Chapter 11
Meirna
Bronte left the room over an hour ago, leaving me alone to stew in everything he said.
Everything I know.
Everything I should’ve known.
Everything that didn’t make sense, but I wanted it to.
If I go back and think about the first day I met Bobby, he was exactly how Bronte is now.
A bit broody.
Short answers.
Semi-charming.
Compliments galore.
But it’s the way he looks at me that should’ve tipped me off. That deep-seated magnetism that I don’t recall ever having again with Bobby, the second time I believed we were meeting.
Bobby looked at me, don’t get me wrong. His boyish good looks and charm got him places, and I wrapped around his finger with hopes of the future and our plans. I didn’t pay much attention to the logistics. I was definitely nervous meeting him again, and Bobby did have pretty words waiting for me.
But, if everything Bronte said is true—that we met first—he had me from the start.
And that scares the shit out of me.
Something’s wrong.
There has to be.
I don’t know how I managed to go through two years and not pick up what seemed like tiny things, but are huge now. How both of them, even though they look exactly the same—except for the slightly different eye and hair color—are different.
The contrasts are black and white.
It’s been black and white.
I’ve just been all rainbows and painting color on everything to mask what’s in front of me.
And, now, I don’t know where I manage to go or do moving forward from here.
I’m married to the man I met once? Am I really and truly married to a guy who made me feel the prettiest I’ve ever felt, subtly dropped interest, then went MIA?
When I asked Bobby about our alleged second encounter, where he went that day because he never did show up to ask about that dinner date, he stated something had come up, but he was glad I found him anyway.
If I had to look for him in the first place, not the other way around, that should’ve been my red flag. Nettie’s might be his lack of available time, but mine should have been that he didn’t throw the time in initially.
If he were that interested in me, Bobby would’ve dropped in my DMs.
I wish I had never asked around and searched him up on social media. I love Bobby…or did I? Doubt has been my only companion for the last hour, and I feel like the biggest dumbass alive.
How in the world did I not realize something was off?
Was I so delusional that I was blinded to the things that didn’t align right?
Bobby flirted, more than Bronte did—if everything he said was true—but he didn’t have a swagger about it that hit like the first time.
I didn’t hate it. That should’ve been my first indication right there, but how the hell did I not piece it together?
I don’t understand.
Because you met the guy for twenty-five minutes? How did you know there were two of them?
I slept with him.
My eyes bulge out of my head as my wedding night comes barreling full force into my brain.
White roses.
The note.
The intimate wedding with only a priest.
Then he fucked me against the brick wall.
Then on the plane.
Where’s Bobby?
I haven’t opened my cell phone since Bronte gave it to me because I’m scared of what’s on the other side.
I know Bobby’s there, and I betrayed him. I slept with someone behind his back. I should have known the difference. When Bobby sleeps with me, for the most part, it’s slow and sweet. He takes his time with me, exploring and whispering how much he’s missed our time spent together.
But the two times Bronte and I had been together were possessive and dark.
Powerful and demanding.
It’s fucked up.
And I liked it.
The door of the hotel suite opens, followed by several hotel employees with trays that pass by the bedroom door. It’s only seconds before they drop off what they brought, then they empty out as if they never were here in the first place.
A Christmas tree is edged along the French doors leading outside the balcony to the city. In off-white lights, silver ornaments, and a few red ones to sprinkle with color, it’s beautifully decorated, just like I’m sure Prague is, but I haven’t looked outside to confirm.
The honeymoon of my dreams.
With the wrong guy.
The wrong guy.
The wrong freaking guy.
The hard click against hardwood floors jolts me toward the door again. And it’s him.
In a black suit, white dress shirt, and black tie.
He doesn’t look at me, just waltzes toward the kitchen, and remains there for what feels like forever.
I feel like a stranger at my own honeymoon, and I don’t know what to do.
But I know what has to happen.
Sliding off the California king bed, I slowly approach where Bronte disappeared, ready to make my case, when he appears in the wooden archway and takes my entire breath and courage away.
He doesn’t feel like Bobby now that I know. I’m devastated with myself and how quickly everything went to shit.
“Are you done self-blaming yet, Meirna?”
An immediate scowl forms on my face because I wonder how a normal person can ask me a question like that. However, he’s not normal, is he?
He’s psychotic.
“What did you think was going to happen here?” I pose honestly, curious, and slightly put off by the response I’m going to get. “That I was going to forget everything you’ve done—”
“I hope not,” he quips levelly. “If I fucked you like Bobby, then I wasn’t doing something right.”
On instinct, I step back, because his words are like a slap to the face.
“You want to know how involved I’ve been,” he continues, stepping toward me but not in a menacing way because he takes a small detour to my right. “How you couldn’t tell us apart. Why I disappeared and you landed with Bobby.”
I don’t confirm that I do. It feels like giving a power that I don’t want him to have.
But I know he’s going to tell me anyway.
That Bronte is going to try to manipulate me onto his side, to understand his way of thinking, and justify his actions as moral.
