Page 8 of Fatal Fantasy

THREE

CARTER

My wedding is twenty-three days away, and as much as I’ve tried to stall, this sham of a marriage is still happening.

A few weeks ago, I chose my dress, opting for the ugliest shred of fabric I could find, not even attempting to find joy in the little things.

Every little girl dreams of her wedding, from the details of the dress down to her Prince Charming, but even as a child, that’s never been my style.

I’ve always fancied the messier side of life, and the color white still repulses me, but wearing a shade reserved for funerals to your arranged wedding is typically frowned upon.

My father is making this a spectacle, inviting family from all over the state with the promise of a ‘Cassini party for the ages,’ and teasing the birth of new leadership.

It’s laughable, how dedicated he is to saving face, but this Family means nothing to me, and if my time in Jersey has tarnished our reputation in the slightest, I can at least be proud of something.

Usually, I’d have more fight in me, maybe come up with a plan to cause a little chaos, but in all honesty, I’m exhausted.

Accepting your fate, and wishing for death, are soul-sucking thoughts that require every ounce of my focus. If I allow myself to think about revenge, escape, or even what I used to live for, it’ll bring the worst feeling of all to the forefront of my mind: hope.

Hope breeds nothing but eternal misery, and since I’m already a walking corpse, that’s the one thing I cannot afford to have.

Hope gives people reasons to stay alive, to look forward to each sunrise, and even if I were to find something to keep me optimistic, I’d reject it.

Death is the only thing that’s willing me through every single day, and I’m always on high alert, waiting for the moment when my saving grace presents itself.

“Carter?” A knock comes at my door, jolting me out of my thoughts, and I don’t bother hiding my absolute disdain for those on the other side.

“Yes, Vincent?” I keep the oak as a border between us, not unlocking or opening the door.

“We have to meet with the Priest this afternoon. What time will you be ready?” He asks, and although he has been trying to ease me through the mundane wedding planning tasks, I still loathe the man with every fiber of my being.

“Whenever you need me to be,” I snark, rolling my eyes as he gives me all the relevant information without an attempt to convince me to open the door.

While he’s been helpful, choosing some of the dishes for the reception, and coming to the cake tasting, we both know what this is, there’s no point in pretending.

He did surprise me one afternoon, opting to have lunch with me, rather than forcing me to suck him off, and we had our first real conversation in the months since he arrived.

It was surface level, but he took the time to express his sorrow for the fact that my heart isn’t in this, and while I appreciated his words, at the end of the day, this is a business deal.

In twenty-three nights, he’ll get what he signed up for – the opportunity to finally sleep with me – as well as the title that comes along with being married to a Cassini.

He’s after power and pussy, but who can blame him? Those are two of the most important things that make the world go round.

Rather than make anyone mad, or give my father a reason to even glance in my direction, I follow the schedule and get ready for our meeting.

The girl looking back at me in the mirror is utterly disheveled, the bags under my eyes sporting their own bags, since I rarely ever sleep. My eyes that were once a shimmering, oceanic blue are now hollow and empty, barely shining in the light, showing how quickly life can drain from a person’s soul.

Not to mention, I haven’t been taking care of my hair, leaving it in a knotted bun most of the time, and today is no different as I don’t even bother showering before leaving.

Makeup and skin care routines are for happy people, ones who look forward to the day ahead of them and want to feel their best, whereas none of those feelings apply to me.

Chapstick doesn’t even make an appearance, as I genuinely couldn’t be bothered to put an ounce of effort into presenting myself to the world.

My face screams I’m forced to be here, and that’s the cold, harsh truth.

Not even a fucking Priest can save me from the life I’m subjected to behind closed doors, and there’s no point in pretending that this isn’t a carousel of the worst days of my life, my soulless body running on a constant loop of misery that never stops.

To my utter surprise, Vincent and my father have both left me alone today, going off on some business trip a few hours away, and I feel like I’ve taken my first breath of fresh air in months.