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“I don’t know.” She took a step back and eyed me, her champagne flute resting against her chin while she studied me. “She doesn’t have the grace to pull this gown off.”
Thank fuck.
My relief was short-lived because a moment later that dress was being stripped off of me and another just as terrible was being put on. Part of me wondered if that was her plan. If she was intentionally putting me in tacky dresses so that it was easier for her to upstage me. She would whisper to her friends about how she had tried to talk me out of the avant-garde dress into something more timeless, but her willful, artistic daughter just wouldn’t listen.
She would shame me and make herself the victim in one sentence.
With each dress I tried on, the more I was sure that was the case, and that hurt more than all the digs about my body or my complexion. No one could carry off a white so bright it made my eyes hurt and every pimple, line, and pore I didn’t even have stand out.
“None of these dresses are right. Maybe you just can’t carry off a couture gown. What I ever did to get such a homely daughter, I will never understand,” she slurred.
“Maybe if we look at a silhouette that is a bit more classical, a mermaid or trumpet perhaps?”
The assistant next to me started nodding and went to pull something from the rack.
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Mother said, fire in her eyes. “You already lost a much better match. I doubt this Manwarring will care how you look at the altar. He just cares how you look on your knees.”
“Mother…” I warned.
“No, you are a disappointment. Dubois would have done so much more for this family, but you have to be too much of a fat, slutty cow to secure a good match. You threw away the life I handed you, now look at you.” She motioned to me with her champagne flute, sloshing champagne over me and the dress. “Now your sister will be forced to make an even better match to cover up that you’re the shame this family endures.”
The last one crossed the line.
“I am not the one who lost Mr. Dubois. He was at the altar about to say ‘I do’ when you stopped the wedding. Whatever Mr. Manwarring said to you had nothing to do with me. I am being used to pay for whatever sins are in your closet,” I said, slipping out from the now stained dress. I grimaced at the girl who brought a hoop skirt for me to step into for the next one.
“You think you get to talk down to me like that?” She sauntered to me, stumbling a bit, her words slurring even more.
I’d assumed she was too drunk to do much damage, so I didn’t see her hand fly through the air until it slammed into my face hard enough to throw me so off balance that I fell off the pedestal and landed hard on my hands and knees.
“You are nothing but a whore who can’t keep her legs closed. I don’t know what I did to be cursed with such a willful slut of a daughter. Your father is ashamed of you.”
She hovered over me.
The boning in the corset was digging into my sides, and tears were spilling down my cheeks as she placed her stiletto on top of my hand. The sharp pain made me cry out and I gripped her ankle in my free hand, trying desperately to pull my trapped hand out from under her.
“Get off,” I begged. The heel of the shoe was sharp, and she dug it between the knuckles of my middle and index fingers. “Please, you’re hurting me.”
“No, you will learn your place. It’s here under my fucking shoe.”
“Mother, please.” Rose tried to interrupt, and she threw her champagne glass at her, shattering it on the wall above her head.
“Don’t you dare start. You’re just as ungrateful as your sister! Why did I have to be burdened with two ugly, ungrateful daughters? The rest of my life has to be spent making sure you two don’t become even larger burdens to your father and I.”
“I’m not yours anymore. In a few months I won’t be an Astrid. I won’t be your burden.” I kept trying to pull my hand out or move her, but she leaned heavily on the shoe that was close to puncturing my hand.
“I don’t give a fuck what your last name is, or how you let that man debase you. Your loyalty is to this family first, your children second, and then your husband. You will always answer to me first.” She pressed down harder, and I couldn’t hold back the cry of pain.
The door flew open, and my father, soon-to-be husband, and father-in-law all came in holding papers before my mother could say something else.
“Get out!” she screamed, lifting off my hand, and I crawled back, cradling my hand to my chest. “You can’t be in here. She isn’t decent, and it’s bad luck to see the dress?—”
“What the fuck is going on here?” Luc demanded, staring daggers at me.
I tried to cover as much of myself as possible with my hands and duck my head so he couldn’t see the tears or the burning handprint on my face.
One sideways glance at one of the many mirrors confirmed my state—the bright red marks on my face and hand, mascara running down my cheeks, my hair fallen from the clip.
In short, I was a mess.