“My adopted father died that afternoon,” Bronte says softly. “I got the call while I was finishing up your begonias. My mother and sister needed me…” He lifts his chin. “And I had to be there.”
I want to say sorry, but he’s misled me.
He tricked me into marrying him and God knows what else. He could be lying right now.
He could be the evil twin.
This is like a bad Disney movie.
“I didn’t know you were with my brother until about six months later. My assistant asked who the girl was, and I had no idea what she was talking about. It was an Instagram post of the two of you that had apparently gone viral—”
“And, still, you never approached me to set me straight.” I can feel my blood boiling inside my head like a kettle screaming it’s hot and ready to explode. “You don’t need to explain why you never showed up. It obviously wasn’t that serious if everything you’re saying is true.”
“Why wouldn’t it be true?”
“Because you’ve already deceived me. Why would I trust anything that came out of your mouth?” He actually smirks at that. Like this is some big joke where, apparently, I’m the butt of it. “I’m so happy you’re amused, Bronte. Really. It’s been a real pleasure having you misled me.”
“It’s not that, Daydream,” he muses slightly. “It’s that I love when you’re mad.”
Who says that?
A wacko.
A sociopath.
A lunatic.
“You like it when I’m mad,” I leer, balling my fingers into fists. “Well, let me tell you something—”
“There’s more,” he cuts. “You may want to hold your anger until I’m done.”
Hard pass.
“Take me home now.”
He slowly shakes his head. “Not until you’ve heard every single thing I have to say and why I did—”
“You lied to me.”
“I did.”
I balk at him. “And I’m supposed to fall on my knees and thank you?”
“On the contrary, Daydream, it should be me who should get on my knees and beg for your forgiveness. I know what I did is borderline unforgivable, but I know you could handle it, eventually. You’re resilient and smart. You just picked the wrong guy.”
“I did. I met you first.”
“And you loved me first,” he clips back, his expression now spewing with heated rage.
He moves, trimming the inches between us until he’s towering over me and using said height to get his next point across.
“You don’t think I wanted to correct what you’ve done?
My family was in shambles after the passing of my father.
Days turned into months. I was dealing with a mother who was borderline starving because she wouldn’t eat or drink.
My sister stopped going to school, partying, and getting into trouble while I was the one holding shit together.
Then I saw you again, and I had to know if what we shared for that brief amount of time was something more than just a pretty face and banter. News flash, it was.”
He takes another step, and I find myself equally entranced by what he’s saying and the way he focuses solely on me.
“I spent every spare day I could near you, but I didn’t have the luxury.
You were too deep with Bobby, and I was going to tap out, let you live happily ever fucking after, until I discovered his whore, Jolene.
Then, I did what I said I wasn’t going to do, and I looked into the family that abandoned and shipped my ass off to Switzerland at sixteen.
You, Daydream, were clickbait. You were everything my family was going to use to get Bobby’s perfect little fucked up world in line.
He’s been fucking random bitches for years behind your back, but I wasn’t just going to steal you, Meirna.
I was going to steal you, make you mine, then blow up their world into a thousand pieces so you could watch it burn.
Then…and only fuckin’ then, would I give you the choice to stay mine or be taken as mine. ”
My breathing slows on autopilot. There was so much in that monologue that all I got was clickbait, fucking bitches, and mine.
A forceful or chosen mine.
I don’t know which to settle on first. Which one to dissect and throw under a microscope.
All I know is that he made me feel worse if that were humanly possible.
“I hate you,” I mutter, feeling my body shake uncontrollably as I try to process and manage this new information on my own. “Let me go.”
“I can’t,” he returns simply, not sounding at all empathetic to my impending nervous breakdown. “Because you wouldn’t let me go, Meirna. I know enough about you to know you want me. Bobby was my fill-in. His proposal was shit and public, but I gave you the wedding you deserved—”
“That’s not going to make me want to stay with you,” I carp out, feeling the room move on a tilt. “You secretly saw me, and that’s supposed to make me feel better? When? How?” His lips part, but I throw out, “I hate you. I don’t know you. I don’t want to be near you for another second.”
“Meirna—”
“Don’t Meirna me,” I lash out. “You’re a freaking wack job. You gave me everything I wanted—my dream wedding and honeymoon, but I can’t be bought with vacations and money. You don’t know me.”
“I know you well enough,” he replies matter-of-factly. “And you know that I love you—”
“Bullshit.” I point an accusing finger at him. “You don’t love me. You don’t know me.” What if he just got out of an insane asylum, and he’s having a psychotic break? “I need to go.”
“You will. Eventually. With me.”
My first day in Prague, it sucks.
It’s miserable.
It’s insane.
And I can’t bear to stay in this room, with him, alone for another fucking second.
Stomping toward the bathroom, I step inside and slam the door with every word I can’t think of yet.
I married someone who lied and tricked me.
Now, I’m told he’s going to keep me.
I would’ve rather have stayed with Bobby if the information he’s saying is true.
At least, I would have been able to leave.