by Mason, V. F.
My fingers are trembling writing this entry as tears drip down on the paper, smearing the ink and making the words a jumbled mess, but I don’t care.
If I do not express my feelings here, where can I do it?
My first date several months ago with my prince was magical.
When he brought me back home, I was so nervous, glancing at him every other second, wondering if he would kiss me while he kept his gaze on the road, his muscled hand gliding smoothly over the steering wheel, which only added to the heat spreading in my veins.
He stopped the vehicle abruptly to my shocked gasp and then shifted to me, wrapping his hand around my neck and dragging me closer to him, connecting our mouths in a kiss.
The kiss solidified the beginning of something new.
“You are mine now, Evangeline, right?” he asked me between the kisses, his hands sliding from my shoulders to my waist. “Say it.”
“Yes,” I whispered, giggling softly when his lips traveled to my neck and he nipped on my flesh.
Finally, we arrived at my house. He parked the car on the side, because I didn’t want my mom seeing us arriving so late. By my estimation, she was already in bed, and with one last kiss and a promise to meet the next day, I snuck inside through the back door, only to come to a halt when Mom turned on the lights, blinding me for a second as she greeted me in the kitchen.
“Mom!” I exclaimed, placing my hand on my chest. “You scared me.”
Instead of answering me, she sipped her coffee, and then said, “I do not like this boy.” A look I recognized well settled on her face, announcing to me my prince and our new relationship were in danger.
Disapproval.
“You haven’t even given him a chance, Mom.”
“Some men don’t need chances to see their true nature. Stay away from this boy.” She hissed out the order, put her mug in the sink, and pointed a finger at me. “I forbid it.” And she walked away before I could even object or remind her about being nineteen and not needing her permission for anything.
But then, should I be surprised?
After Dad’s death, Mom made it abundantly clear my wishes and desires matter very little… ever since money became tight, and she refuses to ask my rich grandmother for help. She says we have to choose our priorities.
And somehow, Esmeralda always ends up on top while I sit firmly at the bottom.
Just once, I crave to know what it’s like to be someone’s priority.
Someone’s number one, above all others.
And my prince is giving me that every single day, whispering loving words into my ears and taking me to do all the things I wanted but never dared before.
We continue our relationship despite my mom’s disapproval or the arguments because I refuse to pitch in as much as I used to.
I have a life too now.
And this life includes tickets to Hawaii my prince bought us and a few of my friends to celebrate my twentieth birthday. To Mom’s dismay, he is rich.
I deserve to be happy.
I deserve to be out on the town and enjoy this life to the fullest.
And if my mom cannot accept it, then so be it. Because it all comes down to the fact that she disapproves of my prince, who she hasn’t even bothered to get to know. My friends warned me parents start acting crazy once you get a man, but I always thought my mom, who faced so much shit from our grandmother, would never be so harsh on my choice.
What happened to my loving parent? What happened to me?
Sometimes, I don’t even recognize myself in my diary.
I used to be happy. Why do I sound so bitter now despite having my love with me?
May
Writing this entry on the plane is hardly comfortable, adding to the tears streaming down my cheeks, but that’s what I do anyway.
I’m flying to Hawaii in a few minutes, celebrating my birthday with my friends and their excited squeals as they sip the champagne my prince ordered for them.
Yet nothing but devastation fills my body, because I left the house after a huge argument and words that were more like arrows aimed to hurt my mom.
Our conversation didn’t go as I expected. She waited for me in the living room as I dragged my suitcase down and marched to the door. Despite it all, I felt like shit for being so rude to Mom and having all these arguments in the last months. They were so not like us. “Mom—”
Her warm arms wrapped around me, hugging me so close to her before I could even finish my sentence, her familiar scent enveloping me and calming some nerves inside me.
Returning her hug, I scrunched my eyes and exhaled in relief. “I love you, baby,” she whispered into my ear, patting my back.
“I love you too, Mom.” Leaning back, I grinned at her while Esme smiled from the couch, momentarily taking her gaze away from her sketches. “I’m sorry about everything.”
She palmed my head, rubbed my cheeks with her thumbs, and replied, “Me too.” A beat, and then she added, “I might disapprove of this young man, but it doesn’t mean you stopped being my little girl.”
Her statement felt like cold water sprayed over me, drenching me in ice and fury.
Stepping away from her, I uttered, “I love him, Mom.” She jerked at my words. “You will have to accept him.”
“I do not have to accept him. That man is dangerous!” She screamed the last part and then covered her mouth with her palm, regret filling her eyes as if she didn’t mean to say it.
Hysterical laughter spilled past my lips. “By all means, Mom, don’t hold yourself back. He is not trouble. You just can’t accept it, can you?” Her brows furrowed in confusion, so I elaborated. “I have a life that doesn’t involve you or Esme. I’m in love with an amazing man. And it scares you, doesn’t it?”
“Is this what you think of me?” Hurt laced her voice as she swallowed harshly. “That I object to this man because I don’t want to see you happy?” My silence must have spoken volumes, because she shook her head, tears forming in her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall. “The reason I object is because he is bad news.”
