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I have to leave him behind, because apparently, Ben is allergic to cats. Yet another reason why our pairing was a match made in hell.
I feel like a complete zombie, not wanting to move at all from my spot in my bed. Couldn’t I just get married here? In my robe with my curtains drawn closed?
Every so often, my mother comes around with a glass of water for both Etta and I, forcing it down our throats until the entire thing is gone. She alternates this every half hour with espressos.
It makes me roll my eyes.
“Antonella, stop with the attitude. If I see you roll your eyes one more time, I’m going to give you something to cry about.”
Fury burns in my gut. “You want me to pretend to be happy? Like you did on your wedding day? Just sit here and take it? Yeah, no thanks.”
She doesn’t bother with a rebuttal, simply walking out of the room with both glasses in hand.
I hate how she treats me. Like a child that needed to be locked away inside a tower until it was convenient for my family to rip me out of it. I know her mother did the same to her.
It’s a vicious cycle.
Daughters are never more than pawns in their fathers’ wicked games.
The second I had gotten home from meeting Ben, I’d sought her out. Hoping, stupidly, for some advice, or even for her to see that this entire ordeal needed to be called off.
I remembered from her stories that she had been in the same position as me once upon a time. But not once did she ever validate my feelings. Instead, she told me that this is the fate the women in our family must endure—as we always have.
It made me cry. I’d begged her, but nothing changed. She refused to go to my father and bring up anything that might irritate him, forfear of the consequences.
Eventually, I get extracted from my bed so they can do my makeup and hair. Two things that I normally love to do, but are now soured by the occasion.
I watch my makeup artist work her magic. She’s a pretty girl with a slim build. Her dark eyes roam over my face while she paints my skin. Her blonde hair is a honey color that makes me envious. I’ve always wanted to go blonde, but I don’t have the skin tone for it. Black hair suits me better.
When she finishes, she spins me around on my stool so I can see my reflection in the vanity.
“What do you think?”
I try to smile at her, more than aware that I look like a younger version of my mother all dolled up like this. My worst nightmare was becoming her.
And I feel like history is repeating itself.
“It’s lovely. Thank you,” is all I can say.
“Antonella,” my mother interrupts us, her reflection coming over to stand behind mine. “We need to get you in your dress.”
I scowl, wanting to plant my feet in the plush carpet beneath my seat and not move.
My makeup artist glances between us, seeing our silent stare-down happening in the mirror.
She clears her throat. “Miss Ambrosino, can I grab you a glass of seltzer water from downstairs?”
Not trusting myself to speak, I nod at her and fist my hands around my silk robe. She bows and heads out of my room, her honey-colored hair bouncing against her shoulders as she moves.
“Up, please. We need to get you to the chapel.” My mother waves her hand at me in the mirror.
I sigh and stand. There are a few people scattered around my room, all of them springing to action as soon as I’m on my feet.
I’m fitted into my gown quickly. I don’t hate it, but it’s not my style. It’s more of a princess gown, and not what I would have preferred—which would’ve been something fitted to hug my curves.
The girl that did my makeup comes back with a glass of water that I take greedily hoping it will help my pounding headache.
Once I’m dressed, I get whisked away to the limo waiting for me downstairs.
