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“How did you fail me?”
“By letting you get involved with him.”
Christian clicked his tongue. “Now, now. We both know this was how it was meant to be. She was always going to be mine. You couldn't take her away from me. You never had a choice.”
Cynthia drops her head.
“What does that even mean?”
“Since she’s leaving out details, allow me. Everything that happened, the promise of your hand in marriage, the death of your father and the mother you knew was all because of her. She didn’t just have an affair. As she said, she loved him and his wife, the woman who claimed you as hers had to sit back and watch the man she loved choose another.”
As Christian talks, I continue reading Cynthia’s expression, and I can’t make sense of it all.
“After you were born, Marco was supposed to get rid of Cynthia. But being the greedy man he is, he didn’t. Instead, he kept her on staff, allowing her to be with you as your nanny while his beloved had to look his indiscretions in the face daily. He couldn’t just let it get out that he had a bastard child, so he forced his wife to sign your birth certificate and tell society you belonged to her.”
“No.”
“I guess the hatred for you was deep-rooted because just shy of your tenth birthday, she approached my father. She’d resented Marco so much for what he’d done, for choosing Cynthia, for choosing you, that she made him a deal. Kill you all and take over Marco’s territory. She didn’t want any of it, just vengeance. She needed to make them pay for what she’d endured, and you were just collateral damage.”
“How do you know all of this? You couldn’t have been more than a child yourself.”
“You know by now that I watch. Things people think are secrets aren’t. I overheard the deal and needed to know for myself. And when I saw you, I knew you would be mine. Your family was going to die. My father was going to see to that no matter what. Only he wanted me to be the one to do it. I only agree if I get to have you. Somewhere along the way, Marco learned the truth and called it off, threatening a war. You’ve met my father. He doesn’t take too kindly to being threatened, and well, you know the rest. I allowed Cynthia to free you. I actually watched as you sprinted across the property, ducking into the nearest forest.”
“Why did you let us go then?”
“The rules changed. Samuele wasn’t going to give you to me. He’d decided all of you needed to burn, including Cynthia. But now you know the truth about who you would be losing if you don't go through with this arrangement. She isn't only your caregiver. She's your mother, your flesh and blood. Would you sacrifice her because of your pride? Because you're so damn stubborn and refuse to accept that this is your life now?”
His question echoes through my head as I finish my eye makeup and lean back from the mirror to check out my work. Anyone who looks at me will see a blushing bride. I guess I'm better at makeup than I thought I was because I feel like anything but.
It's almost a relief to sit and let somebody else take over. I don't much care what they're doing with my hair. It might as well not be mine—I'm that disconnected. Almost like I'm watching myself from outside my body. The women work quickly and efficiently, and none of them seem especially happy. Do they feel sorry for me? I'm sure they're only doing the job they were given. They know better than to drag their feet or ask why. They also know better than to look happy for me.
I'm supposed to be happy on my wedding day. My wedding. I'm getting married today. My life is happening to me without me making any decisions of my own. No matter how I grasp and stretch and struggle, control is still out of reach. Thinking about it is enough to make my heart race. Blood rushes in my ears, drowning out the murmurs from the maids as they ask to pass the hairpins and spray.
I almost wish Christian had killed me along with my parents. Why did he bother leaving me alive? To use me this way? Like a dress-up doll he could push around.
“You're beautiful,” one of the women murmurs. I glance up at her, and she offers what I'm sure is meant to be an encouraging smile. I can't muster up one in return, though I wish I could. It's not her fault.
“I have the dress.” Cynthia's voice almost sounds foreign. She's fighting back emotion. What must this be like for her? I can't believe I'm even asking myself that. Why should I care what this is doing to her? She could have told me so many times who she really is. I might have had time to process the shock.
