Chapter 2 ~ Isabella #2
Being mentally imprisoned has a huge drawback; you must rely on others to take care of you--safely. When it first started after my rescue, my parents would freak out and take me straight to the hospital, which then led to months in an institution.
After a few of these "Stress Comas," as we started to call them, and the fact that they were an inconvenience to my parents' social calendar, they hired a permanent in-residence psychologist.
Dr. Sarah Marshall. She has a cottage off the back of our estate.
My parents pay her a sizable salary to wait patiently for my next episode.
I don't even know why she's still here. It's been years since anything has happened, but I guess to them it's much easier to receive the support I need immediately with her around than it is to drag my butt into the hospital.
Dr. Marshall is excellent and adept at handling my situation. I swear I would have been detained forever residing in a plush white padded cell if it weren't for her.
The fact that my future marriage contract would bring in significant connections that my father requires is the only reason my condition was treated at home and, I assume, kept hush-hush from the public eye.
I finished high school, went to university, and got a job like normal people. The truth is that, at the end of the day, all I am is a bartering chip, which can be used by everyone to their advantage.
I put the brush back on the vanity, and rub my sweaty hands up and down my thick thighs.
Dinner is in a few hours, and as I scan my face, I can see it won't make any difference how long I sit plucking and priming, trying to impress a man I've never met.
I'm not, nor ever will I be, Rebekah. Why try?
Mr. Russo will get what he gets and the family will form the alliance they need.
That's all my father wants anyway. I never did matter.
My only hope is that my new husband, if he sticks around after the introduction, will take his marital rights on our wedding night and ship me off to some condo with three cats and my paintings to live like an old maid. If he is smart, he would.
If he doesn't know my mental history by now, he soon will, and that would be his best play.
Hide me away.
I could take one of the rooms, set myself up a sweet little art studio, and start to paint, get my work out there, and sell a few maybe.
I'll hang out with the cats and watch Netflix; stay up all night because I'm working on a piece; sleep in and eat breakfast in my socks and t-shirt over the coffee table while watching cartoons with Charlie, Chester, and Chad.
( Sweet names, you go brain!)
I could put up with one night of misery to fulfill that dream. I've read a few romance novels; I have an idea of what's to come... maybe.
I do know that powerful men like him need the perfect Barbie by their side, and I don't fit the profile. So I don't think I'll be around too long to worry. Rebekah is perfect; I do not fit the profile of a family wife.
My bedroom door slams open and Rebekah swaggers in, looking like she is going to the Oscars in her gold silk evening gown. She shimmers as she approaches, and the neckline drops almost to her damn belly button. Her skin is flawless, with not a damn sweat stain to be seen.
"Holy shit Izz, is that a smile I see on your face? I thought I'd come in here to find an android. I was hoping you'd check out for a bit so I could dress you and put some makeup on your face."
Chuckling as she makes her way to my bed.
"God knows you need it. You need to impress Alexander Russo."
She sits down at the end of my bed like a queen, crossing her slim legs and looking at my reflection through the mirror.
"You know, he's second in command. This means that someday he will be the boss. He will own this city and all who work and live under his rule. You'll be his queen."
The bitter tone in her voice as she says the word "Queen" lets me know she hates me even more now.
"How the fuck you landed this guy is beyond me. He's hot as fuck and built like a Greek god. Screw a 6-pack, this guy has an 8-pack."
She lifts her hands and starts looking at her beautiful manicure. I look down at my hand, my nails are short due to the fact that most of the time I have paint under them, and it's hard to dig out with long nails.
I've never taken the time to look this guy up or even read the folder my father gave me to look over. What's the point? My fate is sealed, so why invest more time in something that will only draw the darkness deeper?
I can't talk to good-looking people, especially men, or most people really.
I can't form the right words, or I start to babble, and that's even worse because then I start to talk about shit no one wants to hear.
Who gives a crap about art history, except for other art history majors or painters?
I've spent years in therapy and have no social skills to speak of.
.. Oh God, this marriage is going to be a disaster for both of us.
Rebekah tisks her tongue and returns her attention back to me.
"It's a waste, really."
She gives me the once over, her eyes pinching together in disgust. I wrinkle my brow and whisper, "What's a waste?"
She runs her eyes over my body again, mentally ticking off every fault she's forever pointed out.
