I sighed. For all her faults, I knew this was true. She did want me to be happy. She just... didn't realize that people could be happy in different ways. Was I happy now? I didn't know, exactly. I was, at the very least, content to see where this hedonistic relationship could go. And if I wanted to end it in the future, I could. But I could lean on Anton. I could depend on him. And, weird as it sounded, I trusted him. I'd trusted him since I'd first read through his contract. A man so open and forthright with what he wanted and what he wished to do to me... it was refreshing. No surprises with Anton.
Well, none except the small vulnerabilities he let me see, sometimes inadvertently. All things considered, arranged marriages could go a lot worse. A lot worse.
"I don't know, Mom," I said. "I enjoy Anton's company. He's... he's not a bad husband."
A pained look passed across her face. "That's what you have to say about him? He's not a bad husband?"
I was aware of how it sounded, but I didn't want to commit to more than I knew I was able. My growing affection for Anton was well-guarded. I took it out at night when he slept beside me and turned it over in my mind, letting myself explore its edges and contours before putting it away again. It was small now, but with care, it could be something very real.
"Yes," I said. "That's what I have to tell you. He is not a bad husband. I know you want me to be happy with the man I marry, and right now I'm feeling okay with the way things are going."
My mother sat back, somewhat mollified, but unwilling to let this go. "I don't know," she said. "I don't like the changes I see in you."
I frowned. "What do you mean?"
Waving a hand she attempted to encompass all of me. "Your clothes. Your attitude. I haven't seen you do your art the whole time I've been here."
I shifted, uncomfortable. I knew what she was saying because I had the same feelings. Misgivings. But I tamped them down. I depended on Anton to keep her alive. I leaned on him when I felt weak. Which was more and more often.
I stared at the fire. Before I knew Anton, I'd lived alone. I'd worked hard.
I'd been my person. A messy, unkempt person that my mother always lamented of ever learning glamorous personal grooming, but my person all the same. Now I was falling into Anton, fading into the force of his personality, of his dominance. It sheltered me. But shelter can be an awfully small space.
I couldn't let my mother worry about me, though. "I'm fine," I said. "I'm just stressed out. When this whole wedding thing is over, I'll go back to working on my art and stuff."
With a sigh, my mother deflated. "Felicia," she said again, "please, take this seriously, and answer me honestly: why did you marry this man?"
I couldn't tell her it was for the money, and I certainly couldn't tell her it was for love. What could I say to the woman who gave me life, and now feared I was throwing that life away?
I gave her a wan smile. "For the right reasons," I said. "Trust me."
She held my eyes for a long time in the dancing light of the fire. "I will trust you," she said. "And I hope you are right."
***
The fallout of the tabloid pictures wasn't half as bad as I'd feared. Most people just acted faintly embarrassed when they recognized me, but my blog saw a huge uptick in traffic, and, true to Anton's predictions, I sold everything that was for sale in my storefront. Unfortunately, I couldn't find time to go down to my old apartment to package everything up and send it out because wedding preparations—and Anton—took up all of my time.
Dress shopping, gift registry, gift bags, decorations, catering, drinks, bridesmaids, colours, flowers, silverware patterns, and getting tied up and fucked each night and most of the days took up a lot of time. Getting married, it seemed, was a full-time job that did a lot to alleviate any obsessing I might have done.
Besides, after a few days, the embarrassment of being photographed in intimate positions wore off, especially when tourists from out of town stopped me on the street and asked to take a picture with me. Of course, they never asked while Anton was there. Anton gave off a forbidding vibe.
By the time the week was up, I was feeling better about the world, but I was still looking forward to fresh tabloids so my picture would get off the cover. Sadie and I were walking to the nearest drug store so I could grab myself some Midol—my period was coming up and the beginnings of crankiness and cramps were making themselves felt—and discussing how to get her picture in the tabloids so she could sell some of her work.
"We should kiss," she said. "The next time you see a paparazzo, you have to tell me so I can mack on you."
"I'm not kissing you to get you into the National Enquirer," I said. "Why don't I just advertise your shit on my website?"
"Because," Sadie whined, "I want to get autograph requests, too!"
I laughed. She didn't want this kind of scrutiny, and besides, there was no telling what Anton would do if he found out someone had touched his property, for publicity or not.
Ducking out of the rapidly chilling autumn air—now creeping into winter
—we browsed the aisles in the Rite Aid.
"Do you need enemas?" Sadie asked loudly from two aisles over as I looked for the Midol.
"Sadie!"
"Just asking. You never know. What about laxatives. Laxatives and enemas?"
I groaned and put my head down as she rounded the corner, grinning. "Hey," she said. "Those tabloids are going off the shelves. Someone has to
keep you humble."
"I'm plenty humble," I said.
Unzipping her hoodie, Sadie bared her chest to me. "Really? Then I dare you not to sign these."
"No problem," I told her as we headed toward the checkout. "I don't have a pen with me."
"God, Lis, you are no fun at all." She zipped back up and followed me. "Come on, let's see which poor sucker is on the front page of the Star now that it's not you in a dog collar and leash.
"Sadie!"
"What? Everyone knows!"
Cheeks burning, I tried to pretend I didn't know her as I approached the checkout. I let my eyes pass over the colourful tabloids next to the counter as I neared, and a pang of relief lanced through me when I realized that none of the pictures there was mine. Thank god.
