Page 86 of I'm sorry, Princess
What is happening?
Why is my mother saying these things?
She doesn’t stop.
“By the way,” she says coldly, as if what she just said wasn’t enough to rip me apart, “your father and I spoke with Archibald about a marriage between you and Ian. He agreed. We’ll meet next week to discuss the arrangement. Oh, and one more thing,” she adds, her tone casual, like she’s discussing the weather, “your father was invited to Moretti’s 20th Anniversary tomorrow. You’ll meet us at 8 PM at the Grand Hotel. Be ready.”
She turns and walks away, leaving me alone in the silence.
My heart races, pounding in my chest so hard I feel like it might burst. My ears are ringing, my vision blurring. I can’t move. I can’t think.
I stumble toward the mirror, my legs trembling, and catch a glimpse of my reflection. My cheek is red, with a faint bruise beginning to form. I touch it gently, the sting making me wince.
She hit me.
For the first time in my life, my mother hit me.
Tears pour down my cheeks, hot and endless, and I don’t even bother to wipe them away. I don’t have the strength.
I don’t understand how it came to this. Yes, we’ve never been close, but this? This is something else entirely.
I collapse onto the bed, my hands shaking as I bury my face in my palms. I can’t stop the thoughts racing through my mind, the weight of her words crushing me.
I will never be a writer.
I will never choose my own path.
I will never be with someone I love.
Marriage to Ian. It could work, I guess. He’s not the worst person in the world, we’ve been friends for so long. But marriage changes things. He’ll want to touch me. He’ll want me to carry his children. He’ll own pieces of me I’m not ready to give.
And he is not my choice.
I stare at the ceiling, feeling empty, hollow. Tomorrow, I’ll see Lorenzo at the anniversary party, but even the thought of him doesn’t stir the fire it used to. I feel numb.
Completely and utterly numb.
I can’t live like this. I don’t want to live like this.
The thought pounds in my head like a relentless drumbeat. My chest tightens, and I start to sob uncontrollably, my breathing shallow and uneven. My stomach twists in pain, and the lump in my throat grows heavier with every passing second, choking me, suffocating me.
Without realizing it, my nails dig into my thighs. Hard. The sharp sting cuts through the ache in my heart, momentarily dulling it. And then I do it again. And again. The self-inflicted pain becomes a rhythm, a desperate attempt to drown out the storm inside me.
I cry until my body feels hollow, my sobs growing quieter but more ragged.
I wish I could just fall asleep and never wake up.
But even sleep feels like a cruel escape. I can’t talk to anyone about this, not even Sienna. She has enough on her plate, and I can’t bear the thought of being a burden to her.
I stagger toward the bathroom cabinet, fumbling through it until my fingers find the small orange bottle. A Xanax. Just one. My hands are trembling as I swallow it dry. I curl up on the floor, tears still streaming down my cheeks, and eventually, the heaviness in my chest pulls me into a restless sleep.
When I wake up, it’s already 1 PM. My head feels like it’s splitting in two, and my body is sore from lying on the cold, hard floor. I force myself up, dragging my legs to the nearest chair as my phone buzzes incessantly.
I glance at the screen.
Three texts from Lauren.
Lauren at 9:40 AM:Good morning, honey! Please don’t forget about today’s party. See you soon. Love you.