“You!"
Christ! That one hurt, like right to the heart. She rises from the end of the bed and walks up behind me, flipping my hair over my shoulder; she grabs a handful and piles it on top of my head.
"Put your hair up for once, and change out of this fucken dress. You look like a sweaty ho." As she steps back, letting my hair tumble down, covering my face, she gives my head a little shove forward.
Pawing the mass of hair out of my eyes, I turn and watch her head toward my bedroom door. Over her shoulder, she states, "And put some makeup on; you look like a drowned raccoon."
And with that, she slams the door, leaving me to start my breathing all over again.
"Chester, Charlie, and Chad." Breathe in.
Breathe out, "Chester, Charlie, and Chad."
I am beginning to feel my muscles relax. This works!
It's short-lived as I think about tonight and meeting my husband-to-be. He will perform his duties, I think as my mind briefly races.
He will drag me to social gatherings and parties until he gets tired of paying for a wife he can't stand to look at.
Then, one day, an "accident" will "happen" to me, releasing him from the conditions of the contract and providing him with his freedom while keeping the status that came with the marriage.
No condo and kitty cats for me... just a bullet.
Once again, fear causes my eyes to widen slightly, and I start sweating profusely as I contemplate what my life has become. Never-ending fear with tiny increments of happiness.
Fear. The basis of my life.
Fear of my parents, fear of the disappointment I am to them. The fear that one day I'll fall into my head and never come out. The fear I'll never be what this so-called "Greek God" of a husband needs. My vision starts to fuzz again, and like a crack addict, the warmth of the void pulls me again.
Nope! Not going to happen!
I snatch my pills and pop one in my mouth and swallow. Tilting my head back, I look up at the ceiling and watch the blades of the fan whiz by.
So what are your choices here, Izzy? Fall into the void, your home and stay there.
It could work, but then I'd miss my job, painting, and Anna.
She is my co-worker, guru, and my best friend.
She's more of a sister than Rebekah has ever been.
Speaking of which, I should text her. She always sets me straight.
Grabbing my phone off the table, I quickly swipe it and bring up messenger.
Izzy: Hey? You busy?
Anna: No, what's up? Are you freaking out yet? LOL
Izzy: Not funny. Tell me I'm not going to die.
Anna: My God, you're dramatic. I looked him up. He's hot! You go, girl!!
Izzy: Why does everyone keep saying that to me? I don't care if he's hot; I just want to go back to work. Finish restoring the fresco. Think it's too late to run?
Anna: Stop it! Go meet him! Flash that big juicy butt and shove those big tits in his face. You are beautiful, Izz. Don't let your family fuck with your head. If all else fails, I'll take your place. :)
Izzy: You have a dirty mind, you know? LOL
Anna: I know, but that's why you love me. You'll be fine, Izz. You are brilliant, super smart, speak three languages, and have a body to die for. Fuck him if he can't see it. Text me tonight. I want to hear everything. I love you!
Izzy: I love you too. ( Perve ;) Drinks tomorrow night for sure.
Anna's right, just get it over with. Who knows, maybe I might get lucky and get that condo and the three cats out of this nightmare of a life. Dr. Marshall advises faking it until you make it. Think positive thoughts and they will come.
I give myself a full-body shake.
Standing up from my dressing table, I head over to my walk-in closet and start flipping through the hangers, looking for my red dress.
Red is a power colour so they say; and it looks great with my pale skin tone, green eyes, and jet-black hair.
I pull the garment off the hanger, I head out, and I lay it on my bed.
Catching a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror on the closet door.
I turn and take a good look, noting all my flaws.
I'm not now, nor will I ever be perfect.
I'm terrified of almost everything. I have an anxiety disorder that, if left unchecked, turns me into a zombie.
A career in modelling has long been gone since I was twelve. Ugh!
Turning to the side, I suck in my stomach. There's no way I can hold the little pouch in for 5 hours. Puffing out a breath, my belly pops out and I squeeze it.
There is no way I can pretend or hide who I am, so screw the makeup. I don't wear it, never have and he'll hate what he sees anyway, so I'm coming oh-natural.
Bullets, cats, or whatever this marriage will be.
I can't control any of it anyway. Turning to the dress lying on my bed, picking it up, I run my hand over the soft silk. If all else fails, at least I'll look pretty.