8. Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
FIAMETTA
B reakfast.
Bacon, eggs, toast, beans, and fries. A veritable feast of different ingredients is spread across the dining room table, where only Father, Tomas and I sit. After getting used to my preference for not eating meat, Father has instructed his chefs to make me a special meal. He’s done it every day since he demanded I live with him in the mansion, but today is different.
Today, we’re celebrating an engagement. One that makes me sick. One that I want no part of.
“Glorious day. Truly marvelous,” Father says, mightily pleased that we’re all here together, having a meal as a family. With no argument from me, and no cruel sneers from Tomas.
“Sure,” Tomas says, slotting a piece of toast into his mouth.
“Don’t you think so, daughter? It’s bright and beautiful out there, and warm and cozy in here. Everything is finally falling into place.” My father sighs, satisfied with himself.
“Yes, Father.” I can’t pretend that I’m into this, not even to appease him, but I won’t start an argument. That would be a futile effort, anyway.
“You know, we should make it a tradition,” he announces. “Once a week, the three of us should get together and have a meal. Breakfast, lunch or dinner. It’s of no import.”
“May I be excused?” I ask, suddenly feeling that the threat in my belly is about to become a reality.
All the meat on display is bad enough. The two men’s eating it makes me feel so much worse. Father has a delicate approach to his eating. He cuts his food into manageable, bite-sized pieces before he forks them into his mouth. Tomas, however, grabs pieces of bacon and tears them apart with his teeth, while scraping up handful of fries from his plate to chase the bacon down.
Yup, I’m definitely gonna puke.
“What? Why?” His face is flushed with annoyance rather than concern.
I reach my boiling point, when Tomas cranes his neck up to me with bacon grease dripping from his lower lip.
“I need to go.” I’m on my feet before the sentence is fully out of my mouth.
“Absolutely not.” Father turns a steely-eyed gaze in my direction. “Sit down, Fiametta. We haven’t finished.”
I bring a hand to my mouth, hoping it will somehow ease my sudden urge to spew the few bites of coconut pancakes I ate over Father’s lap.
“I’ll be back in a second, I...” I catch the first dry heave in the back of my throat and start running for the door.
“Fiametta, this is unaccep—” Father’s fury trails away as I rush to the bathroom.
I fall to my knees in front of the porcelain toilet bowl and expel the poison from my gut.
This isn’t the first time I’ve been struck by sudden nausea and sickness, lately. If it had happened a few weeks ago, I might’ve believed it was a delayed effect of Crue’s drug serum leaving my body. But nearly two and a half months later? As much as I’d like to believe it’s Tomas’s company, and all the jokes I’ve made about his effect on not only me, but it also seems farfetched.
What to do, then? A visit to the doctor would satisfy my curiosity. But that would also mean causing a fuss and raising Father’s concern. It won’t bode well for me, given how on edge he’s been lately.
Once I am finished, I stare at myself in the mirror as I splash ice-cold water over my face.
I analyze every imperfection as if it might hold the secret to why I feel the way I do. Dark bags hang under my eyes. My cheeks are swollen from last night’s crying, because of this engagement. My naturally tanned skin is now a sickly shade of green. I have messy hair that I don’t bother brushing, and as a result it is still knotty and twisted from Crue’s god-like touch.
At the thought of Crue, my mind jumps to the worst possible conclusion about why I’ve been so ill. And no, it has nothing to do with the serum he jabbed into my bloodstream.
Oh, fuck! Oh, no. No, no, no.
I search my pockets for my phone and text Simone immediately.
Need your help. It’s urgent.
My poor word choice is definitely going to scare her, and I regret saying it the way I did. But it’s the truth. This is of the utmost importance. If I’m right, the rest of my life will be dispatched in the blink of an eye. It outweighs the disgust I feel at this betrothal. Tomas gets buried beneath the heavy looming dread that’s starting to weigh heavily on my shoulders.
“Fia?” Father’s voice comes at the door. Unlike the roaring boom I left to, he sounds concerned. It’s a nice change of pace, but it’s far too late. “Are you okay? I didn’t know you felt—”
“I’m fine. I must’ve eaten something funny.” I hate to throw the kitchen staff under the bus, but I can’t tell him what’s really running through my head. “I’ll be out in a moment. Go and enjoy the rest of your breakfast.”
“Are you sure? Would you rather get some rest?” he asks.
Thank, God. I don’t think I can face him in this state.
“If you’re okay with it.” I try and make myself sound as sick as possible, but it’s much harder now. I feel so relieved after expelling the toxicity my belly was harboring.
“Of course. Go sleep. You’ll feel much better after.” Do I detect a hint of true concern and remorse in his tone?
No, it can’t be.
“Can I ask Simone to bring me some medicine?” I ask. It’s the only way I’ll be able to find out if my inner turmoil is valid or not.
“Of course. Whatever you need.” His footsteps start disappearing down the hallway, before I get another chance to speak.
Anything, anywhere, anytime. What’s wrong? How can I help?
Simone’s text comes at the perfect moment, with her usual mess of emoticons splattered across the screen. I can’t bring myself to type a reply yet. My fingers refuse to tap the letters my brain has played on repeat since it first crossed it.
Once I do, it will become a reality. The thought will no longer be confined to my own mind, but out there in the world. I don’t subscribe to the hoodoo-voodoo side of life, but I can get behind it with this one.
I finally type my answer:
I think I’m pregnant.