Chapter 13
2279words
The pancakes have no flavor. From a distance, I watch myself lift a forkful of the tender batter into my mouth. It's heavy on my tongue, like chewing a wet sweater, but I eat it anyway. Partly because I need my strength for what's going to happen today. The other reason is I'm being watched.
The young woman waiting by the doorway of the breakfast nook is wearing similar garb to Layla. Hers is lighter in shade, more sienna than soil, but the dress falls to the same length on her wrists and ankles. She keeps her hair in a pair of blonde braids that reach her clavicle, and unlike Layla, she doesn't have a trace of jewelry on that I can see.
Even if she's got rosy cheeks, I know a sentry when I see one.
'You don't have to stand there," I tell her. 'I'm not going to vanish."
She stiffens like a bolt of lightning hit the top of her head. 'Oh! No! I don't think—It's just that, um, Mr. Volkov, wanted me to make sure you had everything you needed."
I'm not seated in the same dining room as last night, thank goodness—The memory of the dinner is awful. Eating is hard enough; I'm sure being in the room where I tried to stab Asher would make my stomach shrink.
This smaller room has floor-to-ceiling windows. I have a pleasant view of the garden outside, a place I'd love to go explore. The roses I glimpse are fat and heavy; whoever cares for them does it expertly.
Sunlight illuminates the abundant spread of food on the round table. There's a full carafe of orange juice, another one of milk, and another one of coffee. A silver tray is weighed down with cinnamon buns and various muffins, as well as slices of bread. The warm platter of pancakes could be turned into a pillow to sleep on. I've only touched one, which I'm barely a quarter of the way through.
Looking from the girl to the food, then back again, I lift my eyebrows. 'What could I possibly need that I don't have?"
Her cheeks scald red. 'It's a lot. Yeah. But you've barely touched any of it. Aren't you hungry?"
'No," I say honestly. Stabbing the pancake, I force another bite down with a mouthful of orange juice. 'I'm not hungry at all."
'Oh." She pokes the floor with the toe of her brown buckled shoe. 'Then … why are you eating?"
'Because I don't want to pass out." I might anyway, once I see the dresses. Asher told me that's happening today. Layla confirmed it when she found me wandering the halls early in the morning. That's when I was led here, to this room, for breakfast.
'I think I get it," the girl says. Her smile is unsure. 'My sister, when she was getting married, she couldn't eat for a week."
The fork punches into the pancake hard enough that it bounces off the porcelain plate underneath. 'Did she pick who she was marrying?"
'What?"
I set the syrup-soaked fork aside. 'Nothing. Forget it." The girl scrunches her lips together, shrinking like a dog that's been scolded. Looking at her closer, I can tell she's younger than me. I shouldn't be so rude; she's just doing her job. Softening my eyes, I make myself smile. 'What's your name?"
'Ollie."
'I'm Camila."
She nods enthusiastically. 'Oh, I know. Everyone here does."
My smile dips slightly. 'Right. How long have you worked for Asher?"
'Mr. Volkov? I think it's been a year now. I started when I turned eighteen."
She really is young. 'What's it been like for you?"
The nerves evaporate; her grin is gigantic, forming dimples in her cheeks that could collect raindrops at the right angle. Grabbing the front of her dress, Ollie sways back and forth on her heels. 'It's been amazing. I love it here. The work is good, the money is even better, and my family is so proud of what I do."
'That's … nice," I say tensely. 'I'm guessing you don't interact with Asher very much."
'All the time, actually!"
I deflate in confusion. How can she be around him constantly and still love working for the man? I can't take being in his presence for a mere few minutes.
There's no sound to announce Layla's approach; she simply pops around the corner from behind Ollie. 'Time to clean up," she instructs, clapping her hands. Ollie bursts into action, rushing around frantically, her eyes downcast. I watch with interest, noting the vibe of strict schoolteacher versus student.
Layla motions at me. 'You barely ate anything, child."
'I'm full."
She pushes her chin outward, holding her tongue in her teeth. She wants to chide me, I think, but she doesn't. 'Go wash up in your room," she tells me. 'You've got syrup on your shirt."
Tugging at the clothing, I marvel at how I hadn't noticed. 'I'm running out of stuff to wear."
'No, you're not. I arranged for new items. They arrived this morning. It's all put away in your closet."
It's not my closet, I think, prickling at the idea. 'You bought more things? But you already got me that dress yesterday."
'You'll need a wardrobe if you're going to keep living here."
'Yes," I say, giving her a strained smirk. 'Asher will want his fiancée to look lovely to keep up the ruse."
Layla's eyes become slits. 'Ruse?" She shoots a look at Ollie.
Ah ... so maybe the marriage being fake is a secret for some people here. I guess Asher doesn't trust anyone but his soldiers and Layla.
'Forget it." My smile is sugary sweet and packed with danger. 'I'll go get cleaned up." I wonder if I can use this to my advantage somehow. I have to think it over carefully. But there's potential in anything that makes Layla uncomfortable.
Scraping my chair back, I rise, walking toward the doorway. Ollie gives me a furtive look as I pass. Under her breath, she whispers, 'Good luck."
That stops me in my tracks. Did she pick up on what I was implying just now? Does she realize this marriage isn't one born from actual love? I try to catch her eye again, but she avoids me as she cleans up the mess. I thought she was naive. Maybe I pegged her wrong.
'Be quick about it," Layla says to me. 'Asher wants us in the parlor in fifteen minutes."
'What's he going to do if I'm late? Pick out a dress for me?" That wouldn't be so bad. It would take the responsibility off my shoulders.
