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"What is it?" I take in her features. "Tell me, wife."
"It’s… " She opens her mouth then shuts it. "Nothing." She squares her shoulders. "I’d better go get this over with."
71
Mira
My heart feels like a sledgehammer. My ribcage trembles with each beat.Am I nervous about meeting my stepmother? What do you think? And I shouldn’t be, really. They can’t hurt me. No, strike that. They can hurt me, but it’s time I learn how to deal with it. Besides, they don’t know anything about me. So what, if I grew up under the same roof as my half-sisters? They’ve spent their lives pretending I don’t exist. That's when they weren't making fun of me. As for my stepmother… Does she hate me? Boy, does she.
She sees me as a threat for my father’s affections, and I don’t know why, considering my father has found it difficult to look at my face since my mother’s death. I know, I remind him of her. He’s said so on a few occasions, in the days he’d make an occasional appearance in my life. But it must have been too distressing for him, given how he blocked me out of his life.
So why do I feel so duty-bound toward him? Why is it, I felt as if I were the one responsible for doing what was needed to help his business? It's what my mother would have wanted. Given she died giving birth to me, it’s not a conversation I’ve ever had with her, but if she’d been alive, I know she’d have wanted me to fulfill my obligations of a daughter.
She’d have also wanted me to be happy.
Perhaps,she’d have stood up for me and convinced my father not to go through with the tradition of an arranged marriage for me. Or maybe not, considering she and my father had an arranged marriage, too, and they were very happy, by all accounts. And seeing my stepmother and half-sisters has only brought home all the insecurities I grew up with.
But I'm stronger than that now. Ihaveto be. And it’s best to face them now and get it over with. I begin to wipe my damp hands down my dress, then stop. The last thing I want to do is stain the fabric. When I chose it earlier, I thought—no, I knew— it looks good on me. I like how the silk clings to my curves, how it outlines my hips and stretches across my thick thighs. How it bares my neck. I knew it would capture his gaze and focus it on my figure.
I wore it because a part of me wanted to bask in his admiration. I wanted to flaunt my size sixteen figure knowing he loves it. He’s told me so often enough that, for the first time in my life, I'm secure about how I look. I no longer watch what I eat. I don’t berate myself for not working out every day at the gym. For the first time since I can remember, I like what I see in the mirror. And it's because of him.
The way Eddie touched me and kissed me and worshipped my body. The way he hasn't wanted to allow me out of his sight since the first day he saw me… Yes, it's obsessive, but it's also flattering. So, flattering. So, gratifying… So, pleasing that he loves me for what I am. He doesn't want me to change. He hasn't demanded anything I can’t give him…
He's the first man to adore my lush figure. The first to relish my size sixteen curves. He tied me up before he fucked me. He loves how my flesh embraces the knots. He was aroused by the marks left on my hips and my thighs by the cords. He was fixated on me, but then, I’d rather he be infatuated by me and consumed by me than by anyone else. I’d rather he dominate me than any other woman.
He loves me. And I don’t want any other woman to occupy this space in his life. I’d rather he focus all of his considerable attentiveness on me. That his scrutiny stops and ends with my face, my body, my soul. He's mine. I'm his. And I love him. I don’t want anyone in my life, except him. He loves me. He wants me. He finds me beautiful… More than that, he thinks I am the most alluring woman in the world.
And that gives me the courage to walk up to the women who’ve been responsible for so much of the sadness in my life. They fall quiet as I approach. And when I reach them, all three of them stare at me. They take in my dress, Chanel, and my heels, Balenciaga. Eddie filled my closet with only the best brands, all inmysize. And while I could have been churlish and not accepted any of it, they looked so appealing, and they looked so good on me. I may be stubborn at times, but I'm not stupid.
Maybe, he's doing it to win me over, but I'm confident it's also because he loves how I look in them. His adoring gaze when he saw me was everything. His possessive touch as he helped me with the coat, and later, helped me remove it, gives me the wherewithal to hold out my hand to my stepmother. "Matilda."
Her eyebrows rise, and she seems taken aback by my confidence. She ignores my hand and continues to study me. I place my left palm on my hip, and her gaze widens. She sees my engagement and wedding rings—good. It’s the first time I’m meeting her without a trace of nervousness—because, you know what? Somewhere on the walk over, as my mind went over how much my husband cherishes me, my uncertainty faded away, leaving in its place, a quiet belief in myself.
That’s what Edward has done for me. He helped me find myself. All it took was my husband showing me how much he values me, how much he wants me, how he sees me as everything he needs, for me to find my trust in myself. Seeing myself through his eyes gives me the self-assurance I thought I’d never find. He's helped me find my faith. He’s changed my life. He’s shown me I'm not less than anyone else. He’s taught me to love myself, and as a result, I've learned how to accept love. And for that, I'm willing to give him a second chance.
“Mirabelle.” My stepmother looks past me, in the direction of my husband, before turning her gaze on my features. “I suppose congratulations are in order on your nuptials?”
I lock my fingers together.I will not be nervous. I will not allow the memories of all the way she’s insulted me over the years to get to me.
When I was a kid, and I found out she was my new stepmother, I was so excited. I threw myself into her arms when my father introduced her, and she played along. She pretended to care for me, long enough to win my father over. Enough to worm herself into his affections, enough to make him trust her to look after me while he was away on work.
It was only later, I realized, she found ways to isolate me from him. She’d worked herself into a place where most of my father’s communication to me came through her, where he never had the opportunity to see me or hear from me directly. I felt so lonely. Even more so, once my half-sisters came along. I'd thought it would be wonderful to have sisters, but she shut me out.
She turned all her attention to them, and while she put me in the care of a string of nannies, she made sure none of them stuck around long enough for me to form a bond with them. In a way, it turned out to be a blessing, of sorts, for the women she chose to care for me were not exactly affectionate.
I ended up missing my mother so much, I turned to food to make up for the lack of love in my life. I was trying to fill the mom-shaped hole in my life with the rush of endorphins that came from filling my stomach. It’s also when I decided I wanted a family of my own. Children I could love and make up for the lack I had in my own life.
“Uh, is that your engagement ring?” Eleanor, my older half-sister, grabs my hand. I try to pull away, but she tightens her hold on me. She peers at my finger and sniffs. “Nice stone, but why isn’t it a diamond?”
“I like it.” I yank at my hand again, and this time, she releases it.
She tosses her hair over her shoulder. “Of course, it was an arranged marriage, so love wasn’t part of the equation.” Her voice is disdainful.
Heat flushes my cheeks. My stomach twists.My husband loves me. He does.She doesn’t know what goes on in my marriage. I open my mouth to tell her off, when a server comes by with a tray of hors-oeuvres. I reach for it, and Kate, my younger half-sister, exclaims, “Oh, honey, are you sure you want to eat that?”
Eleanor takes one of the fried mozzarella sticks from the server’s tray and bites into it. “It’s soo good.” She smacks her lips. “But you shouldn’t eat it; it has too many calories.”
My guts churn. My pulse rate spikes. A crawling sensation pricks my skin, and I retract my hand. Eddie’s appreciation of my curves made me so comfortable in my own skin that I forgot I hate eating in front of others.
