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It was just the fucking principle of it.
It was eight o’clock in the morning as I sat on the couch, in a pink oversized Yankees t-shirt and shorts. I ate a bowl of Cap’n Crunch while the blonde newscaster filled me in on current events.
I watched the news every morning and night. There wasn’t much in the world that was reported on that I didn’t know about, from the Korean child labor crisis to the botchy Botox injections being given in L.A.
When a familiar face appeared on the screen, my pulse stilled. And when the words “Oscar Perez” followed by “found shot execution style in front of his apartment,” passed the reporter’s ruby red lips, I choked on my cereal.
Not ten seconds had gone by, before “SON OF A BITCH!” came from my papà’s office.
My eyes widened.
As I was sinking into the couch with the relief of Oscar’s death, the noise of Nicolas entering the foyer with my brother filtered into the room. They were talking about Adriana’s phone records. My heart dropped. If the report showed all of my sister’s messages, it would take little effort to find Ryan.
Tony and Nicolas had found something in common now? Disgust twisted in my stomach.
They headed past the living room doors to my papà’s office, while I watched the news, narrow-eyed and simmering.
Papà’s anger drifted down the hall like fog, and I wondered if I was going to hear gunshots, but another five minutes passed before his shout filled my ears.
“Elena! My office, now!”
I hesitated, but then got to my feet and padded barefoot toward his office. Dread sank into my skin with each step.
I knocked on the doorframe before entering the room. Papà was behind his desk, Tony sat in the chair across from him, and Nico leaned against the wall near the window.
I stood in the middle of the office, my fingers playing with the hem of my shirt. The sun warmed my clammy skin.
“Congratulations,” Papà bit out, his eyes a dark storm. I swallowed, having never seen my father so angry. “You’re getting married.”
A cold sensation crawled down my throat and filled my lungs.
Slowly, I glanced at Nicolas to see he watched me with indifference. Keeping his gaze, I let out a shaky breath and asked, “To who?” but I already knew. I hadn’t imagined this outcome, and I wasn’t sure why.
“To Nico.”
My heart beat so fast I fought not to choke on it.
Silence filled the room—deep and loathing from my papà, thoughtful from my brother, and apathetic from my no longer future brother-in-law but fiancé.
The silence I felt was instinctive, like how prey quiets to avoid capture. A survival instinct kicked in, and I shook my head.
“No,” I whispered.
A spark flickered through Nico’s eyes.
My papà shuffled some papers on his desk. “It is done, Elena.”
That must be the contract in his hand.
Nicolas could sign for me, and “it was done?” Of course, this was how it always worked, but something tasted bitter about Nico doing it.
This news was like a slap to the face. How could I process him being my sister’s fiancé to mine in less than five minutes?
That wasn’t only it.
I had never wanted a husband like him. He was everything my body thought it needed and everything my brain knew it didn’t. I would lose myself in Nicolas Russo, and I wouldn’t know where to come up for air.
My heart would fall for him and he would crush it beneath his feet. I could live a loveless life. I couldn’t survive a broken one.
