Chapter 8
Amy
Everything is so loud, both in my head and out of it.
The coffee shop wasn’t a good idea. It’s too loud and chaotic when I was already stressed out and upset.
And then throwing my future husband into the mix and…
I was a mess before we even sat down. Nervous about meeting him, about speaking with a man so lethal and powerful…
and then everything just kept going wrong.
I know he was toying with me, teasing me, perhaps even making fun of me. Everything he said seemed to be some kind of criticism on where I could improve. All while the coffee shop kept buzzing with activity, the coffee machines screeching in the background.
I knew I was out of my depth, but now I realize just how far that went. He expected me to be some sort of brat, demanding his money and crying and complaining if I didn’t get what I want. I thought I presented myself well, but apparently not well enough.
The realization that he already had an idea of me—an incorrect one at that—was enough to push me over the edge, until it felt like my world was falling down around me.
Usually, once people had an idea of me, no matter how I act and prove them wrong, they don’t change their minds.
I doubt this man, who’s used to being in control, would be any different.
I sense an ego about him that probably won’t admit when he’s wrong. So how will that work in a marriage?
And then there’s the fact that he didn’t deny that he’d kill me and my family.
In fact, he kind of reinforced it. The stakes are high, and it seems he’s determined to think ill of me.
To get me off of his back and make me out to be something I’m not.
Just like everyone else. But the only difference is, he’s a vicious and dangerous man that can hurt me.
Will he get tired of my perceived offenses and kill me if I annoy him enough, even if I’m not intending to be anything but respectful and courteous?
I’m overwhelmed. Part of this arrangement hadn’t felt real until he was sitting before me, talking about marriage and killing me and his business.
Calling it that felt like calling a shark a minnow.
Except I’d far rather risk swimming with a shark than testing Kerry Alasdair’s anger. A shark would have more mercy.
I can barely focus on where I’m going as I walk, dodging people and wincing at the screaming noise of the city.
All of the honks, shouting, and car noises crescendoing in a chorus of madness.
It makes my head buzz and my body tremble.
My chest feels tight, and I wipe my face with my sleeves, brushing away the silly little tears that leak, the physical manifestation of my overwhelm finally spilling over.
A quiet life. That’s what I’ve always wanted.
Peace. A little house in the country, working from home, walks in nature, dancing in the rain.
Not having to be around anyone so I could be myself without fear or reservation.
Being around people means constantly questioning myself and whether I’m saying the right thing or not.
And yet I’ve fallen into living the opposite.
I push the doors of the hotel open, stepping in and keeping my head down as I hurry to the elevators.
There’s a group of people getting in, and they hold the door open for me, but I smile politely at them and shake my head, wanting to go alone.
I couldn’t be around a group of people anymore, not even for thirty seconds in a cramped elevator.
They look confused, but let the doors close.
My heart is racing. I’m on the verge of outright sobbing, and it’s miserable. I try to focus on keeping my breathing level, but it’s difficult.
This is dumb. So dumb. The dumbest thing ever. I literally just went to a coffee shop and talked with a dude. I shouldn’t be reacting like this. It’s ridiculous.
I obviously knew it’s a lot more than that, but it’s humiliating, even if no one notices.
I didn’t want to give my future husband anymore reason to think I’m a spoiled brat, nor did I want to make a fool of myself in front of everyone in New York City.
As if it wasn’t clear enough that I didn’t belong in this swanky hotel, I become an emotional mess and cry in the lobby like a baby.
Do rich people even have emotions? If they do, they certainly don’t let them overwhelm them like this—to point of embarrassing themselves in public.
At least I don’t think they do. The ones I’ve seen are always so refined and poised.
Unless something doesn’t go their way, and then they yell at workers and throw a tantrum.
Okay, so maybe they do make fools of themselves and are emotional messes. But their outbursts are socially acceptable. Mine aren’t.
But then again, what part of me is socially acceptable? Not much. That’s kind of the point of my diagnosis.
A new elevator finally arrives and I hurry into it. I press the button for my floor and pray for the doors to close before anyone else comes.
But, as if summoned out of my thoughts with a determination to make my life a living hell, Mr. Irish Demon himself catches the door and steps in. His eyes narrow as he observes me.
It’s awkwardly silent as he presses the button and steps back.
I want to crawl out of my skin and leave it behind.
His cologne is light and fresh, something expensive I’m sure.
It smelled slightly fruity and amber-y. It’s light enough that I didn’t smell it until we’re now in close proximity and in the confined space of this elevator.
Somehow, it reminds me that I’m not like him.
Bath and Body Works has been the only thing I could afford for most of my life, even if I had braved going to buy them.
Talk about overstimulation. That store is a sensory nightmare.
He’s quiet for a moment as the elevator moves.
Finally, his deep voice speaks, and I wish he wouldn’t.
I was starting to be able to pretend that he wasn’t there.
“I didn’t mean to upset you, love.” Even though I know that term of endearment is common where he’s from, it still makes my stomach flip like I’m on a rollercoaster.
I stare at the numbers on the elevator panel as it slowly creeps upwards, wishing it would get to my floor already. “You didn’t. I’m fine, it’s just…a lot. Things have been a lot lately.”
He’s silent for a moment. And then he speaks, and his voice is low and quiet. He’s displeased. How terribly unsurprising. “I understand. I imagine it is a lot. But you will have to get used to things being a lot. This is your life now.”
I wince at the reprimand. “Yes, I know. I’m working on it.” It comes out sharper than I intended, but my capacity for expressing myself appropriately has been far surpassed.
