by J. L. Beck
Copyright © 2020 by Beck & Hallman LLC
Editing by Kelly Allenby
Cover design by C. Hallman
Cover Image by Wander Aguiar
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
1. Celia
2. Nic
3. Celia
4. Nic
5. Celia
6. Nic
7. Celia
8. Nic
9. Celia
10. Nic
11. Celia
12. Nic
13. Celia
14. Nic
15. Celia
16. Nic
17. Celia
18. Nic
19. Celia
20. Nic
21. Celia
22. Nic
23. Celia
24. Nic
25. Celia
About the Authors
Also by the Authors
1
Celia
Marriage. A legal bond of love and the union of two people becoming one. For many women, it’s the greatest moment of their lives. It’s something they’ve dreamt about; the beautiful dress, the gorgeous venue, and a handsome prince charming who would swoop in and sweep them off their feet.
When I was a little girl, I had those same dreams. I thought I would marry for love. That my future husband would be my fierce protector, my knight in shining armor. It’s too bad that was all a lie.
As soon as I was old enough to realize that my life was never really mine, I let the idea of marrying for love go and accepted reality. Which leads me to my current predicament.
I have to marry this stupid man. It’s the only thing that echoes in my head as my fiancé sits beside me in my family’s dining room at dinner. Like always, no one speaks. The only sounds are the scraping of forks across porcelain and the occasional tinkle of ice when my mother lifts and lowers her whiskey glass. Her third since dinner began, if I’m counting correctly.
She’d gone all out for tonight’s meal. It was a rare occurrence that we ate dinner together. I spend most of my evenings propped against the kitchen counter as the chef tosses things on a plate for me to scarf down between my local volunteer appearances. I’ve never even seen this china set before. In fact, I didn’t even know we had any.
I glance over at my soon-to-be husband from under my lashes. He’s handsome enough, with high cheekbones, a sharp jawline, and soft black hair, but looks aren’t everything. At least not to me. We’ve only spoken a handful of times since my father cemented the Ricci and Gardello alliance a couple of weeks ago. An agreement hinging on me marrying Marco, the dumbest of the five Gardello brothers.
As a second son, he won’t be heir to his own family, but as the only child left to the Ricci’s, I suppose he becomes the successor to mine.
The thought causes bile to rise into my throat, and any appetite I had evaporates into thin air. My sister should do this—my beautiful, smart, brave older sister.
Pain slices through my chest at the reminder, and I spare a look at her empty chair on the other side of my mother. The one we’ve all been dancing around since her suicide six months ago.
Blinking back tears, I suck a breath into my lungs. I won’t cry in front of these people. It will only enrage my father and cause my mother to drink more. Then again, maybe I should. Marco needs to know what he’s getting himself into.
He blots the sides of his mouth carefully with a napkin and spins his own whiskey glass (neat) on the tablecloth. I’m stuck in a trance, wondering why my sister had to take her life. Why isn’t she here right now? Out of nowhere, Marco boldly turns to me. I feel his penetrating gaze on the side of my face. The heat of his stare traces the scar that bisects it from my mouth to my eyelid.
Usually, I couldn’t care less about my scar, but the way he gawks at it like it’s a two-headed dog, I hate it. I shift forward a little, letting my long brown waves slide into place. Like a curtain, it obscures not only my face but also the pink tinge in my ears, if the burning in my cheeks and neck is anything to go by.
“By the way, you look lovely tonight,” Marco compliments, while continuing to stare at me.
I barely keep from squaring my shoulders and preening under his gaze. He spoke louder than necessary, telling me he’s trying to show my parents how nice he will be to me once we marry. Once he has my trust fund. My life.
I’ll be like a dog, collared and cared for but never free. It’s hilarious that he even attempts to show interest, as if my father would change his mind. Maybe he cares, or maybe it’s just a ruse?
“Thank you,” I choke out, keeping my eyes trained in front of me.
“Celeste,” my mother hisses from across the table.
She’s the only person in the world who calls me by my full name.
My father simply calls me Girl, as he did my sister. No doubt, even twenty-odd years later, he’s still disappointed we aren’t boys.
Boys get names, girls get… well… married off to cement alliances.
I know what she expects from me, and I hate that in the next instant I turn in my chair and offer Marco a smile. As the only daughter left, I need to be good, to be here. Even when I want to be anywhere else. I have a duty to fulfill, an obligation, as my mother has called it many times over. I owe this to them, my parents, and family name.
“Thank you, I chose this dress because I thought you would like it.”
An outright fucking lie since my mother chose the almost indecently short red A-line dress with cap sleeves and a low-cut neckline. I prefer my slacks and silk blouse combo when I need to dress up. Not Marco, he likes his girls leggy, and since my five foot three frame didn’t lean toward leggy, my mother opted to show as much of my legs as possible and hope for the best.
