3. Carter
THREE
CARTER
My wedding is twenty-three days away, and as much as I’ve tried to stall, this sham of a marriage is still happening.
A few weeks ago, I chose my dress, opting for the ugliest shred of fabric I could find, not even attempting to find joy in the little things.
Every little girl dreams of her wedding, from the details of the dress down to her Prince Charming, but even as a child, that’s never been my style.
I’ve always fancied the messier side of life, and the color white still repulses me, but wearing a shade reserved for funerals to your arranged wedding is typically frowned upon.
My father is making this a spectacle, inviting family from all over the state with the promise of a ‘Cassini party for the ages,’ and teasing the birth of new leadership.
It’s laughable, how dedicated he is to saving face, but this Family means nothing to me, and if my time in Jersey has tarnished our reputation in the slightest, I can at least be proud of something.
Usually, I’d have more fight in me, maybe come up with a plan to cause a little chaos, but in all honesty, I’m exhausted.
Accepting your fate, and wishing for death, are soul-sucking thoughts that require every ounce of my focus. If I allow myself to think about revenge, escape, or even what I used to live for, it’ll bring the worst feeling of all to the forefront of my mind: hope.
Hope breeds nothing but eternal misery, and since I’m already a walking corpse, that’s the one thing I cannot afford to have.
Hope gives people reasons to stay alive, to look forward to each sunrise, and even if I were to find something to keep me optimistic, I’d reject it.
Death is the only thing that’s willing me through every single day, and I’m always on high alert, waiting for the moment when my saving grace presents itself.
“Carter?” A knock comes at my door, jolting me out of my thoughts, and I don’t bother hiding my absolute disdain for those on the other side.
“Yes, Vincent?” I keep the oak as a border between us, not unlocking or opening the door.
“We have to meet with the Priest this afternoon. What time will you be ready?” He asks, and although he has been trying to ease me through the mundane wedding planning tasks, I still loathe the man with every fiber of my being.
“Whenever you need me to be,” I snark, rolling my eyes as he gives me all the relevant information without an attempt to convince me to open the door.
While he’s been helpful, choosing some of the dishes for the reception, and coming to the cake tasting, we both know what this is, there’s no point in pretending.
He did surprise me one afternoon, opting to have lunch with me, rather than forcing me to suck him off, and we had our first real conversation in the months since he arrived.
It was surface level, but he took the time to express his sorrow for the fact that my heart isn’t in this, and while I appreciated his words, at the end of the day, this is a business deal.
In twenty-three nights, he’ll get what he signed up for – the opportunity to finally sleep with me – as well as the title that comes along with being married to a Cassini.
He’s after power and pussy, but who can blame him? Those are two of the most important things that make the world go round.
Rather than make anyone mad, or give my father a reason to even glance in my direction, I follow the schedule and get ready for our meeting.
The girl looking back at me in the mirror is utterly disheveled, the bags under my eyes sporting their own bags, since I rarely ever sleep.
My eyes that were once a shimmering, oceanic blue are now hollow and empty, barely shining in the light, showing how quickly life can drain from a person’s soul.
Not to mention, I haven’t been taking care of my hair, leaving it in a knotted bun most of the time, and today is no different as I don’t even bother showering before leaving.
Makeup and skin care routines are for happy people, ones who look forward to the day ahead of them and want to feel their best, whereas none of those feelings apply to me.
Chapstick doesn’t even make an appearance, as I genuinely couldn’t be bothered to put an ounce of effort into presenting myself to the world.
My face screams I’m forced to be here, and that’s the cold, harsh truth.
Not even a fucking Priest can save me from the life I’m subjected to behind closed doors, and there’s no point in pretending that this isn’t a carousel of the worst days of my life, my soulless body running on a constant loop of misery that never stops.
To my utter surprise, Vincent and my father have both left me alone today, going off on some business trip a few hours away, and I feel like I’ve taken my first breath of fresh air in months.
In an astonishing turn of events, I’m being treated to a spa day, and there’s no supervision. I could jump off the roof of the building, and there’d be nobody around to stop me, which is sounding more and more like the perfect way to end my afternoon of pampering.
I’m sure this was Vincent’s idea, considering he isn’t the world’s biggest asshole and does express his sympathy, but even so, my haunted look is probably a major turn off, and he’s thinking ahead to our wedding day.
Whatever the reason is behind my freedom, I’m not complaining, and for once, I feel the semblance of a smile on my face as I look out the window at the passing cars, allowing the warm sunshine to break through the armor I guard myself with.
“Enjoy your day, Miss Cassini. I’ll be back in a few hours,” my driver says, and I pay him no mind, never thanking my father’s servants for participating in keeping me prisoner.
After all the torture I’ve endured – emotionally and physically – it’ll be nice to have some time alone, and maybe by the end of it, I’ll feel like a human being again.
“Carter, right? Welcome!” The woman at the desk smiles, and I only nod, finding myself feeling a little jealous at how effortlessly happy she seems.
Even though I fantasize about my death, sometimes I miss the person I used to be, how blissfully I once walked this Earth.
“We’re going to start you off with a massage. You can undress and wait in room three. After that, we have your whole day of pampering planned!” She exclaims, coming from around the desk to escort me, her blonde hair shining under the light as I walk behind her.
“Thanks,” I say weakly, my voice barely above a whisper, as the overwhelming urge to break down in tears washes over me.
Not once have I cried over my situation, not since that very first night locked in the basement, vowing to myself that nobody deserved my tears or emotional reactions, but for some reason, being alone and free is bringing this out of me, and I can’t shake it off.
The girl made of stone is cracking, and at the worst possible time.
Once the door shuts behind me I drop into the chair, head in my hands as I try to get my shit together, to remind myself what we’re fighting for, and the ramifications if we fail.
If today truly is my final day on this Earth, if I find a way to end my life, I sure as hell won’t spend it fucking crying.
Stripping out of my clothes, I neatly fold them into a pile and slip on the fluffy white bathrobe, enveloping myself in the luxurious comfort.
The room is small, with one bed in the middle, surrounded by shelves with plants and knick knacks, but none of it matters, just a show put on for clients to make them feel like they’re getting a rich experience.
Admittedly, this is my first massage, but I lay flat on the table, putting my face on the pillow and feeling my body relax as I let every thought fly out of my head.
The door opens and shuts quickly, but I catch a glimpse of black boots as they slowly cross the floor, the choice of shoe a little odd, considering I assumed I’d be with a female masseuse.
“Hi, babygirl.”
My mind must be playing tricks on me because there’s no fucking way I’m hearing the voice that haunts my dreams, and lives inside my heart because it’s impossible – that person died and on the same day, my soul did, too.
In a split second I sit up, my eyes adjusting to the light, but when my vision refocuses, I’m face-to-face with a fucking ghost.
“Tyson?” I whisper, in complete awe at the man standing before me.
A half-smile cascades across his face, much more somber than I remember, but when he walks closer, my heart thrashes against my chest, like I’m being brought back to life.
Everything feels like it’s in slow motion, but when his hand reaches out for me, his knuckles trailing along my jawline, I lean into his touch, feeling every single emotion I’ve stuffed down for the last six months.
There are a million questions running a mile a minute through my head, the number one being how he’s still alive, but instead of talking, I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him in for a hug that feels like home.
Today, I woke up feeling that it was going to be liberating, but this is beyond my wildest dreams, and I don’t even know why he’s here.
For all I know, he could’ve hunted me down to kill me, but wouldn’t that just be the most beautiful form of poetic justice to ever be delivered?