Marriage.
To the man who owns me.
The absurdity of it should make me laugh, but the possibility of returning to the bakery lodges in my throat like a fishbone. Sharp, painful, impossible to ignore.
Onyx lifts his head from his perch on the pillow, yellow eyes tracking me as I pace the length of the room. The rhythm should be soothing, but my heart refuses to slow, hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
“He wants to marry me,” I tell my cat, who blinks at me with mild interest before stretching and repositioning himself. “Why would he want that? It doesn’t make sense.”
When the sky turns light instead of dark, I’m still no closer to an answer. No matter how I look at it, I can’t make heads or tails of it. The why keeps gnawing at me.
I’m so lost in my thoughts I don’t hear Susan knock, and I’m only pulled out of my head when the door opens.
“Here you go,” she says, placing a tray of food on the bed. “Mr. Russo thought you’d like to eat in your room until he’s back.”
I’m so stunned all I can do is look up at her.
As she goes to leave, I finally find my voice. “Susan,” I call. When she halts her movement, I ask, “Can I have a pen and some paper?”
Nodding, she promises to bring some when she comes to collect the tray, which doesn’t happen until lunch, when she brings me more food I can’t possibly stomach. This time I’m not being obstinate or stubborn. My nerves make it hard to swallow my spit, let alone any food.
My fingers smooth out the crumpled paper as I sink onto the bed with the pen. Mom always made a list of pros and cons for big decisions, and right now, it seems better than just debating with myself.
I draw a line down the middle of the paper, writing ‘Pros’ and ‘Cons’ in careful letters at the top of each column. The familiarity of the exercise grounds me, even as the subject matter sends anxiety crawling up my spine.
Even though I now have the tools, I find it hard to put words on paper. I’ve never had to make a list for something that feels so unreal.
Marriage… to my captor. If that doesn’t qualify as surreal, I don’t know what would.
“Okay,” I tell myself. “Just write something. Anything.”
Pros:
Return to the bakery
Complete freedom (maybe? Eventually?)
Knowing where I stand (kind of?!)
Cons:
Marrying a criminal
What would he expect from me as a wife?
Sex?
It feels stupid to even write the last one. He mentioned children, so sex is a given. Besides, I can’t imagine someone like Raffaele being celibate. Just as I think that, another thought hits me. Will he cheat on me? And is it even cheating if it’s not a love marriage?
Yes, I decide. If I’m to be married, if I’m to give vows, I want it to matter. I won’t tolerate cheating. I know I’m not a catch by any means. This isn’t me being self-deprecating, but I know the score.
Shaking my head, I spend the rest of the afternoon thinking of more things to add to the list. I have plenty of things I want to ask him about, but until I know the answer, I can’t decide if they’re pros or cons.
Turning the paper over, I start writing down the list of questions.
Will I ever be truly free?
What if he gets tired of me?