Layla frowns deeply before waving at me to get moving. I take her cue, going upstairs to my bedroom. I'm barely in the door when I hear my phone vibrating under the pillows.
My battery is nearly dead; I'll have to ask Layla for a charger. Mom is calling, not texting! Bracing myself, I answer. 'Hello?"
'Camila! The drinks with Asher did go well!"
'What do you mean?" I asked.
'He called me late last night with the news. You agreed to the deal! Whatever did he say to win you over?"
My tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth. 'Lots of things."
'Well, whatever. I'm so happy. Let's celebrate somehow. Dinner, maybe?"
Sitting on the mattress, I gaze out at the window. 'Let me call you after, when I know my plans."
Mom is quiet for a long minute. Her tone is more reserved when she speaks again. 'Malyshka, I get it. You're mad at me."
'No, Mom?—"
'It's no problem. I understand." Her voice grows louder … a false happiness. 'And I hope that in time, you'll forgive me for this. Please don't be a stranger, okay?"
'Okay, mamochka."
'I won't keep you if you're busy. Text me your plans, okay? Bye, honey, I love you."
'I love you too," I say in a hush. The call ends; I drop the phone into my lap, still staring at the window. The rest of the world is right there. It's awful to be able to see my freedom and not grab it. This place has a hundred windows or more. Many on the bottom level that I can pry open, slipping out with a swing of one leg.
I haven't explored the whole mansion; however, I've gotten a good sense of where things are. My mental map is growing. The area I haven't gone yet is the third floor. There's no reason to go higher in the mansion; it would put me further from the exit. Plus, that stairwell is near Asher's room, a place I want to avoid at all costs.
The thing is, it's not like anyone is even trying to stop me from escaping. No doors are locked, no one guards the front entrance. I haven't tried it, but I think I could stroll outside without anyone blocking my path. It's cruel how the option is in front of my nose … while being entirely useless.
Asher doesn't need to trap me with force.
My obligation to my mother is better than any chains.
Wall-to-wall dresses line the parlor. It's an army of silk and chiffon, the bodices glimmering as they stand at attention, waiting for me to choose one of them. The sight of them makes my tired eyes blur further.
'Well?" Layla prods. She's hovering near my elbow, watching in that expectant way of hers. 'Go on. Examine them."
'Yes," Asher agrees. 'Show a little excitement." He's sprawled on the velour sofa in the corner, his legs stretched out across the floor. He's so big that his arms dangle over the back, dwarfing the furniture.
My eye twitches. Holding back a curt response, I study the dresses again. It's impossible to feel excitement. I'm barely keeping it together, my pulse throbbing quicker as I stand in front of the gowns. I don't want Asher to see a hint of fear though. Showing him any sort of weakness would be a mistake …. I don't think my pride can survive anymore damage.
Lifting my hand reluctantly, I brush my fingertips over the closest wedding dress. The silky fabric is cold to the touch and almost slippery. I think that if I put it on, it'll just slide straight off, like it's rejecting me. I shouldn't be getting married. Even if it's fake. This is wrong. This is all wrong.
Walking along the line, I stroke the gowns with my arm outstretched, keeping a distance between them and me. As a child, I would brush the fences on my walk to school. My hands would be filthy by the end, something that my teachers always chided me for. It was compulsive, a need to feel how the metal or wood thudded off my fingertips. A way to ground myself.
This is different. Here, I'm practically forcing myself to touch what's in front of me.
I count fifty dresses before I reach the end of the room. How can I pick one? They all look the same to me. Turning on my heel, I notice the four people in the room observing me. Two of them are women—in charge of arranging the dresses for this event. They look at their feet when they see I've noticed them, but Asher and Layla keep scrutinizing me. Neither offers any warmth. Picking a wedding dress should be a joyous moment, but this is abject torture.
The next dress I examine is rough—papery and thick. The sensation sends me down a spiral of memories. It feels just like the note I found the other night in my jean jacket. I can't stop the names spinning through my head. I don't just see my handwriting as I recall them. I remember the thrill as I wrote them down … the happiness … the potential.
The fallout afterward as my world crumbled into tiny chunks.
Pressing a hand to my guts, I let out a whimper. My grip tightens on the dress. I'm using it to hold me up, hoping I can pretend I'm checking it closely out of interest, not because I'll collapse otherwise.
Tracing the high collar, I lick my dry lips. 'This one is … pretty." I swallow down a wash of bile. 'In fact, I could wear this one. Yes, um, it's perfect."
'Ma'am, allow me to help you try it on," one of the staff suggests.
All the blood drains from my face. Oh God, no, I can't wear it. I shoot a side-eye at Asher. Imagining him seeing me in the wedding dress is enough to make the moisture vanish from my mouth. Everything about this situation is all wrong.
I can't do this.
I can't do this.
I can't ...
'Everyone, out. Now," Layla says loudly. It's a direct command, as firm as a steel bar. Lifting my head, I watch in amazement as the staff scurries out the door. They know better than to question their boss.
Asher rocks forward, staring at me curiously. 'What's happening?"
'You as well," Layla hisses. 'Go."
He glares at her like he's going to argue. Instead, he rises fluidly, sending me a final glance over his shoulder before exiting the room. Layla closes the door behind him then hurries to my side.
'I'm okay," I tell her.
'No you're not. Sit." Clutching my shoulders, she guides me away from the dresses. I let her do it because I'm too exhausted to argue. The instant I sit, my hands begin to tremble. My legs follow after. 'Look at you; you're a wreck."
'It's nothing."
