chapterseven
sure, universe, traumatise me some more
At age five, my year one teacher told me being a princess wasn’t a real job.
At age eleven, Teddy Burrows told me my nose was too big to ever be a good kisser.
At nineteen, Jamie told me to wear sunglasses every time I stepped outsidebecause my eyes were too pretty.
And at twenty-one, Marcus Romano told me I couldn’t survive on my own.
Men never seemed to fail at defining me on their terms. What I was, what I wasn’t, whatI should be. And somewhere along the way, I started believing there wasn’t space left for what I wanted. Romance became one of those things. Something I watched from the outside, in my friends’ relationships, but never let myself reach for. It had been so long since I’d been with anyone, girl or guy, that I sometimes wondered if I’d forgotten how.
Romance to me now was just something I saw when Finn looked at Rory fromacross the room. I saw it in the way Tristan sang a song I knew he’d written about Goldie. I saw it in my favourite paintings. But never in my own life.
My therapist, Alice, had reassured me it was normal. Healthy, even. Thatavoiding romance after what happened wasn’t weakness but self-preservation. Although, it didn’t feel healthy. It felt like backtracking. As though I were a mosquito preserved in amber, watching the world evolve while I stayed trapped in the past.
Don’t get me wrong, hiding had helped when I needed it to help. Clinging tothe shadows had kept me safe. But, as I made sure Marcus knew before I stormed off, I felt safe with myself. With my choices. Strong enough to shatter those walls that had once been everything, trapping in the belief that the world was against me, when really it wasn’t the world at all, just a handful of shitty people who’d taken up too much space in it.
I wasn’t disregarding what happened. I wasn’t forgetting. I was just… trying tolive again.
And if I wanted to prove Marcus wrong, if I wanted to prove to myself I couldsurvive on my own, and I wanted to start chasing my dreams again, it had to start somewhere. Even if that somewhere was a too-loud party filled with people who’d already decided who I was.
Long story short? A man told me I couldn’t do something, and all I wanted todo was prove him wrong.
What can I say? I’m my mother's daughter.
And something about Marcus Romano pissed me off enough to get a grip ofmyself and stop letting the past control me.
His name was enough to make me shiver. His deep, smoky scent felt like aghost clinging to my shoulders, even now asI drenched my black silk midi dress with the lace trim in my go-to perfume.
Before I knew it I was pulling up at a building that looked as regal as the line ofpeople walking down the carpet that led through the entrance. My hands grew shaky in my lap, dampness clinging to them as I over thought everything.
Think of Nouvelle, girl. Think of your dream.
With that tiny surge of motivation, I slipped out of the car as the driver openedthe door. I muttered a thank you, before lifting my head and striding over to the end of the line, to the lady with the clipboard.
Her smile beamed as I reached her. “Name?”
I sucked in a breath, pulling at the silk hugging my thighs. “Cora Holland.”
Her eyes widened with surprise. “Oh, yeah. I know you.” The head tilt camenext. “So lovely to see you here.”
Translation: I saw the news just like the rest of the world and really wasn’texpecting to see you here.
I bit my tongue and smiled back. “Thank you for having me.”
Her eyes fell up and down me in a quick motion as she hummed, beforesomething buzzed in her headset. She raised a hand to her ear before looking back at me. “What you're going to want to do is head down the carpet, stop for the marked reporters, and then head on in. Enjoy the event, Miss Holland.”
My smile pulled tight as she moved swiftly on to the people behind me, and Isucked in another precise breath as I braved the white carpet.
Just get past this part, Cora, and then you can try and enjoy yourself. You’redoing great.
Talking to reporters was only fine once you made peace with the fact thatwhatever you said was never what they’d print. They’d twist and tangle your words into what they wanted you to say. Which was probably why most of them didn’t really like me, because I told them exactly what they didn’t want to hear.
The familiar burn from the camera flashes made the corners of my eyes ache,and the urge to bolt surge through me. But I didn’t, and instead floated towards the first reporter. Then the next. And just like that I was sinking into the safety of the aircon as I made it inside.
The subway-tiled room was lit solely by candlesticks, all in different coloursand dotted around every surface of the place. A giant moon hung in the centre from the ceiling, acting as the disco ball, shining spotlights directly onto the new fragrance we were here to celebrate.
