“If we’re going to talk about rights, shouldn’t we be consummating the marriage tonight?” Blake lifts the vodka, shaking his head at me. “Look, I don’t want to upset you, but you’re being absurd.”
I take the vodka from his mouth, pushing him out of my bedroom. “If you don’t want to upset me, leave me and the vodka alone.”
Slamming the door in his face, I slide down it, tears cascading down my cheeks. “I should have said no,” I mutter to myself, wincing as I suck on the bottle.
Vodka is supposed to taste of nothing, but it is disgustingly strong. I don’t have any other option right now.
God, what a fucking mess.
“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think many women would have said no,” Blake says from the other side of the door.
“Urgh, fuck off.”
“Well, you’ve got my vodka,” Blake reminds me, and I laugh bitterly.
“Tough.”
“Can we at least talk like civil adults?” Blake sighs, and I shake my head stubbornly.
Fuck him.
“Fine, be like this,” Blake growls, moving away from the door. “I’m going to bed. Goodnight,wife.”
My tears come in full force then, and I drink until I almost gag, my gaze fixated on the moon through the window.
Five years.
Maybe I can get through this.
“No, I can’t,” I whisper to myself, relishing the tingling effect of the vodka in my tired body. “No amount of money is worth this.”
The house falls silent, and I finish the vodka, wondering why I don’t feel drunk.
I’ve just finished off a bottle of vodka; how the fuck am I standing?
Maybe I’m so upset I can’t get drunk.
There must be more vodka in here.
My bravado is preferable over the fear and anxiety of the fake marriage, so I yank open my door.
“Vodka?” I call out, snickering to myself. “Come to Mommy.”
The stairs seem to move as I walk down them, despite my fingers gripping the rail tightly.
The kitchen is bare. The cupboards have a few rice packets, some tins of soup, and the fridge has steak and butter.
How does Blake survive on this?
Where’s the goddamn bread?
“I want toast.”
I search through the cupboards, almost smashing a pile of plates in the process.
There’s no bread.
“What kind of fucking mansion is this?” I mutter, spying a bottle of vodka on the top shelf. “Fuck.”