Then something caught my eye.
I frowned, puzzled, and reached out, plucking an Examiner from its spot.
The story on the front was something about celebrity plastic surgery gone wrong, but in the upper left corner was a familiar face.
My mother.
I read the words next to her and dropped my box of Midol from my nerveless fingers.
Over.
"Oh my god," I said. "Oh my god." I swayed on my feet and Sadie hurried
"What's wrong?" she said. "Did you get caught screwing your husband again?"
Numb, I shook my head and held the paper out to her. She took it from me.
I saw the blood leave her face when she recognized my mother there, and in a shaking voice, she read the headline aloud.
"SEX, DRUGS, AND REHAB: THE BILLIONAIRE'S MOTHER-IN- LAW SOBERS UP."
We stared at one another while the clerk behind the counter tried to act nonchalant. Then Sadie leafed frantically through the tabloid, searching for the story. There, in the middle of the Rite Aid, she read it out to me.
"Selene Dare, 56 and mother of the recently exposed Felicia Waters, has been attending a court-ordered twelve-step program for narcotics abuse, the Examiner has learned. While billionaire mogul Anton Waters and his newly wedded wife, Felicia Waters, swan about town shopping for their upcoming wedding celebration, Selene sneaks off to daily meetings to maintain her sobriety. The wife of millionaire businessman Jonathan Dare, Mrs Dare lives in California, where she was recently arrested for driving under the influence of illegally obtained Xanax."
My mouth was dry. "Is that it?" I said. Ashen-faced, Sadie nodded.
"Nothing about... about cancer treatment?"
She shook her head. "It's just a little bit of gossip," she said. "You should ask your mom."
But I didn't need to. In my chest, my heart crumpled.
My father tricked me, I thought. And, under it, a terrible thought I could barely face.
Did Anton know?
***
I found my father in the room he shared with my mother in my house, reading The Wall Street Journal. My whole body was numb. I shook with years of pent-up rage.
"I want you out of this house," I said. I didn't tell him why. He only had to look at my face, and he knew that I knew.
Curiously, he seemed almost relieved. The stress he had been living under hadn't been my mother's fake illness, but his terrible lie. He had coerced me and sold me, all to save his shitty business from his incompetence.
I hated him so much at that moment, more than I had ever hated him in my entire life. If Anton had kept a gun in the house, I don't know what I would have done.
But he didn't, and I watched, trembling, as he packed up his things—not many—and prepared to leave. It didn't take long. When he was done, at last, he stood before me.
"Felicia..." he said.
"Don't ever talk to me again," I told him. "I never want to see your face ever again. Get the fuck out of here."
He swallowed and nodded. I stepped aside to let him pass by, the very thought of touching him making my stomach churn. Nauseated, I followed him to the staircase.
His stooped back was to me, his thinning hair sticking out at angles. He'd lost more weight.
It would be easy, a little voice whispered in my head, and for a hot, dizzy moment I contemplated reaching out and giving him a push.
Then he moved beyond my reach, heading down the steps, and the moment passed, leaving me afraid of my anger.
I could have shoved him down the stairs, I thought. And I wouldn't have felt sorry about it at all.
I followed him down to the foyer. He didn't look at me as he left, and when the door closed behind him, I locked it.
I didn't know what to do. I floated from room to room, feeling useless. I had been such a sucker, such an idiot. I should have talked to my mom. I should have done something—anything—other than trust my father. But who would have thought he would lie about such a thing? Who does that?
This place wasn't my home. Every room was cold and devoid of my touches. I sold myself for my father, and this is what it had bought me.
I looked down at my clothes. I wore a long heavy skirt and high-heeled boots. No underwear. My ass was cold.
I went up to my room. All my things were still there, neatly packed in boxes by hands that weren't mine. I dug through them until I found an old hoodie and a pair of jeans. I put them on, and then hunted through my shoes until I found my working sneakers. The chime of the downstairs door told me someone was home, and I went down to greet whoever it was.
My mother stood in the foyer, divesting herself of her coat. "Felicia," she said, looking at me with surprise. "What's wrong?"
Wordlessly I picked up the tabloid from the entryway table and handed it to her. She took one look at it.
"Let me explain—" she began, but I held up my hand. She didn't have anything to explain.
I told her everything.
When I was done, there was such disappointment on her face that I couldn't stand it.
"Felicia," she said, reaching out to me, and I let her enfold me in an embrace. She pulled back after a moment. "Did Anton know that your father lied to you?"
I didn't want to think about it. There was a good chance he hadn't. Except... except it was in the contract that my mother's medical expenses be covered. I had spoken to him about my mother's 'illness'. And he had encouraged me to talk to her.
Had he known?
"I don't know," I said. "I think you should go find a hotel."
For a long moment my mother watched me, and I had to suppress the urge to hug her again, to start crying into her cashmere sweater. I'd known for years that my father couldn't be trusted. How had I let him trick me like that? How stupid was I?
Don't talk to your mother. She doesn't want you to know. Fucking idiot.
My mother packed up her things from her room, then kissed me and wished me luck before departing. I knew she would go find my father and rip him to shreds, but no amount of vengeance could mend this.
I went upstairs, lay down on Anton's pristine white bed, and stared at the ceiling.