My heart lurches as I rush out the word, “I—”
And that’s it.
The fleshy cords in my throat inflame and cut me off too soon.
Frowns lift all around me.
My lips are parted around words that fail to come, and now I am a gaping, stunned fish under three steady gazes.
“I…”
Again, the flesh of my throat pulses and cuts me off, like the beginnings of an anaphylactic strangulation. I try again, but all that comes out is just sputtering.
Heartbeats pass, frowns dig deeper.
Mother arches a preened, neat eyebrow.
Oliver’s murmur is thick with derision, “Are you having a stroke?”
Heat sears my cheeks.
Father’s dull stare grazes over me before he tightens his jaw for a moment, as though to bite down on his words, and will himself scraps of patience—then he lets his attention drift back to his phone.
That flurries a panic through me, a blizzard in my chest, that I’m losing the fleeting attention he spared on me.
The words come spilling out, “I need to speak to you.”
The faint tapping of thumbs on phone screens swirls around the car—then stops.
Thumbs slide to the side buttons,click, then the three smartphones lock.
A procession of attention turns on me, but not interest. The looks are tedious.
Father considers me, cold and distant. “About what, Olivia?”
It isn’t a question asked kindly. The enunciation of his probe is curt and annoyed. It’s exhaustion—like he’s already so sick of me.
It shrinks me in my seat.
Hands wringing on my lap, I breathe through the resistance lurching in me.
I commit before the fear can take hold, and my answer comes in a whisper, “About Dray.”
Mother loosens a slight, shaky breath.
I read it as nothing less than ‘Gods, no, Olivia— don’t do this.’
But it’s Father I worry about.
There’s something odd about Father. Always has been. How he treats me like the favourite in so many ways, taking me home from Bluestone if I am poorly or injured, plumping up my allowance when I burn through it too soon, but there’s a coldness in him, too.
Like now, the way he looks at me with a weariness, a distance, and I could almost be convinced that he doesn’t give a damn about me.
Maybe I sometimes delude myself into thinking I am the favourite. This time last year, or even just six, seven months ago, I would’ve bet my dowry on my position, the affection I get from them.
Now? I wouldn’t bet a knockoff.
Now…