My prince who bestowed me with love, attention, and understanding didn’t deserve these insults, and after all the goodness he had shown me, I had to finally choose his side once and for all.
Maybe that’s how Dad felt all those years ago when he escaped the arranged marriage Grandma planned for him and chose Mom, essentially accepting being cut off emotionally and financially from his family.
Pain slashed my insides and, gripping the suitcase, I decided to dish out another punishment so maybe she would hurt as much as I did in that moment. “He asked me to move in with him, and I will say yes. Clearly, we no longer can exist in the same place.”
Esme jumped up from her seat, rushed to Mom, and hugged her hips, watching me accusingly, which only intensified the annoyance inside me. “You will still have your perfect child with you.”
And with those words, spinning around, I dashed toward the door and reached for the knob but paused with my back facing my mom, when she said, “Evangeline.” My heart beat rapidly in my chest as I refused to turn around and apologize for the outburst. “Don’t leave like this. We love you.”
I closed my eyes. “I love you too, but I love him as well. If you can’t accept him, then I’m afraid you pushed me into this choice, Mom.” With this, I walked out of my house and ran to my prince, who already waited for me by his car.
Which brings me to now.
My friends laugh happily, my prince rests his head on my shoulder, inhaling my scent, while Hawaii awaits me in mere hours.
Happiness should swallow me whole.
But instead, something else haunts my body, something unfamiliar.
A feeling of doom destined to come true no matter where I go.
But maybe that’s just guilt.
My prince’s hand rests on my knee, rubbing it gently, silently giving me his support, and it calms me a bit.
Because whatever the future holds for me… he’l
l stay by my side.
And that’s all that should matter, right?
Esmeralda
Dipping my brush into the blue paint, I’m ready to splash it on the canvas, when my doorbell rings and disrupts my plan, my brush grazing the canvas and smearing in the wrong place.
Huffing in exasperation, I drop it on the nearby table, grab a towel to wipe my hands, and walk out of my dark studio, scrunching my eyes at the blinding sun brightening up the entire living room of my house.
Studying my home for the hundredth time, I sweep my gaze lovingly over the spacious oval-shaped room with a fluffy white couch, three chairs, and a round table in the middle opposite the wall where one of my favorite paintings hangs, always reminding me why I bother to find new talents.
Simply put, art gives me life, and anyone who feels the same should have a chance to make a living at it.
The heavy bookshelf beginning in the left corner spreads across the wall and holds various limited-edition books from ancient myths and fairy tales to artistic style.
Purple, lilac, and white dominate the color scheme around me, and even the rug I found on one of the auction sites has traces of purple in it.
Don’t you dare color your hair, Esme. Do you hear me? I forbid it.
A smile curves my lips, and I touch a bit of my hair, imagining Grandmother’s face when she saw my pictures. Even if I didn’t love the color, I would have changed my hair just to spite her.
She might act like she doesn’t care about losing the connection with me, but in her warped way, she loves me—probably because compared to all her kids and grandchildren, I’ve actually done something she could be proud of… by her standards. She continues to invite me to all the family functions, and all her invitations stay unanswered. Which results in her threatening to write me out of her will and leave everything to charity, as if it would sadden me.
Maybe someone would finally be happy with the family money.
I might have forgotten the cane, the harsh words, even the coldness and demands to give our relationship a second chance.
But her treatment of people and the constant jabs at my parents, whose only sin was to love each other, was something I couldn’t pass by.
An arched door leads to the kitchen filled with the latest equipment that always shines under the light and showcases my reflection. This room brings peace to my heart since I love cooking, and that’s why I objected when a designer offered to remove the door between the living room and the kitchen.
My living room should smell only like the orchids always filling my vases and not like food; otherwise, the smells would slip under the door to my studio, and I wouldn’t be able to focus on anything.
My studio where all my work equipment is stored, and the only place I create, consists of several tables, some shelves, and lots of canvases lying all over the floor—either used or to be used—that mostly stay out of people’s reach. The designer tried to convince me to build a detached studio to the house rather than disrupt such a pretty room, as she said, but I found the idea idiotic.
I spend hours there, sometimes even all day and night. The last thing I want is to stroll through the garden to my house in the middle of the night.
The bedroom was the only place I didn’t object to her ideas, and she went all in, ordering a wide bed and even a vanity table, which only amused me.
If it wasn’t for showering, I would hardly spend any time in my room anyway. I can fall asleep anywhere, even on the floor.
Although my house is considered relatively small, according to some of my acquaintances, I love how it stands in the middle of the wide property, and that was the deciding factor in purchasing it.
The small garden with several types of rare flowers already planted brought a sense of peace to my soul and created an illusion of a protective balloon shielding me from the dangers lurking in the night.
The doorbell rings again, the annoying sound bouncing around the walls, and I mutter, “Clearly, it doesn’t stop people from coming here anyway.” Wrapping my hand around the doorknob, I raise on my tiptoes and glance into the peephole to see Lila standing on the other side. Surprised, I open the door. “Weren’t you here just yesterday?”
