Jett
As soon as Amanda and I step into the restaurant, all eyes fixate on us, or rather, on me. A self-satisfied grin dances upon Amanda's lips as her gaze sweeps the room, pausing to appraise the women who can't help but steal glances at me.
I let out a weary sigh, barely noticeable. But truth be told, I can't entirely fault her for reveling in the attention. People view me as a symbol of status—a living, breathing emblem of power and wealth. After all, as the de facto heir and CEO of the formidable Byrd Conglomerate, my company holds stakes in nearly every corner of this country and beyond.
To Amanda, or any other woman who might have claimed my affections, I am an embodiment of grandeur. She clings to my arm with a sense of pride, her delicate fingers tracing comforting patterns, while her eyes shimmer with an unspoken declaration of ownership. There's no use denying her claim, especially considering our impending nuptials. Our marriage shall proceed as planned.
Yet, the identity of the woman I choose to wed is inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. I yearn for nothing more than to conclude this wearisome ceremony swiftly. Love has no place in this union, at least not on my part. As for Amanda, she may profess her love, but deep down, I am certain her affections are directed more toward the name "Mrs. Byrd" than toward me.
The manager, sensing our arrival, hurries over to greet us. "Good evening, Mr. Byrd and Ms. Sykes," he exclaims, a note of urgency evident in his voice.
Amanda pouts dramatically and, with an air of theatricality, addresses the manager in a voice that resounds through the restaurant, punctuated by shrill laughter. "You really ought to address me as Mrs. Byrd now."
Her words hang in the air, followed by a stifling silence. The manager gazes at me, his eyes beseeching guidance. Amanda possesses an uncanny knack for placing people in uncomfortable positions. We aren't yet wed, and such a title is premature and inappropriate. It's as if she were my mother, dictating how others should address her. The thought sours my mood considerably.
Thankfully, Amanda possesses undeniable beauty. Were it not for her physical allure, she would be just another ordinary, uncouth individual. Her luscious, crimson lips protrude in a pout as she turns to face me. Softly, I offer her a gentle smile before redirecting my attention to the manager.
"Lead us to our table," I command, and the manager happily complies. I match my steps to Amanda's as we make our way, though she teeters precariously in her seven-inch high heels. She's already quite tall, and I fail to comprehend the necessity of adding even more height. How on earth does she manage to walk in those killer heels? Women's choices baffle me.
We reach our table, and the gaze of others remains fixated upon us. The women shoot resentful glances at Amanda, while the men eye me, clearly seeking an opportunity to strike up a conversation in hopes of forging lucrative business connections. Even a casual interaction with me holds great value.
Before our food arrives, Amanda launches into a lively discussion about the wedding preparations, her excitement palpable as she details various floral arrangements. Internally, I cringe, as the distinctions between a rose and a peony elude me entirely. I am no connoisseur of flowers.
She raves about the exquisite catering and the opulent venue she intends to choose for our wedding. Thankfully, she eventually concedes to changing the location. To be honest, the specifics matter little to me, but the prospect of showering in the rain on my wedding day doesn't particularly appeal.
Midway through her rant, the waiter interrupts to serve us our usual fare. Amanda fusses over her food.
"Did you ensure the freshest veggies for my salad?" she interrogates the waiter.
I steal a glance at her plate of green-leaf salad, finding it devoid of any particular appeal. How can she possibly find satisfaction in such a small portion?
Amanda proceeds to grill the waiter about the type of oil used and the composition of the vinaigrette. She incessantly extols the virtues of a healthy diet and the indispensability of fresh ingredients.
I take a deep breath, setting my fork down and discreetly wiping my mouth. Amanda's relentless rant has completely diminished my appetite. The once appetizing salmon now appears unappetizing. She is testing the limits of my patience.
"Amanda, please release the poor waiter from your scrutiny," I address her in a deadpan voice. "And focus on your own meal."
She glances at me, pouting momentarily, before obediently turning her attention back to her plate. She yields when needed. Amanda may possess a clingy nature, but she knows better than to overstep her boundaries.
She embodies the epitome of the ideal wife for me—a woman I can effortlessly control. My family, particularly my mother, has incessantly pressured me to marry. With Amanda by my side, she will no longer have grounds to meddle or subject me to blind dates.
Marriage becomes a simpler prospect when the woman in question is malleable. She can bear my child, and we can amicably part ways thereafter. Continuing the Byrd lineage is of paramount importance to my family, although the notion leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Personally, I hold no affinity for children whatsoever.
After a few moments of silence, spent mechanically consuming our meals, Amanda resumes her incessant prattling. If only she could learn to keep her thoughts to herself. She has embarked on a series of gossipy tales, divulging information about people I have no knowledge of.
