10. Adelaide
TEN
ADELAIDE
Panic viciously swatted against all modes of tranquillity, while the room quickly flooded with reporters.
The room was a rented-out banquet hall. Carpeted floors pasted above concrete ground. Chandeliers adorned the ceilings. Architecture wasn’t something I knew much about, but Christopher Wren would be proud of each distinct quality of the carved pillars.
Christian outdid himself for absolutely no reason.
Each journalist talked amongst themselves. Some laughing, others setting their cameras up.
The only thing that was truly laughing was my anxiety. At me.
When Osama emailed me the first plan of action, my heart sank in my chest. Because not even four hours after signing the contract, I received a thorough update.
Locking and unlocking my phone with distraught fingers, there were Fifteen minutes to nine. Fifteen minutes until I told the world I’d be marrying my ex-boyfriend. Not that they’d know that, but it was baffling, nonetheless.
A week ago, I was scouring the internet for oversized period pads. Odd, really, how life truly hated me and threw a stronger cramp in my direction.
There were too many people in the room. When Osama said a press conference for the public, I thought—you know, maybe five reporters—not fifty .
Earlier, I thought I chose a good outfit. A yellow-mid skirt with a matching cropped blazer and white top beneath it. But now, looking down at it, I looked like a broken umbrella with pink, diamond studded heels. It screamed dumb blonde.
Despite the constant, disbelieving fear of people judging and always watching me, I felt somewhat okay wearing over-the-top outfits. Dresses might be extravagant and the colour yellow might be too bright, but in more ways than one—despite wanting to change into another outfit and dig myself a hole to die in—it felt like armour.
Walking a safe distance from the others, I was plucking out my thoughts, when I heard an agitated voice.
“What do you mean you’re not here yet?”
Osama’s hair tightly bound in a low ponytail and his body that was decorated with informal clothes stiffened.
From the intensity of his response, the only acceptable assumption was my soon-to-be husband.
A thunderous storm swooped over my entirety.
One second, I was watching my surroundings while thinking, but the next all of those coherent moments of consciousness got sucked into a well in my mind, where they echoed for help across the falciform structure. Desperate hands roamed for the paper. The script.
If Christian didn’t make it in time, I had to prepare.
Or I’d embarrass myself.
Muggy hands stretched the ink from corner to corner, colliding with each separate word. This couldn’t be happening to me right now.
Good morning, everyone, I’d like to begin by…
Begin by what ?
What was the next line?
Usually, I had more than one copy on me. Last night I slept thinking of Christian and forgot. I never forget to write multiple . Now it was me, alone, for a press conference the whole world would be watching, and I didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to say it.
Whiney hands fussed with my hair, unclipping the clip, putting it back in an updo. Osama was no longer where he was, where did he go? Desperately, I looked around for someone. Anyone.
Where was everyone?
I can’t do this on my own.
I’m not prepared, Christian isn’t here…
What would I even say?
They stared at me. One man had a look of disappointment on his face. His brows contorted together; his eyes enlarged the preposterous vein bulging on his forehead. The female next to him snapped a quick picture before turning to another reporter beside her who simply laughed. They were making fun of my picture—me. It had to be the outfit. The yellow was outrageous, diabolical, insane.
Five minutes to nine.
There was no time to change.
There was no time to do anything.
I’d embarrass myself.
People would laugh at me.
Hyperventilation slapped coherency and confidence out of my system and into someone else's.
I wanted it back.
I needed it back.
“Adelaide!” My mind walked back over to its seat from the overstimulation of galvanic jolts.
Disorientation put itself back together piece by piece like an eighties puzzle set, the most vivid speck stood in front of me. My abdomen clenched like an entity of un-shot bullets—holding no wound in particular.
Gentle and patient, Christian held my hands in his.
“Christian,” I whispered hoarsely. “You’re here.”
“Yeah.” His thumb caressed my hand and I almost disintegrated there and then. “Yeah, I’m here.”
Slowly, with barely-there nods, “Okay.”
Then this is also an accident . As if someone snapped their fingers in front of him, I took a step back— breaking our connection.
No matter how much I didn’t want to admit it, Christian Hayes saved me from having a panic attack in front of hundreds of cameras.
He protected my sanity and my dignity.
We stood to the side. There were two minutes remaining.
Osama stood onstage, talking about Daniel’s reign to ‘his’.
Christian took a step forward, his chest brushing up against my back.
Overpowering, solid, familiar .
“Turn around.”
Slightly tilting my head to the right, I shook my head.
“Please.”
How could I refuse him?
Turning around, I had to stretch my head all the way back to meet those mysterious hazels. Christian wore a full suit perfectly tailored for him.
Light jumped off a shiny silver chain hung around Christian’s neck, blinding me.
“ Shit , sorry.” He buttoned the top of his shirt, concealing it from me. Both of our chests pushed out with a breath at the same time.
Panic attack aside, my heart felt like it was going to explode.
Big hands cocooned my own as Christian brought both closer to himself. What was he…
He slipped a silver band onto my ring finger.
I gasped at the incandescent blue diamond that captivated my finger.
“It was the first ring I saw.”
And there he went, opening his mouth and ruining a good moment.
“It’s fine, it’s not like this marriage is real.” I whispered.
His jaw clenched.
“…I welcome Adelaide Mikael to the stage.”
My head snapped around.
Reporters flashed their cameras at me.
With a difficult swallow of clotted nothingness, I took one step before a thick strand of hair fell out of my bun.
My heart started peeling at the first layer of skin with its trenchant teeth. It choked like an explosive firework on a hot summer night. Excitement one minute, havoc the next.
With quick and shaky hands, I tore the clip off to fix my hair while more flashes tore into me, but a loud crack reverberated through my ears.
Don’t tell me…
Two halves of the clip separated from each other.
I didn’t have a backup on me. I always had a backup for everything. Ever since… Frantically shaking my head, it wasn’t the time to blame him when clearly this was my fault. I allowed my thoughts to think about him and this was the punishment.
Heaved chest.
Overlapped thoughts.
Sweltered hands.
Their whispers stumbled over to my feet and dug their nails into my skin.
It’s okay. I’m okay. Just go on stage with open hair. You’re fine.
Christian’s hand pulled me back against his chest.
“ I got you. ”
With a gentle swoop, he gathered my hair into his hands and with careful precision he tied it.
Thick cotton brushed against my fingers. Despite not knowing what it looked like, it swooped precisely into what felt like a bow.
“There,” goosebumps erupted on my arms. “Now you look like my wife.”
He didn’t… Did he?
My heart pounded inside of my chest when I turned and looked down at the hem of his shirt.
He did—in fact—rip his shirt for me.
You didn’t rip your shirt for someone you hated.
You didn’t rip your shirt for someone who meant nothing to you.
You definitely didn’t rip your shirt for your ex-girlfriend who you felt nothing for.
“Christian,” I looked up at him through my lashes.
“Go, Adelaide,” he interrupted sharply. “They’re waiting.”
I wanted to stay here for a moment. With him.
But that would be self-sabotage.
Which is why I turned back around, walked up those steps, and rehearsed mechanical words.
I’m in love with Christian Hayes and we’re to be married by the end of this month .
But only for one year.