Chapter 26
Nora
S even long days later, the sound of the door being unlocked pulls me from my reverie and I jump up from the chair by the window where I spend most of my days vacantly staring out at the world beyond.
I don’t recognize the large, bull-faced man in the doorway, but I vaguely wonder if he might have been one of the men sent to kidnap me.
There’s no way I could take him on or even get past him to make a run for it.
Amusement sparkles in his eyes as if he’s aware of what I’m thinking.
He then takes in my disheveled appearance.
In a small act of defiance, I’ve barely washed and have remained in the same dress since I arrived.
“Your father wishes to see you. Take a shower and get dressed,” the man instructs, looking at my appearance in disgust.
I narrow my eyes at him and snap, “I am dressed.”
He rolls his eyes. “I can force you to get ready or you can do it yourself. Trust me, I’m more than ready to strip you down and hold you under the shower,” he promises with a dark gleam in his eyes that tells me just how serious he is.
“Fine.” I head into the bathroom and slam the door behind me.
It doesn’t lock, so I just have to hope that as long as I’m doing as I’m told, Mr. Meathead won’t get any funny ideas and try to come in. I shower and wash my hair as quickly as I can, throwing the towel and the robe around my body for maximum coverage before returning to the bedroom.
The man sits in the chair by the window patiently waiting.
There’s now a maid in the room too. She has the all-too-familiar haunted look in her eyes that tells me she’s not employed by my father under voluntary circumstances.
She’s been trafficked, no doubt tricked into coming to live the American dream only to find herself in a nightmare working for a cruel employer she can’t escape.
She avoids meeting my gaze, choosing instead to stare at the floor.
“She’s here to help you get dressed,” the man explains. “ Vamos ,” he barks at the maid, who flinches and immediately springs into action, gesturing for me to sit down in front of the mirror that someone has placed on the dressing table.
I don’t want to get this woman into trouble, so I comply. Her dark brown eyes meet mine gratefully in the mirror as she begins to gently tease out the tangles in my hair with a brush. Then she starts dyeing my hair. My stomach clenches as I wonder what color he’s chosen.
While we wait for the dye to process, she works on my fingers and toes, giving me a manicure and pedicure, painting them with the palest of pinks.
After rinsing the dye out, she begins to dry my hair.
I realize that my father has chosen a shade that’s practically identical to my natural color.
I suppose that was inevitable. But he can’t magically grow it back.
My heart sinks as she lifts out hair extensions from their box.
Clip ins, at least. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he made me get the real deal soon.
As she carefully clips them in securely against my scalp, the girl I used to be starts to emerge in the mirror.
If my father hadn’t loved my hair so much, I’d have found it beautiful too, the unique, fiery shade of it.
Now, though, it highlights the hollowness of my cheeks.
She teases the newly added strands into a style that leaves most of my hair down, like a fairy princess with a crown of braids, dotting in sparkling clips.
With my hair complete, she gets to work applying makeup.
It’s natural, almost as if I’m not wearing any at all, but she’s managed to bring some color to my pale skin, and though my cheeks are much too sharp, she’s softened the look by elongating my lashes and highlighting my full lips with a berry-colored lipstick.
The maid scuttles away to the wardrobe before reappearing with a new dress that wasn’t in there before.
A wedding dress.
Oh god. Is it happening already? I thought I’d have more time.
That my father would at least want to gloat and torture me with stories of the future I have in store before I was forced to marry whichever monster he’s chosen.
I haven’t seen him since I’ve been home, he’s like a dark specter haunting my nightmares.
I shake my head as she carefully lays the dress on the bed before producing the lace underwear and heeled pumps I’m to wear underneath it. I recognize this dress. The cruelty of his choice is like a fist to the stomach.
“No.” The word slips out of my mouth.
“You’ll put it on, or I’ll put it on you,” the man says, sounding bored.
“No,” I say again, my eyes glued to the dress in horror.
“ Por favor ,” the maid pleads quietly.
“I’m sorry. I can’t,” I whisper back at her, my voice strangled.
“I can’t hurt you, princess, wouldn’t want to sully the bride on her big day, but if you don’t put the fucking dress on, I will pull Maria’s fingernails out one by one until you do.”
The maid’s eyes widen in fear. She looks at me imploringly, but I remain rooted to the spot.
With a sigh, the man gets out of his chair and slowly strides toward her. He grabs a fistful of her hair, and she lets out of yelp of fear. From his pocket, he produces a pair of pliers, and he roughly grabs her wrist.
“Which one should we remove first?” he asks casually.
Maria starts to scream and tries to pull away, but he holds her tight. “ Por favor, senora! ” she sobs, her gaze darting between me and the pliers.
“Stop. Please. Okay, I’ll wear the damn dress.”
He nods, letting go of Maria, who sinks to the floor in tears, before pocketing the pliers and sauntering back to his chair.
“I’m so sorry,” I murmur guiltily to Maria as I help her to her feet, hating myself for my hesitation.
“ Gracias ,” she whispers as she tries to compose herself.
She does her best to shield me from the man’s gaze as I dress, helping me to lace up the corset so tightly it’s hard to breathe.
It’s a fairytale dress made entirely of delicate lace.
The waist nips in tightly before it slowly tapers out to the long train.
The sleeves are equally long, the backs trailing down almost to my knees.
With the long lace-trimmed veil and tiara, I look like an elven queen.
It’s a beautiful dress, I can’t deny that. A traditional Irish bridal gown.
The one my mother wore on her wedding day.
Most brides would be thrilled to wear their mother’s gown.
Even more so if they lost their mother when they were young.
But to me, this is a symbol of the horror that’s to come.
As I am about to be, my mother was forced into marriage with a man she did not know or love.
She was nineteen, a virgin, and the man she married was a monster.
She had to vow to love and obey him, to honor him above all others, until death did they part.
A death that came too early when I was just fourteen.
The coroner ruled her death accidental, but I always had a suspicion that my father was somehow involved.
Will history repeat itself? Is the dress a subtle acknowledgment of this from my father? Is he telling me that I’m destined for my mother’s fate?
Looking in the mirror, I look almost identical to her.
I only have one photo of her on her wedding day.
The rest were all destroyed after she died.
I try to find strength in her memory, to remember all the good times he can never take from me.
I take a deep breath and nod signaling that I’m ready to go.
As I walk toward my fate, I feel my mother’s presence beside me.