23. Venetia
Flashback
Age 16
“ A re you sure you’re doing well enough?” Mom asks, and for some reason, my heart skips a beat. It always does when she asks that question. Even though I know I’m doing enough—more than enough—her tone and the way she narrows her eyes at me make me feel like I’m falling short.
It’s already been a year—a magical year of dating the man I’m deeply and irrevocably in love with. I’ve learned how to be better and discovered new ways to make him happy, all while finding happiness for myself in the process.
At least, I think so.
“Yes, Mom,” I reply quietly, struggling to inject confidence into my tone. Every conversation with her feels like a test, an interrogation. I often fail these types of tests simply because of the anxiety they provoke, even when I know I’ve done well.
“What about your intimacy?” she probes, and I bow my head down, shame slicing through me. I always get awkward when she talks about this subject again. It feels… wrong to discuss such things with her. “Do you satisfy him?”
“Mom!” I squeal, the tide of embarrassment rushing over me in an instant. “Stop asking this!”
“Answer me, Venetia.”
She closes the distance between us when I hesitate to respond, her hand gripping my chin. Her sharp nails dig into my skin, sending a wave of burning discomfort through me.
“I—I don’t remember,” I finally admit, forcing myself to look up at her. A frown creases her face as she studies me, still holding my chin in her grip. “I really don’t, Mom.”
A wave of self-awareness strikes me, sharp and sudden, as I realize I’m not lying. It sounds strange to say it out loud, but the truth is, I genuinely don’t remember.
“What does that mean?” she asks, her skepticism evident. “Don’t lie to me, Venetia.”
“I’m not lying, I swear!” I almost shout, surprised by my outburst. I never snap at Mom like this. But I’m afraid of what she will do if I’m not able to convince her. “Sorry. I just... He says he loves me. And, well, he says I’m good at it. It’s really good, Mom.”
I think my lack of memory mostly stems from the pills I’m now taking regularly. I tried to convince Zayden to go without them, but he insisted that they would help me feel more relaxed and confident. I feel ashamed to admit it, but I’m still far from that.
Confident. The word feels weird even when I just think about it.
I doubt I’ll ever accept the way I look. It only got worse when Zayden started taking me to the parties he and his friends throw, where I’m surrounded by dozens of other girls. I don’t look like any of them. They all have curvy figures, beautiful, thick hair, and angelic faces. Every time we go to those parties, I feel like an ugly duckling who’s been thrown in by accident. It’s gotten to the point where I can hear whispers and giggles behind my back whenever we’re around them.
I know it’s probably just my imagination, but I can’t shake off these thoughts. Mom keeps insisting that once Zayden and I are married, I’ll have plenty of money to afford any surgery I want. Honestly, I’m counting down the days. I want to stop feeling awkward and insecure.
I want to look pretty.
Mom coughs, letting go of my chin and turning away. I stand up in an instant, moving to her side to support her as I help her into a chair. She’s feeling worse—much worse. The thought of something bad happening to her haunts me. It occupies my mind from the moment I wake up until I fall asleep. It’s overwhelming, and all I want to do is help her, but I feel powerless.
“Mom, are you okay?” I ask cautiously as I settle beside her. I know it’s a rhetorical question. It’s been like this since I found out the reason behind her worsened condition.
Breast cancer. Nobody knows how or why, and all the doctors say the same thing: she needs treatment, and she needs it quickly. Otherwise, it’s only going to get much worse.
She takes my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Oh, baby, I hate to say this, but I’m not okay. I really am not,” she rasps. “I need you to try harder for me, okay? Your dad needs to finalize that deal with Zayden’s father, but he’s hesitant. You need to help us convince him,” she explains, brushing her thumb across my skin. “That money will help your momma a lot.”
I nod, both to her and to myself. I will do anything I can to make her feel better. She gets angrier when she feels worse, and sometimes, she takes it out on me, and I don’t like that.
I want my mom back.
“Okay, I’ll talk to him. I promise. I’m worried about you.”
A strained smile flickers across her face. “Worrying won’t help, Venetia. Don’t waste your time on that. Use your energy wisely—spend it on Zayden. We need him, do you understand?”
“Yeah, I know,” I reply. “You can count on me, Mom.”
A suffocating cloud of tobacco, weed, alcohol, and expensive perfumes fills the air, making the atmosphere heavy with discomfort. I feel dizzy, my senses dulled, despite not having smoked or drunk anything at all—no matter how much they insisted I should.
Oh, how they insisted.
Tonight, Zayden brought his friends over. I wanted to stay upstairs in our bedroom with a book, but he insisted I come downstairs and hang out with them like a ‘normal girlfriend’. I feel a sense of responsibility not to let him down and to help him project the best image, so I agreed.
I have to admit, out of all his friends, these two guys unsettle me the most. There’s a disturbing feeling whenever they look at me, as if they harbor hidden intentions I’d rather not uncover.
But maybe I’m just being paranoid. I’ve always felt awkward around people, and my mind tends to overreact, convincing me that everyone is out to hurt me. With how charming they look, it’s hard to imagine anyone that attractive being evil.
As we sit on the couch, I force small smiles to give the illusion of being engaged in their conversation, even though I’m far from it. I wish I had my music with me; it would help drown out the noise. But even if I did, I know better than to put on my headphones while I’m supposed to be socializing—it would come off as rude.
