But the two times Bronte and I had been together were possessive and dark.
Powerful and demanding.
It’s fucked up.
And I liked it.
The door of the hotel suite opens, followed by several hotel employees with trays that pass by the bedroom door. It’s only seconds before they drop off what they brought, then they empty out as if they never were here in the first place.
A Christmas tree is edged along the French doors leading outside the balcony to the city. In off-whitelights, silver ornaments, and a few red ones to sprinkle with color, it’s beautifully decorated, just like I’m sure Prague is, but I haven’t looked outside to confirm.
The honeymoon of my dreams.
With the wrong guy.
The wrong guy.
The wrong freaking guy.
The hard click against hardwood floors jolts me toward the door again. And it’shim.
In a black suit, white dress shirt, and black tie.
He doesn’t look at me, just waltzes toward the kitchen, and remains there for what feels like forever.
I feel like a stranger at my own honeymoon, and I don’t know what to do.
But I know what has to happen.
Sliding off the California king bed, I slowly approach where Bronte disappeared, ready to make my case, when he appears in the wooden archway and takes my entire breath and courage away.
He doesn’t feel like Bobby now that I know. I’m devastated with myself and how quickly everything went to shit.
“Are you done self-blaming yet, Meirna?”
An immediate scowl forms on my face because I wonder how a normal person can ask me a question like that. However, he’s not normal, is he?
He’s psychotic.
“What did you think was going to happen here?” I pose honestly, curious, and slightly put off by the response I’m going to get. “That I was going to forget everything you’ve done?—”
“I hope not,” he quips levelly. “If I fucked you like Bobby, then I wasn’t doing something right.”
On instinct, I step back, because his words are like a slap to the face.
“You want to know how involved I’ve been,” he continues, stepping toward me but not in a menacing way because he takes asmall detour to my right. “How you couldn’t tell us apart. Why I disappeared and you landed with Bobby.”
I don’t confirm that I do. It feels like giving a power that I don’t want him to have.
But I know he’s going to tell me anyway.
That Bronte is going to try to manipulate me onto his side, to understand his way of thinking, and justify his actions as moral.
“My adopted father died that afternoon,” Bronte says softly. “I got the call while I was finishing up your begonias. My mother and sister needed me…” He lifts his chin. “And I had to be there.”
I want to say sorry, but he’s misled me.
He tricked me into marrying him and God knows what else. He could be lying right now.
