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We sit down at a long table after a day full of festivities and celebrations. This day hasn’t been as bad as I expected yet, but I think with us all sitting down together, it is going to get much worse. It has been mostly cocktails and passed hors d’oeuvres with much of the house open to all the guests to mingle and roam free, many choosing to take a dip in the pool or soak up the sun and get a tan poolside. It is Brazil, after all, the perfect place for that. And my parents have remained on the subject of their trip to Costa Rica, only barely acknowledging Presley’s presence at my side other than my mother who keeps showing baby pictures to her like any normal mother would. But there is something off about this.
The table is dressed up to the nines, almost as beautiful as my wife whose ears are dripping in rubies that match her ring that I spent a pretty penny on. Her dress fits her skin tight and is gorgeous but conservative enough still to please the company. Everyone has mentioned how lovely she looks, even my father whose eyes wondered a little too much for my liking.
But that has been it until now.
Souffle is placed in front of each one of us as well as the finest champagne for toasting. I can tell by the scent of it that it has hints of strawberry and rose petals. They cracked open the good stuff for this.
My father, at the head of the table, raises his gold-rimmed glass in a toast to himself and family. It is total bullshit because he mostly loves to hear himself speak.
“I want to make this toast to our beautiful home here in Brazil. Even if this is not the place my wife and I envisioned on our wedding day, it is a gorgeous one with many beautiful things to love. I also want to toast to the many years of marriage she has stuck by my side and been the perfect wife. And I want to toast to the Dalca family and its legacy; may it continue throughout the generations until the end of the world and continue to grow in beauty and power,” he says, and no one even flinches at how offensive what he says is. I am almost certain it is aimed at me and my new wife, my wife who is Not Romanian. But for the sake of continuing the mood, I raise my glass as does my wife, and she is squeezing my thigh for a moment under the table as if she knows my anger might get the best of me without the reminder.
She is probably right about that too.
“So, you have to tell us, son, how the two of you met! It seems like such a whirlwind romance, and neither of us even knew you had gotten married. Your father didn’t believe it until he looked up your public marriage certificate!” my mother confirms with a laugh as if it is so funny and cute that my own father had to dig into public records to have confidence in what I said. Sure, the marriage was a fake when I mentioned it, but he should have known I do keep my word unless someone else breaks it first. So far, Presley has not forced that to happen.
“That’s because he had to marry a bratty slave girl instead of a nice, Romanian woman we picked out for him,” my father chimes in, and that’s when I put my drink down as not to choke on it. No one is supposed to know about that. I was more than careful, and I know for a fact Silva would never rat on me, especially to my father, which means my father has been having me spied on. I am not okay with this at all.
I look over at Presley who is red in the face, and I will not have her embarrassed like this.
I stand up, throwing my napkin down on the table without taking even a bite of my probably delicious dessert. For all I know it’s poison at this point. My family certainly is. “I want to say a happy birthday to my father, Luca, who continues to prove that he is the king of the jungle.” I raise my glass, trying to control my anger as I ball my other fist at my side. “I would love to stay longer, but I don’t feel like having my wife disrespected when she is an amazing and beautiful woman who offers so much more than any of those boring women you wanted for me ever could. I hope you understand if there is a grandchild that comes from this union, you will have nothing to do with him or her.”
I knock back the champagne and pull out Presley’s chair, offering my hand to her. She is slow and in shock as she moves out of the chair, and it is enough time for my father to get more of his searing words in.
“Oh, I would stay if I were you, because I am willing to bet my son has not revealed the whole story to you,brat.”I pull the runner off the table, making everything spill into my family’s laps unless they are quick enough leaping away.
My mother leaves the room out of sheer embarrassment, not trying to defend me or my wife at all. No surprise there. “He is only angry because I am telling the truth,” my father baits, looking at Presley. Her body is situated towards the door, but her head is looking at him like she doesn’t know if she wants him to continue.
“C’mon, Presley, we can talk about this at home, you don’t have to put up with this.” She pulls her hand away and looks at me with an apology in her eyes.
“I want to hear it. And then I will go home,” she tells me before turning to Luca full on. “But I will not be disrespected. I am no brat and no slave. And I am not afraid of you nor do I care what you think of me,” she tells him, and while I feel proud of my wife, I know that if he knows as much as he is letting on, I may not get to take her home with me after all.
“My son is nothing if not predictable in his sick ways. He has orchestrated this whole thing, from the moment of your capture until now because he wanted you specifically. He thought you were someone he could manipulate and win over because of your family and your status. He had an associate drug and capture you and put you on that boat where you became a sex slave. He came only to buy you and never intended on telling you the truth, isn’t that right?” He is looking right at me with a smug grin on his face as the others at the table are in various states of shock. I am seeing red and pull out my knife as a threat. Not that I mean to actually harm my own parents, but this is so fucked up I can’t control my temper right now.
But then a woman comes around the corner out of the shadows, and I recognize her as Mrs. Richards; Presley’s mother.
“It’s time to come home, Presley,” she coaxes, and Presley looks at her and then looks back at me, tears welling up in her eyes. The world stands still at that moment because not only do I know immediately that I have lost her, but it is the first time my heart truly beats for her. I know now just as I am watching her walk away from me without looking back again that I love her and that she cared for me enough to be hurt by finding this out about me. And now I don’t know what I am going to do without her.