"Do you recall Chanel, that girl from Michael's house? Goodness, she's engaged in a sugar daddy relationship with a man in his seventies! Imagine that," she exclaims.
"Kenneth is gay! I can hardly believe it. He used to toy with women," she continues.
"Thamos is undergoing cancer treatments. Frankly, he deserves it," Amanda whispers conspiratorially in the second sentence. "He cheated on my friend!"
I briefly close my eyes, feeling a throbbing headache starting to surface, and massage my temples with my thumb. Amanda's incessant chatter only exacerbates it. I am entirely unfamiliar with the individuals she references, rendering her gossip all the more wearisome.
As Amanda continues her relentless gossiping, my boredom reaches new heights. I struggle to muster any genuine reaction to her ceaseless prattle, simply offering an occasional nod whenever she pauses for breath.
However, when she lets out an abrupt screech in the midst of her rant, my attention snaps back to her, and a flicker of irritation ignites within me.
"What is it this time?" I snap, my patience wearing thin.
"Oh my goodness, I left one of my favorite teardrop diamond pieces at the shop! You remember it, don't you? You even complimented how it suited me!" she exclaims in a state of panic.
Truth be told, I can't recall what she's referring to, but I still nod in feigned remembrance.
"I must get it immediately. How can I possibly leave it behind?" she frets, abruptly ceasing her meal, wiping her mouth, and retrieving a lipstick from her pouch. She expertly applies it, smacking her lips together.
"Let's go," she urges, her voice filled with urgency.
"I'm not finished eating," I retort, my expression darkening as I struggle to maintain my temper. It is in moments like these that I deeply regret my engagement to her.
"You hardly touched your food anyway," she protests, stomping her foot and attracting unwanted attention. I can't bear the scrutiny of onlookers treating us like a circus sideshow.
With a nod, I grab my jacket and exit the restaurant alongside her. Just for tonight, I can indulge her demands.
As we arrive at the intended destination, my heart sinks—it's closed.
"Of course it's closed. It's already ten minutes past ten!" my common sense chides me. What a complete waste of time! I run my fingers through my hair, feeling the weight of frustration settle upon me.
Amanda presses her face against the metal grills and glass, attempting to peer inside.
"Let's go, there's nothing to see here," I urge her, my tone exasperated.
"No, I'm going to call her!" she insists, pulling out her mobile phone and dialing the number of the wedding planner. A vivid image of Lilac, the wedding planner, flashes through my mind.
"Lilac," I whisper, her name slipping off my tongue. Memories associated with her name surge forward, memories I prefer to keep locked away in the deepest recesses of my mind. I shake my head, deciding it's best to pry Amanda away and guide her back to the car, especially since there's a group eyeing us from my peripheral vision.
I let out another sigh, feeling the weight of the situation. This is hardly the place to create a scene.
"Jett, do you realize how valuable that jewelry is?" she exclaims.
"This isn't the appropriate setting for your tantrums," I retort, my patience teetering on the edge. "Could you please be mindful of our surroundings?"
She falls silent as she catches a glimpse of a group of men approaching through the side view mirror.
"Oh my God, drive!" she screams, clutching her chest with exaggerated panic. Her penchant for overdramatizing every situation is overwhelming. "Are they going to mug us? Are they here to rob me? Why on earth is this shop located in such a dodgy area?"
"Alright, just calm down!" I glance at her momentarily before swerving into Harvey Street, desperate to escape the escalating situation. Amanda continues her ceaseless chatter, her words blending into an incomprehensible stream.
"Shut up!" I yell, my hands tightening their grip on the steering wheel. "For God's sake, can you please keep your mouth shut for just a moment?"
My attention is divided, and my eyes stray from the road. In that split second, I fail to see the woman running out from the alley, and I collide with her.
"Ah!" Amanda's piercing scream fills the air as the woman's body is sent flying several meters ahead. "You've killed her!"
I shoot a glare in Amanda's direction, hastily exit the car, and quickly reach the injured woman's side with determined strides. Amanda remains inside the vehicle, likely intimidated by the gathering crowd.
"Ma'am?" I call out to the woman on the ground, hastily dialing emergency services. I notice a van emerging from the alley. Were they chasing her? This situation just took a turn for the worse.
Kneeling beside her, I gently brush her hair aside, but my hand freezes upon seeing her face and the blood at the back of her head. This is a disaster. My heart fills with worry.
"It's the wedding planner!" I hear Amanda's voice, a surprised shout, even though she's safely ensconced within the car.
Lilac lies unconscious, blood seeping from her injuries. It's possible she has broken bones, so I dare not move her. Emergency services are on their way. I hastily remove my suit jacket and use it to cover her injured head.
"You'll be fine," I whisper softly, my words filled with a mixture of worry and reassurance.