Page 7 of Downfall

“You do?” He half snarls.

I shake my head blushing. “I…”

“You had fun. I had fun. Why should we stop?” He says.

“Because we’re enemies.”

He rolls his eyes. “No. Our parents are. You’re not my enemy Rose.”

“I doubt your dad would agree with that.”

“Fuck what they think.”

“Roman…”

He kisses me and the shock of it makes me freeze. I’ve never been kissed. I’ve never kissed anyone. His mouth crashes into mine. His tongue invades mine and I’m so clumsy as I try to kiss him back. I can taste the whiskey on his tongue. I bet he can taste the cheap ass punch I was drinking too.

“You’re trouble Rose.” He says. “But you’re my trouble now.”

I smile. A shy, unsure smile that he kisses from my lips until all that concern, all that trepidation melts away back into lust once more.

* * *

Verona Bay.Christ what a place.

Full of vacuous men and empty headed women, myself included in that of course. Because that’s what I am. What the world sees me as. The glittery diamond covered pinnacle of all their aspirations.

Everyone smiles at me. Simpers. Every man runs his eyes over me in a way that makes my skin crawl.

I guess I should be grateful it’s so apparent. That no one thinks to put up any pretence. It makes it easier at least. Though it certainly doesn’t make it more palatable.

I stayed inside, cooped up almost, for most of the day. It felt appropriate. It felt respectful. Paris of course went to the funeral. His family being who they are, it was expected of him but we could hardly make any justifications as to why a Capulet would be there, at a Montague event.

The TV has aired every minute of it. With the horse drawn carriage carrying Horace’s silk lined coffin through the cobbled streets, and either side lined with ogling swathes of faces, not there to mourn. There to enjoy it. It’s a spectacle after all.

Darius walked behind the coffin. Horace’s daughter, Sofia, beside him. She was bold enough to match her black dress with a pair of Louboutin’s that she strutted in as if she were marching into battle. I half admire her for it. The brashness. The gall. I don’t think I’d have it in me to look half as fierce as she did in that moment.

The Montague Heiress.

The words hit me for a moment and that old pain stirs in my gut. I gulp, pushing against my belly, suppressing it, suppressing it all. Six years have passed. Six years and yet every time I think I’m over it another thing happens that proves quite the opposite is the case.

Already the rumours are swirling about him. If he’ll return. If he’ll be allowed back. I don’t think on it. Ican’tthink on it. If I even let my head go near that notion I know I’ll be lost. I know all the darkness that I fight so hard to control will seep back through my veins and I won’t be me anymore.

I’ll be that broken thing again. The creature he made of me.

The one he discarded.

The one he left behind like trash.

I cross through the house. Though technically we own it together it’s far more Paris’s home than mine. A great homage to modernity. All glass and steel and cold like the man’s soul. That is if he has one.

When I married him I’ll admit that I wanted to love him. I’d wanted it to work out. I wanted so badly to replace what was taken but within weeks I realised Paris wasn’t capable of such affection because he was too deeply in love with himself. I was a show bride. A perfect trophy on his arm. And for a while we lived a double life, pretending for the cameras, for both our families. And then I think he grew bored of the pretence, at least in private anyway.

And I grew good at hiding the bruises.

My family turn a blind eye to what we really are. He is more a son to them than I am a daughter. He holds more worth, at least to the Capulet men because Darius is his uncle and the Governor of this state. And that power dynamic alone is worth more than one daughter’s happiness.

As I grab my gym bag I hear the skittle of claws across the polished porcelain and the ugly-cute face of my dog comes hurtling around the corner.

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