The woman I always thought of as my mother—what did this do to her? Having to raise another woman's child as her own? I can't remember her ever letting on, though now the memories I have of Dad and Cynthia together make more sense. Like that day in the plaza that I remembered when Christian took me shopping. Context is everything, as he said.
And now I remember how happy Dad seemed. Happier than he ever was when we were together as a family at home. More relaxed, natural, carefree. I finally understand. He was with the woman he really loved and their child. I don't know if I should feel sorry for them or if I should hate them. Maybe a little of both.
Because I do love her. It isn't like she hasn't been a mother to me all these years. Now, it's official. And just like Christian always was who he was before I knew the truth about him, the same is true for Cynthia. She was always my mother. Nothing about the past changes just because I know the truth now. I have to get right with it. I only wish I knew how.
Almost as much as I wish I knew how to stop loving Christian.
I don't say a word to Cynthia as she helps me into the dress. It's chic, clingy, and probably costs thousands of dollars for all its simplicity. White lace over flesh-colored satin, it almost molds itself around my body as Cynthia, and one of the maids work on the seemingly endless row of buttons that runs up the back. It has a short train that swishes around my feet when I turn slowly, looking at myself in the full-length mirror.
“For what it's worth,” Cynthia murmurs behind me, “you're the most beautiful bride I've ever seen. I know that's probably cold comfort right now, and I'm probably the last person you want to hear it from, but that doesn't make it any less true.”
My throat's too tight to speak. I can't even look at her in the reflection in the mirror. Not when my love for her is just as strong as my sense of betrayal. Not when I'm embarrassed with myself. Christian had a gun to her head. I have no doubt he would’ve killed her to get his way. How can I love him? An irredeemable psycho. There must be something deeply broken inside me if I'm able to love him in spite of all of that. Everything he's done to me.
The maids leave us alone. Cynthia adjusts my train and inserts a few extra pins in my hair where it seems like it's falling loose. She's gentle, as always, and when she finishes, she rests a hand on my shoulder. At first, her touch is featherlight as if she expects me to shrug her off. When I don't, her grip firms. “I don't know if it's strength or shock getting you through this. I'm proud of you either way. I thought you should know that.”
Strength? Shock? Try helplessness. He's finally broken me down. I know there's no hope of getting out of this, so why bother trying? All fighting does is make things worse. And even if she did lie to me all my life, she also loved me. She still does. If this means saving her life, I'll do it. She's already sacrificed so much of hers for me, after all.
Because she had no choice, did she? She accepted the way things were and did everything she could to survive. She didn't waste time crying and whining and asking what she did to deserve the hand fate dealt her. She simply adjusted and moved on. Can I do that?
I meet my gaze in the mirror, and there's a hardness in my expression that brings Christian to mind. I've seen him like this. Hard and cold, impenetrable. Now I understand why he had to build walls around himself and why he learned to disconnect emotion from his actions. It's easier than breaking down.
It's time I started behaving that way. Right now. If this is what my life is, I need to accept it instead of causing myself more pain by fighting it.
My chin lifts. My shoulders roll back. I'm about to become a Russo. Now’s the time to start behaving like one.
I glance at Cynthia, and her brow lifts. She doesn't say a word, though I see from the way her posture changes she knows something is different. She sees it in me, and why not? No one in the world knows me better than she does. Not even Christian, who delivers a single knock against the door before pushing it open.
There's no need to do the whole you can't see the bride before the wedding thing, so I don't bother. Instead, I watch his mouth fall open, his eyes almost bulging. It isn't often he's rendered speechless. “You are just as stunning as I imagined.” He extends a single white rose. “For you.”