5. Aria
5
ARIA
I shove the clothing into the bag knowing it will never come back to this house. I've already packed several boxes this week, which thanks to Mr. Ramiro are being delivered to my new house any minute. It's not a home, not to me. My home is here where my heart is. With my family.
"I know you're not happy about this, cara , but there is so much to be thankful for even still." Mom takes my hand, and though it's balled up into a fist, she holds it. "I'm proud of you for doing this for your family. I know that God himself is smiling at you."
The idea that any god would allow any of this to happen is preposterous, but I leave my thoughts about the spiritual silent. I don't need to jump into that debate right now when my heart is already so heavy with grief over what I've just done.
Marrying myself to a family that has been pressuring us to forfeit our power and territory for years is, in my mind, the worst idea in the world. But with no other bargaining chips or way out of the mess, it was all my father could do.
"God has a funny way of showing how proud he is." I pull my hand away and reach into my dresser to take a stack of clothing and carry it to my bag. "You think he'll be smiling at me when that man is using my body as his personal sex toy?" The comment is off-color, and Mom doesn't respond to me. I wonder if she ever felt like that in the beginning, when she first married my father. I know what Tito Ramiro wants tonight, and I'm not sure how I feel about it.
"There you are, mio caro ." I hear my father's voice and turn immediately with a smile on my face. It's not as fake as it could be because my father really is the light of my life, and I really will do anything to please him and serve him. He's a good man, with a good heart. "You look so radiant."
He moves toward me with both arms extended until they wrap around me in a tight hug. I pull away and nod at the clothing in my hands. I'm afraid to speak for fear that my voice will crack and the hot, angry tears will fall. Dad doesn't need to see me break down. It will only cause him guilt, and this is all my doing. All my choice.
"Is he sending a car?" Dad asks, and I hear him following me. His soft footfalls are so quiet all the time. He's practically a ghost.
"Uh, no." I look up at Mom, whose distress is very obviously scrawled on her face. She doesn't seem to get the point that the reason I’m doing this is to alleviate my father's worries and stresses. A man his age should never have stress like this. His heart might be a ticking time bomb. "Mom's driver will take me." I set the clothing into the bag and turn around to face him. His eyes are looking at Mom.
"We can still back out of this. It's not too late. An annulment is possible." Now his eyes are pleading with me to change my stance, and I can't take it. If he asks me one more time, I'm going to cave and quit the whole arrangement.
"Papa, please. This marriage is good for you, for our family." My eyes burn with unshed tears which I blink back, but I move toward him with a smile. "It's a good thing. My life has purpose and meaning now. I'm bringing new life to the Peralta name." I cup his hands in mine and look him directly in the eye.
"Oh, dear, you seem so unhappy." Mom's exasperated plea doesn't help my case.
"I'm perfectly happy to know my family is saved. You both gave me so much life and wisdom, and I can repay that here and now." I pat Dad's hands and turn to zip up my bag. "I'm ready when you are."
Perhaps the only thing missing from this interaction is that my siblings aren't here. I don't know where they are, but Melody did mention not having the heart to see me packing up. We've spent so long under this same roof. Even when Jasper moved out, we cried. He lives with a few buddies in Santa Monica now in some big, ritzy house, but Melody will miss me dearly.
"Well, then," Dad says, and his smile is slightly deflated. "Don’t be a stranger." He pats my shoulder. "We'll have a family dinner on Sunday evening if you don't have plans."
"I'll talk to Tito," I tell him, as if I even care what that ogre thinks.
It's a rough few minutes of goodbyes until my things are loaded into Mom's car and I'm seated in the backseat with her. Her driver pulls the car into traffic and turns toward the highway, and I wilt. I can't keep complaining to her. Every time I do, she tries to convince me to give up. I have to keep my negative feelings to myself because now I know it isn't just my father's heart I'm protecting. It's everyone's. They all have to see that I'm happy to do this, even though I'm devastated.
"It won’t be so bad," Mom says, still trying to cheer me up. I don’t say a word. I just let her speak her mind. "You'll see. A man has certain duties toward his wife. You won't have to work if you don't want to. You'll never lift a finger around the house. I’m sure he has maids and servants, as we do."
I roll my eyes but I don't let her see it. That sounds like just about the most boring existence I can fathom.