As I sit here awaiting my fate, I feel like a head of cattle at auction. Any minute now, he will pin a tag to my ear and haul me off to the slaughterhouse. The thought makes me laugh, but I hide it behind my hand as I return to my dinner.
Marco clears his throat and continues to draw my parents into conversation. It’s hopeless, but I like to watch him flounder.
“How are the wedding preparations going? Is there anything I can help with?”
An actual conversation at dinner is a battle twenty years in the making for me. My parents don’t speak to each other unless absolutely necessary, and even then, it’s always to the point. There is no joy, no love, or happiness. Everything is stiff and cold. A family that is anything but a family.
Nevertheless, my mother has no problem speaking to Marco. “The planning is complete, my dear. As long as you two show up at the church on time, everything will be perfect.”
My mother plans parties like the CIA plans covert missions. By the end of the thing, someone’s likely eviscerated, and everyone wonders how it got pulled off. I knew my wedding day would be the same. Sadly, I wasn’t asked to pick flowers or even the cake. My mother did everything, even though it was my wedding. I try not to be bitter about it since, technically, this isn’t a marriage, but a business transaction. It’s easier to stomach if I think of it that way.
Marco reaches out and takes my hand from my wine glass, cupping it in his like a parent might hold a child’s. He gives the room a shining smile, and
I want to puke. “I’m so glad you ladies have everything in order. I know my mother has been up to her ears in decorating the home we’ll move into once we are married.”
I fight with the urge to rip my hand from his. Each of his clammy fingers digs into mine, applying pressure, and laying claim. Why he feels the need to do so here with only my parents watching, I can’t figure out.
I lift my chin and look up at him again. Oh. The pressure of his claim is for me. I was hoping, once we married, we might be friends. That I could go about my business, and he his, and that we would meet up for dinner on occasion. Sure, he’d have other lovers, something I wouldn’t be allowed, but we’d be on the same page. It would be more of a partnership than a decree.
But I can see by the look in his eyes, he won’t be happy until he has my complete submission—my money, my family name, my life as his own.
A tiny thing inside of me dies because, for the very first time since my sister’s death, I can see a glimmer of why she did it. Why she’d take her own life when she always had so much to live for. It wasn’t Marco they had betrothed her to, but his older brother, Antonio. Who walked away completely unaffected and was now engaged to the only Marino daughter. At this rate, the five families risked more cross-breeding than the royal families of Europe.
Marco stands abruptly and buttons his black suit jacket with a smirk. He saunters to the bar on the far side of the dining room like he already owns the place. I drop my gaze to my food once more. I should eat more, but I can’t stomach it right now. A moment passes, and he returns to his seat, grabbing my hand and pressing my fingers around an old-fashioned. I try not to cringe. I fucking hate rye whiskey.
Something he should know by now, since I declined his offer to make a drink for me when he first arrived. Not to mention I’ve told him at least three times since our marriage contract negotiations began. I’d much rather toss the drink in his face and retreat to my room, but that’s not an option. I don’t want to risk another scolding from my mother or a beating from my father, so I lift the drink to my lips and take a sip. I try to hide the sour face I’m making with a smile, but I can’t imagine it looks good.
I watch as he finishes his drink, and I abandon mine, placing it on the table next to my still partially filled plate of food.
“Would you like dessert, Marco?” My mother’s gaze flashes with disapproval as she looks down at my plate and back up at me.
“Oh no, I’m stuffed,” he declines and pats his stomach like a child.
Thank the lord. If I had to endure one more stiff minute of this meal, I was going to explode. Turning to me, he says, “Walk me out, Celia.”
Finally, something I am more than happy to do for him.
“I look forward to having you as my son-in-law,” my father says, shaking hands with Marco. Marco leans into my father’s ear and whispers something low. I shove from my chair and move to stand near the entrance to the dining room. Men’s conversations aren’t meant to be heard by women, so it’s best to stand and act like you hear nothing at all.
Once Marco pulls away, it’s a short walk through the foyer to the door, and I open it wide, resisting the urge to shove him out and slam it closed. I’ll have to get used to his presence since, in a short while, he’ll be my husband.
With a finger, Marco tilts my chin up, painfully, since he has almost a foot of height on me. For a moment, I think he might kiss me. Please don’t. Please don’t. Please don’t. I chant in my head. His lips tip up at the sides, almost like he knows what I’m thinking.
“I really think you could be exceptionally beautiful, Celia. Once we’re married, as my wedding gift to you, I’ll take you to this plastic surgeon I know. I’m sure they can do something about, well…” he breaks off, and I can feel the heat of his stare on my scar, “well, that.”
I blink because anything coming out of my mouth might spew lava along with it. It takes a bit of willpower to stop myself from lashing out at him, but somehow, I do. Forcing the corner of my lips up into a smile, I say, “I hope you have a wonderful evening, Marco. I’m sure without this scar, I will be much more beautiful.”
