Catalina’s POV
Catalina’s POV
I had started drinking about an hour before the guests were to arrive.
Was that a smart move? Absolutely not. I had been debating how to make my grand entrance at dinner, without my husband knowing, when I decided a drink was needed.
I needed liquid courage. Apparently a lot of it, because I had two drinks within that short time, and was already feeling quite relaxed and ready for a show.
Dinner and a show. My husband would be so proud.
I giggled like the drunk I currently was at the thought.
Had I considered my baby during any of this? No, I did not. I had been numb from the moment I had got home from the appointment and heard he was bringing his goddamned whore to the dinner as his guest. The same dinner he asked me not to attend. No. Told me not to attend.
I had made it out of the guest room, and was on the main staircase when a couple of my husband’s men approached me trying to get me to go back to the room. That shit wasn’t going to happen.
“If you try to put your goddamned hands on me, I’ll scream. Can you imagine what kind of impression that will leave for Mr. Garcia’s guests?” I smiled drunkenly at the men, who looked like they didn’t want to be where they were right now. I didn’t blame them. Shit was going to fly tonight.
I managed to get myself down the stairs without falling. I had dressed up, because even in my current state, I knew you had to “look your best at all times, figlia.” Even now my evil mother’s voice was in my head.
I was smart enough though to put on low heels with my silky cream colored, floor length evening dress, with its V-neckline. My hair was brushed, but nothing too stylish.
My husband looked shocked as I entered the dining room, slightly stumbling, hand on my stomach.
My voice came out in a loud slur. “Well, hello guests of Carlo Garcia. I’m his missing wife.”
The room began to vibrate with voices that were shocked and disgusted.
Emily got up from her seat, my seat, and approached me, looking smug, “You are a disgrace of a wife. You need to leave.”
My husband continued to remain in his seat, apparently so shocked he couldn’t move, staring at the train wreck of a situation that was playing out right in front of him.
Then the bitch slapped me. My face whipped to the side, and as much as I had been drinking I’m surprised I didn’t stumble. Weak bitch!
Several people gasped and a few swore.
I turned back to face her, smiled, and slapped her back, as she stumbled and fell on her ass, her face shocked. “Just because you're sleeping in my husband’s bed, doesn’t mean you’re the woman of the house.”
I turned to my husband and said, “So you let your whore take my seat at the table, did you? Well, you might as well move her in now, since you’ve already replaced her with me. But you need to learn to put a leash on your bitch.”
I could feel the tears in my eyes, but I was able to turn and stumble my way out, waving my hand in the air in goodbye. I somehow made it up the stairs, but in my drunken state I went to the master bedroom.
I slammed the door hard then locked it, and stumbled to my vanity.
I looked at myself in the mirror, a drunken blur, trying to smile, but I couldn’t see it.
Tears were streaming down my face, as I leaned in and shoved everything off the tabletop, hearing glass shatter.
I then moved to the dresser where there were pictures and trinkets, and I shoved that onto the floor, shattering into pieces.
The noise was liberating. I stumbled to the minibar, pulled out each of the bottles, four of them, and threw them on the floor dramatically, one by one.
The sound of glass breaking was comforting.
It always had been. After my beatings at home, when no one was home but me and the staff, I would find things to break. It helped. A little.
I stumbled across the broken glass and liquor, causing me to slip and fall. I landed in the broken pieces, getting blood all over my hands and arms. I crawled to the wall and leaned against, feeling my stomach cramp hard. I gripped my bloody hand across my stomach, realizing what I had done.
Now I was openly sobbing. “I’m so sorry, bambino or bambina. I am such a terrible mother. I could not keep you safe. You would be better off not to come into this world. It is an ugly world. You deserve better. A better mother. A better father. A better life. I don’t know what to do.”
Then another cramp had me crying out. The pain was so intense I felt like throwing up, then I blacked out.