I shift uncomfortably, my back aching from the awkward position of sitting all twisted in Zayden’s lap. There’s plenty of space on the couch, but he prefers to hold me this way. While I should feel secure in his embrace, every time I try to convince myself of that feeling, I fail. He holds me close, yet I feel more vulnerable.
More exposed.
Whenever I attempt to slide off, he tightens his grip on my thigh, sending a dull, burning discomfort through me, reminding me to stay put. The third time he did that, tears blurred my vision from the pain.
So I stopped trying.
A lingering thought at the back of my mind never fully lets me relax. A sense of fear spreads through my psyche, overtaking my rational thoughts. I don’t recall when or how it started. It feels like this unease has always been there, lurking just out of sight. I catch his gaze when I’m taking a bath or getting ready for bed, a look that doesn’t feel like a concern but rather something darker. It’s as if he’s watching me for a reason, plotting something in silence, and I get the sense that he wishes I wasn’t here with him.
That thought scares me. I know it can’t be true. Zayden is the sweetest guy I’ve ever met. Every day, he reminds me of how much he loves me and how much he wants a future with me. He makes me believe I’m the only thing that matters in his world.
So why do these thoughts keep creeping in? There must be something wrong with me because this isn’t normal. I’m always on edge, always expecting a trick, always fearing something bad might happen. It feels like my brain doesn’t want me to be happy, like it shuts down every positive feeling before it can take root.
“So, how’s it going?” A gruff voice snaps me out of my thoughts, making me flinch. Zayden’s hand tightens on me, a silent command to remain still. “You both pleased?” Joseph, one of the friends, looks at me, clearly expecting a response. I’ve been zoned out for most of the conversation, so I have no idea what he’s asking about.
“Well, I certainly am,” Zayden replies, rescuing me from my silence. I turn my head to him, meeting his dark, slightly glazed-over eyes. “I think Venetia is, too. She’s pretty needy, you know?”
Laughter erupts, followed by the sound of Joseph clapping his hands. “I can tell,” he says, his eyes raking over me from head to toe. A wave of discomfort washes over me, and I look down, trying to maintain my strained smile. My cheeks ache from all the smiles I’ve forced tonight.
“Come on, man, you’re making her uncomfortable,” Zayden mocks, planting a wet kiss on the side of my head.
“She’s always so shy,” his other friend Logan chimes in, a smug smile spreading across his face. “Isn’t that a bit boring for you?”
An ache grips my chest as discomfort transforms into something deeper. I’ve endured plenty of their stupid jokes, but this one feels like too much. “Zayden ? —”
“It’s fine,” he interrupts, tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear. While he intends the gesture to be comforting, it only adds to my struggle. “They’re just joking, Venetia. Don’t say you can’t handle a joke.”
I can handle jokes, but not when they humiliate me. I want to tell him this, even though it should be obvious, but I’ve always struggled to speak up for myself. It’s like I swallow my tongue and forget every word, unable to voice my thoughts. I try to communicate my feelings with my eyes, casting him a pleading look. I can feel the corners of my vision blurring with tears, and I know he notices.
But, as always, he pretends not to see and turns his attention back to his friends. My lip trembles, and heat flushes my cheeks from the rush of emotion overtaking me.
This isn’t the first time it’s happened. Zayden never stands up to those who hurt me. I’m not asking him to punch them—though that might teach them a lesson—I just want him to help set basic boundaries and let them know they can’t disrespect me. But he never has my back. At this point, it’s not even surprising.
“Venetia isn’t as shy as she seems,” Zayden says. “She can please all of us if I ask her to.” He turns his eyes back to me. “Can’t you, baby?”
Shock quickly gives way to panic, coloring my face a deeper crimson. I can feel all of their gazes on me. “W-what?”
He flashes a toothy grin and throws his head back, laughter bubbling up from his throat. “I’m just kidding! It’s a joke, baby. Calm down.”
I often struggle to understand his sense of humor, and whenever I bring it up, he claims I’m humorless. So, I keep quiet this time.
“We need you to relax, for real,” Joseph interjects, gesturing toward the bottles of alcohol on the coffee table. “Come on, drink with us.”
I shake my head, picking at the skin around my nails to ground myself and stave off the urge to burst into tears. The anxiety surges within me, a sensation so intense it feels unreal—every part of my body burns with it, as if it’s consuming me alive.
“Thank you, but ? —”
“Your distress is so palpable I can almost taste it in the air,” Logan interrupts. “We came here to have a good time, Venetia. We want you to feel good, too.”
“Baby, come on,” Zayden whispers into my ear, placing a soft kiss on my earlobe. “You don’t want to make my friends uncomfortable, do you?”
I swallow hard. “No, of course not. I just ? —”
“How about this: we drink for a bit, spend a few more minutes here, and then I’ll call my father about that deal you mentioned?” he interjects, his tone dangerously soft. A flutter ignites in my stomach at the reminder of that deal that could help my mom, and the tension in my shoulders eases slightly. “What do you say?”
Without responding, I lean in, grab the unopened bottle, and unscrew the cap, bringing it closer to my lips. The bitter taste floods my mouth, and I squint in discomfort, pausing briefly before taking another sip and then setting the bottle down.
Zayden kisses the top of my head, and within minutes, the world around me starts to spin while a faint ringing fills my ears. I rub my eyes, and colorful dots swirl in my vision, a sense of dissociation settling in as the alcohol takes control.
The last thing I see is the bottles sitting before me, and it takes me a moment to realize that none of them, in particular, have been opened during the evening.