Cruel Beloved

“You… c-can’t.”

“I just did.”

“I’m sorry, if that counts for anything,” I hear Aubrey saying as I walk up to my fiancée standing next to Chance and Aubrey.

“It doesn’t, but thanks anyway. And Aussie?”

My hand touches her back. Carla stiffens at my touch. Most of the guests have left and all that are left is Barry, Emma, plus the Batemans. There’s no need for me to touch Carla, but for some reason, even though she’s stiff, she doesn’t pull away either.

“You were only doing what your client paid you to do, Aubrey.”

Aubrey rolls her eyes.

“Yes, are you sure he doesn’t have evidence to bribe you too?” I ask with a smile.

Chance is watching Aubrey as if he’s trying to figure it all out.

He knows what’s going on, but I really want to know their history.

“No, he doesn’t,” Chance says more to Aubrey. “We should meet up. You still at the same bar?” Carla nods. Aubrey grips onto Chance, and I try to do the same thing, but this time she steps away from my touch.

“I think I’ll go to bed.”

“You know where your room is.”

Carla’s hand shifts to her hip and she juts it out. “Is it really necessary for me to stay?”

“Yes, it is.”

Chance and Aubrey say goodbye and start to walk out, leaving us by ourselves.

“You do know this is going to be the worst year of your life, right? None of this will be good for you.”

“If you say so.”

“I know so.”

I watch as she walks away and over to Emma, pulling her hair out of its ponytail as she goes. When she reaches Emma, she kisses her cheek before she sees her to the door.

Then before Carla heads off to her room, she turns back to look at me. “Did you do this tonight? Was it all your idea?”

“No. I paid someone to do it.”

Carla simply looks at me as disappointment registers in her eyes before she heads off to her room for the night.

12

Carla

I wake in a strange bed. My heart starts beating erratically not knowing where I am. Then I remember where and why I am here, so I let out a loud sigh. Climbing out of the bed, I reach for my clothes, sliding them back on. I slept naked, as I have no clothes here, though I don’t sleep with clothes on anyway, so it was no big deal.

Walking out to the kitchen, Whiskey’s standing there dressed and ready for his day with an earpiece in his ear as he talks incessantly. I stop, waiting for him to turn around to acknowledge I’m there. He spots me but doesn’t say a word. Biting my lip, I contemplate going back to my room, but it’s the weekend, and the weekend is my time. I don’t have any events planned, and usually I’d go to the beach and spend the day there doing absolutely nothing but reading a good book. It’s the perfect day.

“Do you have plans?” He startles me when he finally speaks and I look up to him.

“Yes,” I lie.

He senses it’s a lie straight away. “Your things will arrive in twenty minutes. I suggest you wait for them.” Then he walks off. Once he’s gone, I head to the fridge to see what’s available. My usual breakfast is in there. I turn to look for him to ask him how he knew, but he’s long since gone. How on earth does he know what I eat for breakfast? Coconut yogurt, strawberries, and peanut butter. I know it’s weird, but once you try it—heavenly. Taking all three ingredients out, I make my breakfast and check my cell phone. My father has tried calling several times, and if he doesn’t hear from me soon, I’m afraid that outcome probably won’t be great.

“You’re too busy now for your own father?” he answers. Clearly, he’s not impressed by the sound of his voice.

“I was sleeping. I’ve just woken. It was a big night last night.”

“Indeed, it was. A surprise too. Wouldn’t you say, Carla?” He’s fishing for truths and lies, but luckily, I know all his tricks.

“It’s what Corton wants.”

“And you?”

“Yes, it’s what I want too,” I say through gritted teeth and a lip that curls up in disdain.

“Good. Good. You’ll be marrying well then.”

I cough. If only he knew. But would he really care, considering I am marrying Whiskey? A man who Father can gain traction from being associated with? Yeah, I doubt it very much.

“Yes,” I manage to squeak out.

“We want to pay for the wedding. It’s tradition too.” My eyes bulge at that statement. I scoop another spoonful of my breakfast, ignoring him as he continues, “I’m sure your fiancé won’t mind. Tell him, no budget.”

“Sure.”

“Carla.”

“Yes, Father.”

“You don’t divorce him, you hear me. You stay, no matter what.” My spoon freezes. “Carla,” he says when I don’t answer.