The house wakes up in a chaotic ruckus, preparing for the celebration ahead.
I hear music playing downstairs and my parents laughing together. They always dance when there’s a happy event in the family. Marrying their daughter off to an unknown man calls for it, I guess.
I clench my hands at my sides hard enough that my nails carve half-moons on the inside of my palms. The slight discomfort doesn’t ground me but only echoes my silent plea to be saved. But no one will. I am alone in my distress, unable to save myself.
Plastering my fake smile on, I walk downstairs, and my parents stop dancing, pulling me into their arms.
Wearing this mask of acceptance will take a toll on me. Yet, I push through—a master at pretending. That’s what I’ve always done.
Every few minutes, I glance at whatever clock I see. The hours tick forward with no ounce of sympathy for my ordeal. Cruel. So cruel.
I get a small reprieve when my sister shows up.
“Where is Celia?” I ask, needing that bundle of innocence to anchor me while this brutal life threatens to pull me into its murky depths and swallow me whole.
She offers me an apologetic glance. “It would be too much with all the people tonight.”
I nod. Sure. I would have realized that if I weren’t all over the place.
“Are you all right?” she asks, worry clear in her voice.
I strain a nod, and she pierces my parents with a hard look. “Of course you’re fucking not. Look at them celebrating that another chattel has been successfully sold.”
“Chiara,” I plead.
She’s right, but I am barely holding on.
“You’re a better daughter than I could ever be. You’ll be an even better wife. That’s why I hope the asshole knows how lucky he is to marry you.”
That’s the type of encouragement I needed to hear.
I wrap my arms around her. “Thank you.”
We’re about to go upstairs, stealing some moments with my sister, when my mother says, “The styling team will be here any moment.”
Chiara rolls her eyes at her, and I nod.
Inside my bedroom, I lock the door, sliding down it.
Chiara says nothing as she mimics my position. “Did you break up with that guy?”
I shake my head.
“It doesn’t matter. We’ll figure the other thing out.”
That should be a valid reason to freak out, but my obliterated virginity is the last thing on my mind. I am as far from inexperienced as can be.
“My marriage felt like a battlefield, Viv,” she says wistfully. “It almost cost me the love of my life. It took his unconditional love, seeing him in a coma where I couldn’t reach him, to understand my trauma. While you’re not a fighter, you’re a people pleaser. Another coping mechanism courtesy of our obtuse parents.”
She takes my hand, and we hold on to each other. “The right partners help us stop following our default program.”
Incapable of forming words, I nod, elated that my sister stopped fighting and let herself feel, trust, and heal.
I think of Tristan. I never felt the need to please him by pretending.
Shutting my eyes, I will my brain to give me a break. I can’t think about him constantly, or I’ll lose my damn mind.
“I’ve dug every piece of information I could get on your fiancé,” she sighs, so much care and worry etched in her eyes. “If I could, I’d ship you far away so that no one could ever discover your whereabouts. But knowing you, you’d miss us even though none of us have been worthy of your goodness.”
