you know how hard it is to let someone in? You, out of all people, should fucking know that, yet it all got to you. You know what… I’m done. Go back to your pathetic life.”
“Oliver, please… don’t do this.”
“Then walk away right now. With me. Don’t go back to that restaurant.”
The ultimatum unraveled itself. I never wanted to place one on her, but my rage controls my irrational thoughts.
It’s that life or me.
No halfway point.
No comprises.
Her face turns ashen. She crosses her arms tight against her chest as she squirms on the spot.
“Just stop! We’re all adults here, and there’s a proper way to do things, and running away isn’t one of them,” she answers, patronizing me.
“Do you love me?”
“Oliver…”
Her silence doesn’t warrant a response. It’s clear my feelings aren’t replicated. My heartbreak begins to transpire to grief, giant waves crashing into my already shattered walls.
What’s left of me is fragments on the floor, scared that the next wind will blow them away. So I make the decision I should have done a long time ago when I knew she would never change, especially for me.
“That’s the difference, I guess, between you and me,” I croak, my head down unable to look into her eyes. “Goodbye, Gabriella.” Spinning on my heel, I walk away, desperate to escape her face and this life. She’s stolen a part of me, making it impossible to even think about how I’m going to pull myself together.
Gabriella Carmichael had done what I’d tried to avoid all along, yet somewhere during our time together, I allowed her to own a piece of me. To come so close to pure love, and to lose it so violently is the ultimate pain.
And now, I have to bear the ramifications of my careless heart.
I have no clue where I want to go or be.
But I know this much—I want to get as far away from her as possible.
Forget she ever existed.
Forget how she felt beneath my touch.
And forget how I fell hopelessly in love with her.
Gabriella
Six Months Later
“Gabriella, shoulders straight.”
Amelda, our seamstress, works around me, impatiently running her thread against the expensive laced fabric my mother insisted I wear. The fabric was imported from Italy, handcrafted and worth a small fortune.
As I stand on the podium—the final dress fitting before the wedding tomorrow—my eyes hastily wander to the tall golden mirror perched in front of me.
The structure of my cheekbones appears gaunt, somewhat aging me beyond my years. My skin has become a pasty white, being no longer sun-kissed by the California sun.
My mother was quick to castigate me for allowing my appearance to fade away before the most important day of my life. She called in her emergency beauty crew—the team attempting to work miracles on my tired body. No matter what they forced upon me, it was unable to remove the dark circles carved beneath my eyes from the insomnia which has depleted me.
My frame, once fit and curvaceous in the right places, has lost its shape. From the top of the princess-cut bodice, below my collarbone, my chest is visibly bony. The reflection, a small fragment of the hell I have been battling inside of me, reminded me of what the last six months has become.
I walked back into my prison, succumbed to the guilt my family had placed upon me the second I walked back through the door the night after I made love to Oliver.
It’s as if a spell had been cast over me—my feelings, my thoughts everything controlled by my father. The moment he laid eyes on me, I knew it was over between Oliver and me. There would be no turning back.
Father sat quietly behind his table, ignoring my presence as my mother stood by my side. The stale stench of cigar smoke lingered inside the room. The olive-green walls surrounded by dark brown shelves housing ancient literature feels like it’s closing in on me. The room itself has a dark shadow with the drapes closed and only the small desk lamp illuminating my father’s face.
“You have disgraced our family, Gabriella,” he bellowed, refusing to look at me. “You have humiliated the King family name.”
“Father,” I pleaded, desperate for him to understand. “I didn’t mean to. Oliver is… I promise you will love him just like I do.”
“Love?” he ridiculed, followed by a turbulent laugh. “You think love matters? He is not the right fit for our family. Don’t be ridiculous!”
The echo of his yelling bounced in the room, my mother fanning herself as she often did when my father was mad. His eyes were narrowed. Rigid. Cold. Hard. Anger was a silent hunter looming in the night ready to strike when you least expected it. But I did expect it and don’t know why I thought this would be any different. I love Oliver, I thought I could make Father see that.
“There is a proper protocol for this family. I gave into your childish whims and allowed you time in California, assuming you would learn your responsibilities and what is asked of you,” he reminded, in the same arctic tone. “Instead, you have embarrassed us, spending time with some boy from Australia? We are pureblood American! You have disgraced us, our heritage. You have continually brought shame to this family.”
My lips began to tremble, the fight to control my destiny vanishing in a fleeting moment. He never argued with his fists, but his words packed a powerful punch. Father’s words always had an air of finality to them, and no matter how hard I rallied against them, nothing would change his mind.
“Now, you will listen to me. You will marry Sebastian. You will move into the King residence once you’re married. You will relieve your mother of her duties and take on her charitable roles. I will, once again, ensure that this scandal does not break to the press. This is damaging to my reputation.”
“Your reputation?” I cried. “What about what I want? I don’t want to marry Sebastian. He’s not good for me. And I don’t want to follow in mother’s footsteps. I deserve more!”