He grunts in response and I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes.
He clearly doesn’t understand me, just like everyone else.
But the difference is, he’s going to be my husband.
At least with other people, I can walk away and retreat to the people that do understand me, usually fellow neurodivergents, like my best friend Lily.
“This world is your world now, whether you like it or not.” His gruff voice only serves to further my annoyance.
Yes, he’s handsome. But right now, all I hear is wah-wah you’re not measuring up, wah-wah you better start working on that, wah-wah I’m a scary devil man, little girl, you better listen to me.
It’s like the teacher from Charlie Brown meets a nagging spouse. And we aren’t even married yet.
Okay, I have to admit that I’m not usually so easily annoyed or beat down, but when I’m overstimulated like I am now, it’s much easier to feel run over.
All I want to do is turn to him and give him a piece of my mind, or start crying hysterically, or run away from him.
My mind is a mess of a triggered nervous system and different trauma responses.
Fight, flight, and freeze. And it can’t make up its mind, ironically since it is my mind, so I’m just paralyzed and shaking.
I’m not sure my nervous system can take any more of this.
The stress from my family and the isolation, the death threats, the thought of being trapped with a man like Kerry Alasdair for the rest of my life and the risks that come with that.
It’s a complete and total abandonment of my dreams and yearning for peace.
I hide my trembling hands in the sleeves of the cardigan, turning my head to the side to conceal the tears stinging my eyes, but I refuse to let them overflow. Just a few more seconds, then I can be in my room and freely let them fall.
It feels like my chest is tight, like my heart is going to burst out of it at any moment. It makes breathing difficult.
Kerry is quiet for another moment before he speaks up again.
He’s probably waiting for me to respond to him about the whole this is your new world thing, but I can’t.
Not without snapping at him or breaking down in tears.
In reality, it’d probably be both. “I’ll be meeting with your grandfather tonight for dinner. I assume you’ll be there?”
I take in a deep breath, trying to calm myself. Now he’s asked me something directly, so I can’t just ignore him. I have to answer, so I need to steady myself enough to be able to. My mind feels simultaneously too fast and too slow, all at once. It’s a strange feeling.
I clear my throat. “I don’t know, honestly. He hasn’t said anything to me about it.”
I’m not looking at Kerry— I wouldn’t be able to hold eye contact even if I wanted to. But I can tell my answer displeases him. I just can’t seem to appease this man one way or the other. “Hmm. Well, if I don’t see you tonight, then I will tomorrow.”
I’m about to ask him what he means by that when the elevator dings.
It’s my floor. I hurry off the elevator in a rush.
It’s probably rude, but he already seems determined not to like me.
His constant criticism of me makes me sure of it.
I’m not sure staying on the elevator and devolving into a blubbering mess would help that anyways.
“Miss Astero?” He calls out, holding the doors open with his hand.
I pause from hurrying away, but I don’t turn around to face him. I can’t, not when my chest is getting tighter and more panicked. “Yes?”
“Try to remain calm about this all. It’ll be better for you if you do. Remain calm, listen to your grandparents, cooperate. Trust me, you’ll want to do that.”
His words, edged with a subtle threat, make me want to rage. To cry. To escape away from him, from this hotel, from my grandparents, from this entire situation. It’s all disgustingly unfair and just so…wrong.
I give him a shaky nod before hurrying down the hall again to my hotel room. I can hear the elevator door close again, continuing up. Of course. Probably has a nice suite on the top floor just like my grandparents.
I want to scream and pull my hair out. Fuck them. Fuck them all.
It takes me a few tries to get my room key to work since my hands are shaking so badly. I hurry in and lock the bolt on the door, collapsing onto the bed as soon as I can. My emotions take over until I can’t breathe.
It takes about twenty minutes for me to calm down, twenty minutes of tears, hyperventilation, shaking, and angry thoughts, mostly towards myself. Why couldn’t I be normal? Why did I have to endure this? It doesn’t even feel like me, but I’m just trapped inside my body as it becomes overloaded.
I’m a positive person. But when these dark moments happen, it’s hard not to fall into a pit of despair, to focus on everything I could’ve done or said better.
In moments like these, it’s difficult to remember that there’s valid reasons behind why I’m struggling.
Neurodivergence and janky nervous system aside, the fact that I’m involved with the mafia and being forced into an arranged marriage with a mafia lord is a pretty valid reason to be upset and struggling.
But in times like these, I don’t remember that.
I can’t. My logic melts away and my brain only runs on self-doubt and overwhelming emotions.
I vaguely register I’m in an autistic meltdown, but can’t do much about it.
All logic goes out the window when this happens.
And the worst thing is? They sound logical. Everything makes sense. It seems practical to blame myself, to feel inadequate, to dismiss my own feelings and invalidate myself.
Once I’m able to function a bit better, I go take a shower. The hot water soothes me and gives me something else to focus on rather than my own hysteria without giving it even more stimulation when it’s clearly had enough.
I decide right then, I’m not leaving my hotel room tomorrow.
Kerry might think he’s going to see me, but he isn’t.
It’s not hiding if I’m protecting my capacity.
Hopefully by the day after tomorrow, I’ll be recovered, and my grandparents may actually communicate with me and I can plan.
Because right now, things are just being sprung on me left and right, and I’m just supposed to accept them. I hate that.
I drag myself to bed and snuggle under the covers, my hair wrapped in a towel. I turn on the tv, but keep the volume low, putting on my favorite comfort show. I needed some familiarity, something constant and predictable.
Because my life sure as hell wasn’t that right now.