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Aurora’s words rang in her ears as Manuela’s father approached her. She couldn’t even resent him, hate him for the way his weaknesses had trapped her. How in the end she’d been the one to pay for his shortcomings.
“I am proud of you, Manuelita,” Don Prospero told her as he wound her arm through his and they began making their way down the aisle. The mostly empty church seemed unbearably sad. Desolate, like the building itself sensed the wretchedness of the occasion.
She’d never truly dreamed of a wedding. It had been one of those fantasies that never quite fit the reality of what she thought was possible for her. But she’d always loved a celebration.
She thought of Cassandra’s home, of the friends she gathered there, who had become each other’s family. Of Cassandra and Frede and the other couples she’d met, who seemed bonded in a much more lasting, loving way than many of the society marriages she knew. She thought of the women she’d met who had walked away from fates like the one she was throwing herself into. Because shewasthrowing herself away. Allowing her parents’ selfishness and Cora’s ruthlessness to rob her of hope. She was using their carelessness with her as an excuse to give up on herself. She looked up at her father, searching for even a glimpse of warmth, of sympathy, but she knew there was nothing there to find.
“What is it that you’re so proud of, Father?” she asked, feeling fury and resentment surge in her. “Of my docility while you sell me off?” Her father was much too callous to bristle and only offered her one of those paternal smiles people perceived as loving but had only ever been used to manipulate and emotionally truss Manuela up.
“I’m proud of you for accepting your place, your purpose in this world. Look at that so-called duchess. Women who think they can curtail the ways of the world end up becoming heartless bitches.” His mouth twisted in repulsion at the idea of a woman aspiring for the same rights he enjoyed. How had Manuela ever thought this man was worth sacrificing herself for? “Women can’t ignore the rules of men. You have a function in our family, and you are fulfilling it.” The heartlessness of his words managed to chip away at some of the ice around her heart.
Just because the society she’d been born to condemned her for who she was didn’t mean she had to live her life as if she deserved their scorn. Cassandra, Frede, Patricia, Celestine—all of them were there as proof that leaving all this hate and judgment behind was not an end but a beginning, and Manuela deserved a life where she could be herself and be loved for it.
She wasn’t dead inside. She was in pain, she was heartbroken. But pain meant healing could happen, that her spirit was still fighting to live.
As they made their way down the aisle, her blood pumped hot in her veins, her heart forcefully reminding her that there was life in her, that she still had choices, even if they were incredibly hard ones.
Cora did not want her. Cora had chosen her place in the world she detested over her own happiness. But Manuela didn’t have to make the same choice.
The priest asked something of her father, and he answered, nudging her toward Felix, who took her gloved hand in his. He always looked at her like she was a very pretty curiosity in a museum. A rare, exotic artifact to keep on a shelf while he lived his own life however he chose.
“Estas bien?” he inquired, and she nodded numbly. Was she truly going to do this? Her pulse raced, as if her body was trying to make her do what her mind kept talking her out of.
Aurora reached for her then, and Manuela started, then realized her friend was waiting to be handed the posy of white hothouse orchids Manuela had in her hands.
By the time the priest’s mouth began to move, Manuela could barely see as her mind reeled with the prospect of what she was about to commit to. Endless days of lonely misery, years and years of pretending.
But could she truly walk away? If she ended this, she would be disgraced. Her parents would almost certainly disown her. She could never return to Venezuela or the Dominican Republic without a shadow cast over her. She would be a pariah. Her name would be tainted, never spoken out loud in the decent homes of Caracas and Santo Domingo.
If she left Felix at the altar, the Manuela who had walked into this church would be dead. But wouldn’t this marriage be another kind of death? And she knew she wouldn’t be alone. Aurora and Luz would never abandon her. Then there was Cassandra and Claudine. She could live in Montmartre, teach at Pasquale’s like he’d offered. She could sell her art. She could be free. Brokenhearted, alone, let down by the one she loved, but free.
She turned to Aurora, who looked miserable in the lavender dress Manuela’s mother had insisted she wear. But the moment her eyes landed on her, her friend roused in alertness. Before she could talk herself out of it, Manuela mouthed the wordsI can’t.
Felix squeezed her hands, aware something was wrong.
“I can’t do this,” she whispered to him and then said it louder so the priest could hear. “I can’t marry you, Felix.” She heard a cry from the pews and assumed her mother had realized what Manuela had done. But when she turned around, she saw Consuelo was facing away from the altar, her fingers pointing at the person who had just burst through the doors of the church.
Manuela heard who was causing her mother’s agitation before she saw her.
“Manuela, you can’t marry him,” Cora shouted, before she began to make her way up the aisle. Manuela began shaking so hard her legs could barely hold her up. But before she could collapse, Aurora was there, whispering in her ear that everything would be all right, offering her an arm to lean on. On her other side was Apollo, who kept his attention focused on Felix, who was now hurrying down the aisle to confront Cora.
“What is the meaning of this?” Felix demanded, while the guests milled around her mother, who had fainted in her pew.
“You can’t have her,” Cora shouted, standing to her full height. “She doesn’t love you.” She was shorter than Felix by a few inches, but somehow she seemed to tower over him.
“I don’t care how she feels,” Felix countered, finally showing his true colors. “I paid for this wedding, and by God, I will see it happen.”
Cora lunged forward, her hands fisted at her sides. Her eyes burning with menace, like she intended to strike him down. The controlled duchess Manuela had gotten to know in the last month was now this unraveled, desperate woman. “You will marry her over my dead body,” Cora shot back.
“I beg to differ,” Felix retorted coolly. “She cost me a fortune, and I plan to recoup my investment.” That was when Manuela had enough. She wasn’t a rag doll to be fought over.
“Cora, what are you doing here?” she asked, stepping around Felix, who stared at her with disdain.
She expected to be confronted with defiance, for the Duchess of Sundridge to demand her wishes be listened to. But this Cora was not the imposing duchess who had shown her Paris or the sophisticated lover who had made her body throb with pleasure. This disheveled woman with haunted eyes and trembling hands was as far from any of that as anyone could be.
“He doesn’t deserve you,” Cora said, taking Manuela’s hand.
The words made her angry. Because even now, Cora chose control over simply admitting her feelings. She’d come here not to tell Manuela she loved her but to convince her this was for her own good. This was what it would always be with Cora. Manipulating any situation to make herself appear stronger. Even when she looked utterly done in, when she was making a scene, she was still trying to deflect that her own feelings were involved. The Duchess of Sundridge could never act out of passion—she was only doing her duty.
