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“Oh, sweetie, you can.”
I incredulously stare up at him. I don’t know how he can focus on anything, except his son being gone, right now, but I guess the company comes first. It always comes first.
“I…I don’t think so.” My eyes beg for him to change his mind, to understand that I’m not ready to get married. I don’t even know who I am yet or what I want in life.
“I’m sorry. I know we all wanted to wait until you were older, but it’s time. I’m not getting any younger. I need to know that the company is in the right hands before I go.”
I tuck my long strands behind my ear. I can’t believe he is talking about his own death right now. I nervously run my hands through my hair over and over.
“I’m not ready,” I say without meeting his eyes. I can’t face disappointing him again.
“Yes, you are. You’re beautiful. You were born to marry a man who can run the Felton empire. Once you are married, you will see it was the right thing to do. You will feel taken care of. You will finally feel like you have found your place in this world.”
I let my eyes glance up at him for just a second. I see honesty. His eyes are filled with honesty.
“Maybe,” I say weakly.
His face brightens. “Yes,” he says.
“Yes,” I repeat on autopilot.
“The meeting is tomorrow at eleven a.m. at the Felton Grand on the strip.”
“Yes,” I say again. I stand up without looking him in the eyes. I walk out of the door without looking back.
I walk back to the basement, back to my haven. This time, when I slump into the chair, I don’t feel an ounce of comfort. In fact, I feel nothing. Sitting here, watching movies the rest of the day, isn’t going to help anymore. I won’t be able to zone out of them again. I just promised my grandfather that I would marry a complete stranger in six months. I’ve never broken a promise before, and I don’t plan on starting now.
I just don’t know what I want.
I think of everything I’ve been told I want—money, clothes, a modeling career, an acting career, and an intelligent husband who will run the company in order to give me even more money. But not one of those things has ever made me happy. I try to think about things that have made me happy—my family and Scarlett. But that leaves me with fewer answers.
I know what I don’t want.
I don’t want a modeling career.
I don’t want an acting career.
I don’t want to marry a complete stranger.
I try to think of my happiest memory with my dad. It was on my eighteenth birthday. It coincided with my high school graduation. He took me to a casino in California, one I could legally gamble at. He taught me how to play blackjack and how to count cards. We won—a lot. It wasn’t the winning that made it fun. It was learning something from my father. It was the confidence he displayed in me when he gave me high amounts of money to place a bet that I would win because I was capable. It was one of the only times I felt he was proud of me for something other than my looks.
The line I will never forget my father saying to me is, “No one would ever suspect you of counting cards. You’re too pretty.”
It was that day that I learned
that my beauty was a weapon that could be used to my advantage. I just have never learned how to harness it.
I head to my room to grab my shoes and purse to head to a casino, to find a happy memory…because, tomorrow, I’ll meet the man I’m going to marry. Tomorrow, I’ll have to face the fact that I don’t get to decide my own future, but I don’t have to today. I still have a chance to make today better. I was wrong. Today isn’t the worst day of my life. Tomorrow probably will be, so I’m going to make the most of my last night of freedom.
I place five hundred dollars’ worth in chips on the table—my maximum bid. The true count is up to plus-six, so I need to bet high since a positive true count tells me I have an advantage over the dealer. I watch as the dealer deals out the cards. In my head, I silently keep track of the cards being laid out. I look at my cards—a jack and a ten. I smile at the twenty, just one short of twenty-one. The number I want to match without going over. The dealer turns to me on my turn, and I signal that I want to stand.
I watch the dealer flop an additional card to add to his fifteen. It’s a king. He’s busted at twenty-five. I smile as he hands me a thousand dollars in additional chips bringing my winnings up to five thousand for the night.
I should stop soon. Not stopping is always the chance you take when you play against the house. The house always has the advantage, even when you count cards, even when you know the odds. There is always a chance that you will lose, that you will lose track of the count, that you will get cocky and bet too much.
But I didn’t come here to win. Although winning feels good, I came here to escape. So, I’ll keep playing, no matter what.
“You’re good. You should teach this old man to play. I’m having terrible luck,” an older gentleman sitting next to me says.