She grins at my question. “Hello to you too, darling.” She steps around me and comes inside, shaking a paper bag in the air as she passes me by, and heads straight to the kitchen. “I brought donuts.”
“Well, in that case, welcome,” I say, shutting the door and following her as we step inside the squarish space where the curtains billow with the breeze coming from the open window.
A slight shiver runs down my spine, and I rub my feet against each other before going to the kettle and turning it on as Lila drops onto the chair by the large, round table and puts the bag on it. “How are you?” she asks, resting her chin on her hand, scanning me from head to toe. “No lies.”
Taking out two mugs from the upper shelves, I place them on the small tray along with two plates before pouring tea in them. “Good.” A beat passes, and I look over my shoulder at her. “You dragged your ass all the way here to ask me this? You could have called.”
She chuckles. “Right, because you have such a good reputation for hearing the phone.”
The kettle whistles loudly, so I quickly snap it up to add the hot water into the cups.
Picking up the tray, I saunter toward her and settle it between us as I sit on the chair opposite. She takes out the donuts and drops them on the plates. “Lila.”
“Yes.”
“Why are you here?”
She might be more insistent than any other person in my life when it comes to conversations and meetups, but even she doesn’t stop by every day. Besides, the slight fidgeting of her fingers and her drumming on the table are a sign she finds something stressful, and this makes me suspicious. “Are you cancelling the wedding?” She blushes under my stare, and I groan into my hand.
My God, the stupid statue is going to stay in my warehouse forever. Why can’t these people stick to one wedding date? How hard is it to marry a man?
You go to the church, say yes, and voila, you’re married!
“No!” My brows furrow in confusion. “Okay, if you want me to be honest….”
“Please. I have a painting waiting for me in the studio, so spill the beans, woman.”
I grab the chocolate donut, ready to sink my teeth into the delicious pastry, when her words still my movements and speed up my heartbeat.
“Lucian. I came here to ask about your meeting and how it went.”
And just with his name alone uttered from her lips, she brings back last night so vividly in my head a hot flush spreads through me, reminding me of every touch, breath, kiss the man bestowed on me that set my blood on fire.
I squeeze the donut so hard the chocolate spills a little on my fingers, which once again flashes a memory of him licking his clean after he gave me my first real orgasm, because all the self-induced ones couldn’t even compare to that one.
Last night, after I ran away from him like a coward, I quickly hopped into a cab, and it drove me home in record time. Then I took a very long shower, hoping to calm the sensations filling me with some kind of unexplained frustration, but it didn’t help me much.
I spent the night tossing and turning, sweat covering my skin, while my thoughts were filled with the erotic images of Lucian doing things to me.
It seems once you open the flood gate of physical satisfaction and desire, it’s impossible to shut it down.
Giving up on sleep all together, I had some tea and decided to paint, which ironically ended up a great idea, because creativity just poured from me in streams.
However, I couldn’t reach that special place in my head where I store my art, because Lucian always managed to slip into my thoughts, making me question my actions and why I ran away from him.
Maybe instead of being a coward, I should have stuck around and finished whatever else he had in store to feed the hunger within me, and then we
would have gone our separate ways.
Based on his reputation, he has women falling all over him everywhere he goes, so he probably samples different flavors every other week.
Rage fills me, tasting bitter on my tongue, because the idea of another woman getting what belonged only to me yesterday brings out the worst in me, a need to claw her face, and his too while I’m at it.
How ridiculous is that?
He didn’t even mean that indirect offer of marriage that also occupied my mind, wondering if he was being truthful in that moment.
Men say all sorts of things during sexy times, right?
Lila sighs heavily, pulling me back into the present, and I blink at her. “Forgot I was here?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer and continues talking, “He called Eugene last night and said he would sponsor three scholarships.”
“That’s great.” I munch on my donut, too lost to say anything else, although warmth blankets my heart at hearing this. Does it mean he trusts my judgment?
She huffs, wrapping her hands around the mug and lifting it to her mouth. “Generosity is not one of his virtues. In fact, he has none of those.” She takes a sip while annoyance zaps through me at her criticism of him. “Everything he does has a purpose.” Sip. “If I had to compare him to a wild animal, it would be a lion. He sets his eyes on his prey, stalks it, until he kills it. Predator.”
“You have something against lions?” The beastly creatures have always had their special charms, although I wouldn’t wish to cross paths with any of them.
“No.” Sip. Sip. Sip. “What happened last night, Esme?”
I straighten at her ordering tone and lift my brow, because I no longer answer to anyone or feel the need to justify my actions.
She exhales heavily. “I’m sorry if it sounded harsh, but… ugh… Lucian is not a good guy, and I just want to make sure he didn’t hurt you.”
Laughter threatens to spill from my lips at how serious she sounds. “I appreciate the concern, but I’m not a child. He was fine, and we had a business dinner.” Which is true, but no way I’m admitting to what happened after. I don’t need her judgment added to the little self-loathing party going on inside me. “Did you sleep with him?” The words spill from my mouth before I can stop them, and I regret it right away.