Page 9 of The Scars We Keep
I laugh, but there’s no humor in it.Just spite.
“Fine,” I say, voice clipped.“But I choose my own dress.”
He hardly reacts.“You know your aunt won’t allow that,” he replies, emotionless.“Or the dresses for your damigelle d’onore.”
I stare at him.“I don’t want fourteen bridesmaids in matching satin, sobbing through a live string quartet like it’s a fucking soap opera.Give me one.Maybe two.That’s it.”
“You know I can’t promise that.”
“Of course you can’t,” I snap.“No one in this house promises anything unless it’s tied in blood and laced with power.”
God, fuck this family.Fuck this life.
I exhale a long, hollow breath before walking to the desk.
I stay silent.Quickly snatch the pen from its spot, my fingers shaking with anger and restraint.I hold the edge of the contract, sign my name across the line, and drop the pen onto his desk.
I refuse to give him the satisfaction of another glance.
If he wants me gone, then I’m gone.
Might as well start now.
It starts with gold.
Fucking everywhere.
Gold trim embellishes the floors.Gold details adorn the napkins.Gold stitching in the white satin that drapes across fourteen pairs of matching heels.I’m standing in a room so bright it blinds me.The chandelier above probably costs more than most people’s homes, and the carpet beneath my feet is the kind you’re not supposed to step on, only admire from a distance.
Too bad I’ve already thought about throwing up all over it.
It’s so over-the-top that it makes you want to scream or set something on fire.
The room is packed, filled with perfume, squeals, and forced cheer.Fourteen women in blush satin hover around me, fluttering like butterflies in heat.Their dresses cling tightly to their breasts, with slits high enough to reveal regret with every step.They’re already crying, and no one’s even said “I do” yet.
I stand in the middle, unmoving.A statue carved out of dread and sequins.They circle around me, cooing voices and fake tears, dabbing at mascara that hasn’t even smudged yet.My aunt beams from the corner, soaking it all in like this is her coronation.
The dress irritates my skin.It’s a damn joke.
White.Puffy.Aggressively virginal.The sleeves puff out like marshmallows glued to my shoulders.The skirt is wide enough to land a goddamn helicopter.And the beading—Jesus Christ.It sparkles across my chest like I’m about to time-travel straight to a tacky Vegas wedding in 1987.
My aunt wanted purity, grace, and Serrano tradition.
What she has is a girl in a dress she didn’t pick, wrapped in lies she didn’t create, waiting to be walked down the aisle toward a man she’s never even kissed.
The veil is pushed into my curls.Someone giggles behind me.Another one sobs.I stare straight ahead, eyes fixed on nothing, throat tight, chest hollow.
It’s all too loud.
I shift my weight and bump into a tower of champagne flutes.One wobbles.I don’t move to stop it.I let it fall, hoping the whole fucking table goes down with it.
“Isabella,” one of the bridesmaids says softly, eyes already wet, voice coated in fake sweetness, “you look so beautiful.”
I give her a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes at all.“I look fucking ridiculous.”
They laugh as if I had told a joke instead of the truth.
“I need a moment,” I say.
