Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
I sigh. Of course she is. But why does it still feel like she's doing it for attention so she looks like the proud mother moved to emotion?
No. Stop it, Bianca. Don't think like that.
And why does it feel like someone's… watching me? Every once in a while, I feel like I'm under a spotlight, and I…
Of course someone's watching. I'm in a crowded auditorium. There are likely loads of people watching me.
Get it together.
I square my shoulders and smile.
I did it! Six years of late nights and early mornings, of essays and exams and barely scraping by on loans and scholarships, and I'm done. I finally have my master’s degree in history.
I should feel triumphant. Accomplished.
Instead, I feel like I'm walking toward the edge of a cliff.
The ceremony blurs into a haze of handshakes and photos. My friends pull me into hugs, squealing about freedom and futures and the party tonight at O'Malley's.
But I won't be going to that party. I'll be packing to move into Marcus Crowning's house, starting my new life as his fiancée.
Three months until I become his wife.
The thought sits heavy in my chest, something I can't think about right now.
“There she is!” Aunt Anna's voice cuts through the crowd, and suddenly, I'm engulfed in hugs and kisses and a crush of fresh flowers. “My brilliant girl! Your father would be so proud.”
Mam dabs at her eyes with a tissue, her mascara already perfectly smudged, like she practiced. “He would have been so proud of you. I wish he were here to see you. If it weren't for those damn McCarthys—no. We won't talk about them, not today.” Then her expression shifts, just slightly, and her voice drops. “Though I do wish you'd chosen the ivory dress, like I suggested. This one washes you out a bit and hugs your curves, doesn't it? The wrap dress has a minimizing waist, Bianca.”
In other words, my tiny mother thinks I look fat.
The joy drains from my chest, replaced by the familiar ache.
Minimizing waist.
I left behind teenage acne and curves I could hide under baggy clothes in favor of my maternal grandmother's generously wide birthing hips, rounded belly, and unfashionably well-endowed breasts.
I'd have fit right in some cultures and time periods, but my peers side-eye my plus-sized clothing.
“I thought the white looked nice,” I manage. The worst part about being a plus-sized girl is the ever-pressing need to make oneself small. To disappear. Oh, the irony.
“Oh, it does, darling. It's fine.” She pats my cheek. “You look fine.” She sighs, tucking the tissue away. “At least Marcus won't care. He's just happy to have you, isn't he?”
“Mam, please—” Why here? Why now?
“I'm only saying what everyone's thinking.” She pulls me into a brief, tight hug that feels more like a restraint. “But you're lucky. Very lucky. Not every girl gets a second chance at a good match after—well.” She doesn't finish, but I know what she means.
After my father died. After we had nothing… because of the McCarthys. After she had to sacrifice everything.
I've heard it so many times I could recite every line and still, she never fails to make me feel guilty.
“I know,” I whisper against her shoulder, my throat tight. “Thank you. For everything.”
“Well.” She pulls back, smoothing her own dress. “Let's just hope it was all worth it.”
Marcus appears at my side, one arm sliding possessively around my waist. He's impeccably dressed, as usual. Pressed suit, crisp white shirt, no tie. Effortlessly handsome in that way that makes people stare.
I really should feel… lucky that he chose me. No, I do feel lucky.
He's classically handsome in a way that makes women swoon… he's well-respected, gentlemanly, and successful. He practically dotes on my mother and me. I'll want for nothing as his wife. And best of all, he's a businessman, not… not some criminal. I promised myself I'd never marry someone who works with the mafia after what happened to my father.
Maybe I'm just getting cold feet or whatever.
“Congratulations, beautiful,” he murmurs, kissing my temple. His hand rests on my hip, his thumb stroking in small circles. It feels like a warning when it should be reassurance. I shiver and pull away, but he only moves closer.
Maybe something inside me's broken. Why do I suspect the motives of the two people who love me most?
“Ready to celebrate?”
“I suppose.”
He smiles in that effortless way of his. “My poor girl. I know it's a lot. Graduation, moving. You're overwhelmed. Try to be excited.”
Why does that feel so patronizing?
I should be excited, but all I can think about is tonight. Moving in, leaving my cat, Sir Lancelot, behind, and how going out to eat means every bite of food I put in my mouth is under scrutiny.
“Soon we'll get you sorted, and then you'll be absolutely perfect.”
Like I'm a project to be completed.