“I can’t wait for you to become my wife.” He smirks and then grabs my hand, placing a chaste kiss against the top. I stop myself from pulling away and merely nod, knowing that, if anything, I would wait a million years for us to marry.
Marco leaves a few moments later, and I shut the door behind him, nearly sagging against it. I take a couple of deep breaths and gather my wits. I’ll allow myself this one reprieve before I’m forced to mask my pain and put on a smile.
I suck one last calming breath into my lungs as I scrub a hand down my face and lift my chin. I might be drowning, but as long as a part of my head is still above water, I’ll continue on. I tiptoe past the dining room, hoping to escape without further notice. As soon as I reach the stairs, I race up them, stripping out of the itchy dress as I go. By the time I reach my bedroom door, the dress is off. I leave it in a heap near the door and slam the heavy wood behind me.
There, if one of them wants to come speak to me after that, at least they know what they are in for. The heels that I hate just as much as the dress fly across the room in opposite directions as I kick them off. Each of my toes ache, so I sit on the edge of the bed in nothing but my underwear and slip and rub some of the pain out of them.
It’s then that I notice the lights across the room in my bathroom and closet are on. The maids must have finished the packing they started yesterday and forgot to switch them off. The fireplace between the two doors is lit, the flames casting a soft warmth through the room.
The memories I made here with my sister threaten to bubble up, but I try to swallow them down with the rest of the people I have lost… too many in this life.
I experienced my first loss fifteen years ago. As I sit, my thoughts drift to the boy I thought I’d one day marry—Cici. The son of my father’s friend and business partner, of the now decimated Costa family. Cici had been my best friend for years, and then when I was only nine years old, he disappeared from my life forever. One day he was there, and the next, his entire family was targeted by a rival family and killed.
My father used it as a reminder to my sister and me of how quickly we can be taken away and why we should always listen and let him keep our family safe.
His safety net meant nothing to me, not after my sister died. Deep down in my heart, I knew if anyone should stand beside me in two days’ time at that church, it should have been Cici. It wasn’t going to be him, though; it was Marco, and I would just have to be content with settling. It’s the right thing to do, or at least that’s what I keep telling myself.
I close the little spot in my mind where I keep him. With my sister’s death so fresh, and my marriage looming, I can’t afford to indulge in frivolous fantasies. My childhood ended years ago. It’s time to move on. There is no point in dwelling on the past when there is nothing there to dwell on.
My head aches from the pins at the top where my mother’s stylist coiled some of my curls. I tug them out, massaging my scalp as I walk to the bathroom to wash my makeup off. One step inside, and I find it’s bare. The maids have already packed most of my toiletries away. The only things left on the sink are my toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthwash, and facial cleanser. It feels empty, and I’m reminded that my time here in this house is ending. It wasn’t always great, and there were a lot of horrible memories in this house, but this was the last place my sister was alive. Once I leave here, my life will never be the same.
I make quick work of washing my face. Each slide of the rag reveals another sliver of the real person beneath. With the makeup gone, I stare at myself in the mirror. Usually, I hate looking at myself, the scar being the only thing I see, but tonight, I see deeper than that.
Tears glisten in my eyes, and I blink them back. To dive into the water of my own personal issues and matters, no one has time for that, and even if I did, I have no solutions. I toss the rag in the sink and walk out o
f the bathroom to find a nightgown.
Most of my clothing is packed, as well as any other belongings. The only things left for me are a couple outfits, some underwear, a nightgown, and my wedding dress—a giant tulle thing hanging off the closet door on the far side of the bedroom. I wish I had the balls to light it all on fire. How fast can a ten-thousand-dollar dress burn? I’ll bet mighty fast. That is, if I were the betting type.
Another stack of items lay on the bench at the end of the bed. I lift the items, the fabric so soft and luxurious. It’s the handmade white lace lingerie my mother insisted I’d need for the wedding night. It would burn faster than the dress. I eye my fireplace and consider throwing it in, if only to cheer myself up.
A knock on the door breaks my concentration, and I call out, “Come in.”
Maria, one of the maids, enters carrying my discarded drink from dinner. I’ve known her my entire life, and in many ways, I consider her to be like a grandma.
Her smile is warm, and her presence always brings me joy.
“Your mother sent me to give this to you. She told me to tell you to finish it. That your fiancé made it for you, and you will show respect.”
I take the glass from Maria and stare down into the honey brown liquor. Another test of my resolve and commitment to the marriage my father agreed to.
I look from the glass and to Maria and find her face is a mask of guilt and shame. Now would be a good time to start practicing how to hide my emotions better.
“I’m sorry, Celia. Sometimes we don’t get to make choices in life. Sometimes they’re made for us. You can only do with what you’re given. I will miss you greatly, child,” she whispers the last part.