"Soon, you'll have a child to care for, hopefully a son. He will be the heir to your father's fortune and organization one day, and you'll see how loved he is. Things will change then. Your husband will respect you more."
Is that how it went for her, I wonder? She bore a son and finally, she felt wanted in the marriage by proxy, not by right? I keep my thoughts to myself, and soon enough, we are parked in front of the Ramiro house. It's much different from his father's sprawling estate. Tito's home is new and modern, though it looks like it cost a fortune.
I climb out of the car without waiting on the driver to open for me and stand in front of a narrow swath of property with a tall property fence painted gray. The black Range Rover parked in front has chrome trim and rims that spin even when it sits here parked and off. It's flashy and obnoxious, just how I imagine Tito is in every way.
The home itself is white stucco, square and tall, hidden behind vehicles and streetlights. There is absolutely no curb appeal, which means the inside must be nothing but over-the-top pretension. It disgusts me, but it's not my job to decide how he lives, only to meet my portion of this agreement. Marry the man and bear a child and stay with him for ten years. That's enough responsibility for me.
"Here you are," Mom's driver says, setting my bag next to me on the sidewalk. Mom climbs out and wraps her arms around me tightly one last time.
"You are my sweet, precious girl. If you need anything, you call me." She places my phone charger in my hand and kisses my cheek, and I nod.
"Thank you. I will." And with a brave face, I pick up my bag, knowing the driver will crate the rest of them into the house, and walk around the back of the Range Rover and toward the front door.
The concrete steps offer no place to welcome guests. I already hate this place. I ring the doorbell and wait, and a young Latina woman with bold brown eyes and a warm smile opens the door for me.
"Mrs. Ramiro, welcome to your home." She swings the door open and steps back as I enter, and someone whisks in to take my bag from me.
The home is larger than it looks from the front. Deep, swelling rooms with high ceilings are decorated in modern furniture and paintings, though none of them are extravagant. I'm mildly surprised by the modest look of the place, and I wonder if I'm at the wrong house, mostly because she called me Mrs. Ramiro and I've only ever been known as Ms. Peralta before this.
"Ah, my beautiful wife," Tito says, and I spin around to see him standing near a gas fireplace that's turned off. He holds a glass of some sort of amber-colored liquid and has a cynical smile.
My belly flutters with nerves, and I clutch the phone charger in my hand so hard the plug bites into my skin. He's staring at me like a piece of meat again, and last time he did this, it made my body do things I hated. But this time, he's going to make my body do things I like. I just know it. And what if it makes me think differently of him?
"Mr. Ramiro," I acquiesce, nodding. But he scoffs and shakes his head as he moves toward me.
I glance around, wondering why he looks like he's amused and stalking me all at once, but I'm alone. The help is gone, off to God only knows where, and he is now inches from me.
"Mr. Ramiro is my father. I'm your husband. You should call me dear, or honey, something lame like that. Don't you think?" With a single pinky, he touches my eyebrow, drawing a line across my forehead until the hair is off my face and I'm no longer veiled.
My heart pounds against my chest with rage. I don’t want to feel turned on by him, but I do. He's bold and commanding. He owns me, and I have to do what he says, even if what he says is something I wouldn't otherwise do—for him or anyone else. And he smells good, like a god descended from the heavens to bring my every pleasure to the surface and sate me.
"Dear," I say through gritted teeth. The anger resurges—anger with myself for noticing how the top few buttons of his dress shirt are undone, his tie missing. Anger at myself for letting my groin warm at the thought that he will request sexual favors from me, most likely tonight, most likely soon. It's been a while. My body is tense.
"Now see, that wasn't so hard. Not as hard as my cock." His smirk is painful to look at. I steal my gaze away from his face and stare at the wire in my hands. "They've brought your things to my room. Up the steps, third door on the right. If you don't have some sort of negligée, then wear nothing. I'll be up in ten minutes." He waves his hand as he speaks, and I feel my face contort into a glare. "Be naked when I get up there."
I scoff, and he raises an eyebrow, and I know I’m not getting out of this. The disgusting part is that I want to do what he says. It's like he has a power over me that I can't fight, as if he's climbed into my mind and is manipulating even my desires. I feel my cheeks warming, and my lower belly is set ablaze.
"Go on," he says, flicking his wrist, and I turn and stomp up the steps. What the hell have I gotten myself into?