“Father has declared the marriage trials will be aired for anyone who purchases a ticket. As if my nuptials weren’t a laughingstock already.”
I tsk gently, pressing the phone to my ear as I wander deeper into my closet.
“Did you not expect Jaafar to embrace his moment of fame?”
“I expected him to respect my wishes.Nothire Harlow fucking Andreas to host a reality TV show.”
“A gladiator show would be more accurate. Aren’t the suitors allowed to kill each other?”
Running my hand along the material hanging beside me, I feel my way to the hidden frame. A jagged slab of wood I used to hide in as a little girl.
“They are not supposed to kill each other although there are no repercussions if they do.” She sighs, exhaustion flowing from her location across the ocean, “And I have still not found a suitor.”
The unspoken question hangs thick and heavy in the air, an unwelcome presence that I choose to ignore. Squatting down, I push the cubby open and study the marks.
The simple reminder of how little I have to lose.
“You’ve got time.”
“Not enough. The invitations have been sent out.”
I trail a finger over the damaged wall, casting my eyes around the tight space before pushing the door closed. Sealing the past in a compartment so it can’t chase me anymore.
A wondrous thought that has yet to prove itself true.
“I’ll make sure to check my inbox.”
“Calista.” Her tone sharpens, “This is my life we’re talking about. It’s not a fucking joke.”
“Being a bitch won’t change the outcome.”
It’s a harsh reminder and the silence that follows tells me so.
“We knew this was coming, baby.” The word feels sticky and uncomfortable on my tongue, “And nothing your father has done is anything less than we expected.”
“I just didn’t expect it to happen this fast.”
“I know.”
“Everything is out of my control and I…” She pulls herself short, leaving the rest of the sentence dangling just out of reach, “It doesn’t matter now. I called to ask you for Marlin’s number.”
My brows shoot towards my hairline.
“You’ve decided to ask Marlin Seaborn to be your suitor?”
“What? Oh, God no.” A disgusted sound comes down the line, “I would rather end up as a prize on some dimwit’s arm. No, I need his help collecting information.”
My feet pad silently across the carpet, the entrance of the walk-in closet marked by the cruel cut of hardwood.
“He’s currently preoccupied.”
“I’m not trying to steal your favourite pet. I need to pick his brain for a few minutes.”
“He keeps his phone turned off on the weekends.”
Tahira sighs, “Did you send him on another covert operation?"
The mirrors I had installed come into view, casting a raw and vulnerable eye over every inch of my bedroom. A necessity that became a convenience over time, the reflective surfaces were a trick I used to try and outsmart the men lurking in my bedroom.
