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“Actually, yes.”
We keep walking and walking. This house never ends!
“What else, is she an Oxford University alumni?” I laugh at my own words. God, this is so stupid.
“King’s College. She has a master’s in business.” Her correction lets me know my humor isn’t welcome here. So I shut up for the time being.
“Ah, here we are.” Big white doors tower over us. The way she opens the door is as if we’re inPride and prejudice. Both her hands open them, letting a wave of air rush toward us. The whole house smells like old oak and expensive perfume.
“Eduardo, we have a guest.” Aline walks toward the side of the room, blowing out a candle.
I’ve never seen him before; his back is facing me. He turns to look at his wife before he sees me. His face contorts into too many emotions to describe.
He looks like me, the spitting image of me, just with no hair.
God, that must have broken my mother. I’m the spitting image of her rapist.
It seems like he can’t walk. Because when his wife goes over to him, she helps him into a cushioned armchair.
“I never thought you would come,” he tells me.
“I didn’t either.”
Eduardo lets out a grunt before he’s plopped onto the chair.
“I’ll give you guys some privacy.”
“Thank you,amoreco,” Eduardo responds before sending a kiss to his wife with his hand. She returns it before closing both doors simultaneously.
A shiver of disgust runs up my spine at all the lovey-dovey shit.
“Let me guess, arranged marriage?”
He lets out roaring laughter at my comment. “No, actually love.”
“Shocking,” I let out before stuffing my hands in my pockets, observing my surroundings.
My eyes are immediately met with a stark white landscape.
It’s as if the very essence of opulence has been crystallized within these walls. The room exudes an air of wealth, the kind that screams excess and privilege. Every inch is meticulously designed to showcase the trappings of luxury. The pristine white walls are adorned with tasteful, yet ostentatious, art pieces. Portraits of distant ancestors, their eyes cold and detached, stare down at me as if mocking my status of being the bastard of the family.
The marble floors, polished to a mirror-like shine, reflect the glimmering chandelier hanging from the high ceiling. Its crystals sparkle with a brilliance that seems almost blinding. Plush, oversized furniture in lustrous white fabric dominates the space.
The couches are so large that someone could easily lose themselves in the cushions.
The softness beneath my fingers feels almost mocking, a reminder of the comfort I was once denied.
It’s laughable at this point.
I find myself repulsed by the extravagance, knowing that this excess could have been used for so much more than mere indulgence.
A faint musk, the scent of wealth trapped in an old house, permeates the space. It’s a reminder that even the most lavish surroundings can’t escape the passage of time and even a crime.
What happened to my mom is a crime, one that he should pay for. But he got away with it and now he has the nerve to want to see me.
The dankness seems to mock me, a reminder that wealth can crumble just as easily as it can be amassed. As I take in the room, I can’t help but feel a surge of bitterness rise. The sight of such opulence, the embodiment of the life I was deprived of, stirs a deep resentment.
The wealth on display here was not earned but bestowed, handed down through generations of entitlement. It was ripped away from me in my youth, a cruel twist of fate that left me scarred.
