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I shifted in the wooden pew, trying to get comfortable, but waves of nausea that I couldn’t manifest yet washed over me like a tidal wave, making my stomach toss and turn. Again, I prayed for comfort that I knew wouldn’t come. To make it worse, Brock remained ice cold by my side.
The only bit of respite came from Brant, who covertly flashed me a look of remorse from where he sat a few seats down. We were living the same lie together to protect the secret I carried. His forced contribution was marrying someone he didn’t love.
I dared a glance at Jill, Brant’s fiancée. The demure-looking woman with muted brown hair and doe-brown eyes beamed up at Brant. So much hope and longing lived in her countenance. The pair looked mismatched. Brant—like his identical twin, Brock—was stately with striking features. He overshadowed his bride-to-be. I think deep down Jill knew that Brant didn’t love her. That their marriage was born out of their fathers’ association. It was a political dream. Jill had the right pedigree and would make a proper senator’s wife, not only because of her political connections but because she was a savvy businesswoman in her own regard. Not savvy enough, though, to walk away. I think she thought Brant would learn to love her the way she loved him. I hoped for her sake she was right. That someone would be spared in all the wreckage. The innocent smile she wore, under the protection of Brant’s arm, while fondly staring at the four-carat ring heavily weighing down her dainty finger, made me wither in shame. I desperately wanted to scream at Jill to run now while she could. I rubbed my abdomen and kept my mouth shut.
The service ended, and Brock jumped up so quickly you would hardly know he had been severely injured weeks ago. As for me, I longed to melt into the hard pew, but John snaked his arm around me. To any onlooker it would seem as if I had an affectionate father-in-law. If only they knew.
“Dear daughter,” John hissed in my ear, “you should join your husband and smile more. You’re such a beautiful girl.” His words were meant to sound sweet, but I heard the threat in them. The Holland name was a Colorado treasure, and John was willing to do whatever it took to keep it that way. He’d bred Brant to continue his legacy as a senator, while Brock was meant to serve his country in other ways: first as a commissioned officer and military doctor, then as a private practitioner while still serving in the Reserve. Each brother dutifully played his part, which was all that mattered to the elder Holland. Now I was meant to play mine.
If I didn’t follow orders, John would not only bury the secret I carried in the deepest hole possible, he would personally be willing to dig it. His wealth and power would buy him the means to get away with it. I’m not talking about murder. But after John was done ruining your reputation, ostracizing you from all those you loved, and obliterating your financial means, some would consider death a happy alternative. Unfortunately, my family and I have some ammo in our pasts he would be happy to use to shoot us all with, especially me.
I wasn’t sure Brock knew exactly what his father was capable of. John had warned me not to disclose the details of the little chat he’d had with me to convince me I should marry his son. Regardless, Brock always saw the “good” in what his father was trying to accomplish, so now he filled the role of martyr. As for me, I was just another pawn on John’s chessboard of life, where somehow no matter what his move was, it always resulted in checkmate. I felt like the queen cowering alone in the corner on my tiny square, with no moves remaining other than to stand.
John stood when I did and walked past me, giving me a sardonic grin before whispering in his son’s ear.
A flush of red swept from Brock’s brow down his neck. In a robotic move, Brock put his rigid arm around me. No doubt on John’s suggestion. After all, John only wanted to see us happy. According to the Holland patriarch, we deserved to be together after all the years of dancing around our feelings. In reality, all he cared about was appearances and me keeping my mouth shut. John was willing to sacrifice one son’s happiness so the other son could carry on the political torch. He was salivating at the thought of Brant not only being a senator but making a run for the Oval Office someday.
Brock’s cold hand made as little contact as it could with the bare skin on my arm. His arm refused to relax across my back. The security his touch used to give was now replaced with paralyzing vulnerability. I could feel the revulsion seep through his suit coat. His words echoed in my mind: “My every thought was returning to you. For you, I survived. But you didn’t even have the decency to wait until I was buried before you fell into my brother’s arms.” Those words haunted me every second of every day. I didn’t blame him for hating me. If I could go back and change what had happened that night, I wouldn’t have knocked on Brant’s door. Because of that night, I have suffered the death of Brock twice; once physically, now emotionally. The latter was exponentially worse.
