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Anne grabs Lina’s hands. “You poor, poor thing.”
Even as Lina keeps a straight face, her gaze drops to the floor.
“There’s nothing poor about Lina,” I say with a pointed look.
“Don’t be an idiot, Damian. Look at her.”
“I am looking at her.” My tone is cool, but if Anne were wise enough to have looked into my eyes, she would’ve been frightened.
“Let me go get you a wrap, Lina,” Anne offers, already taking a step toward the stairs.
“Lina doesn’t want a wrap.”
Anne stops dead. “You’re not serious.”
“Are you cold, Lina?”
Her voice is flat. “No.”
I address Anne. “No wrap.”
“You’re an asshole,” Anne spits out.
Amused at her outburst, I cock a brow. “What for?”
“For letting her walk around like this.”
Next to me, Lina stands as still as a mannequin.
My amusement fizzles into anger. “Like what?” When she doesn’t answer immediately, I repeat, “Like what, Anne?”
“Like this,” she says, waving a hand at Lina’s arm.
“Say it,” I challenge.
Anne stares at me with spite. She knows it’s a chess mate move. If she says my wife is disfigured, I’ll throw her out of my house in front of all these guests.
It’s Lina who speaks. “Scars. They’re called scars, and they’re ugly. It’s okay. You can say it.”
Zane appears as if from nowhere, his face flushed when he takes in our exchange. Our non-verbal language must say it all.
He grips his sister’s arm. “Come on, Anne.”
Shooting Lina another pitying look from over her shoulder, Anne walks away with swaying hips. The walk is understated, just suggestive enough to exude sexual confidence without seeming obvious, but I see it for what it is. It’s a show-off. It’s a walk of feminine victory.
The rest of the evening is a nightmare to get through. I don’t let go of Lina once. We drink together. We eat together. If I have to speak to someone, she listens. She doesn’t participate in any of the conversations, but she replies to all the questions my guests direct at her. The few journalists I’ve allowed, take pictures. I wanted this event to be all over the newspapers, but I haven’t anticipated the angle the articles are going to take. If Lina is to survive this, she’s going to have to face the music and dance like she doesn’t give a fuck.
I make sure she eats enough and drinks lots of water, even if I have to force it on her. It’s close to three in the morning when the bitter-enders leave. The first thing Lina does when the front door closes on the last person’s back, is kick off her new shoes, right there in the entrance. It’s an act I find strangely endearing. It’s homely in a normal kind of way, as if we’re just another couple who’ve thrown a party. When she heads straight upstairs, I don’t stop her. I follow.
All the tenseness is back in her body the minute we walk over the threshold. Crossing her arms over her chest, she walks to the window, staring out at the night.
“Lina.”
She doesn’t acknowledge me.
I move until I stand close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her skin. I’m not going to pretend the scars aren’t there. Just like covering them up, ignoring them will only make the matter worse. “What happened?”
She turns her head a fraction to the side, but doesn’t look at me.
Sweeping her hair over her shoulder, I run my hand along the curve of her neck, repeating the question that has been tormenting me all night. “What happened, Lina?”
A sigh pops like a fragile soap bubble from her lips. No comment. It’s the only answer she’s prepared to give me.
How deep does her self-destructive tendencies go? I can’t afford to let her off the hook. “Did you cut yourself?”
Her shoulders droop in a gesture that looks a lot like disappointment. “You heard what they said.”
Tightening my hold on her shoulder, I turn her around. “I don’t give a fuck about what they said.”
She blinks up at me. She’s pulled so deep into herself again not even the unexpected movement brought on by my outrage against everyone who’d judged her invites a response.
Desperate for a reaction, any reaction, I give her a gentle shake. “It doesn’t define you.”
Her chosen reaction is compassion. She looks at me with fucking pity, as if I’m the one who’s been done in. “It’s who I am.”
“Damn right. You own those scars. Do you hear me?” Never mind how she earned them. I won’t allow her to hide them again. “You own them. There’s no need to be ashamed.”
“Have you taken a good look?” She holds out her arm. “They make me sick. They make everyone sick.”
“Not me.”
She looks away, avoiding my words and any possible meaning they could carry. The power game of punishment I was playing with the red dress wasn’t supposed to turn out like this. “You should’ve told me, Lina.”
