CLEMENTINE BENNET
"Thank you for having us tonight, Tiffany." Mother sighed holding on to the latter who nodded in response.
I stood silently beside them, a mere observer in the exchange of pleasantries. The air in Tiffany's tastefully decorated living room was suffused with the scent of lavender, mingling with the soft glow of candlelight dancing on the walls.
After exchanging heartfelt goodbyes, we made our way to the awaiting car, its sleek exterior shimmering under the streetlights. And so we drove home in silence, the only sound filling the car the rhythmic hum of the engine and the soft whirr of tires on pavement.
As we turned onto the tree-lined driveway of our villa, the imposing silhouette of the house loomed before us, its windows dark and unwelcoming against the night sky.
As my mother stepped out of the car ahead of me, her figure illuminated briefly by the soft glow of the porch light, she turned to me with a weary smile. "Rest up," she said softly.
I nodded in response, a small smile playing at the corners of my lips as I followed her lead, stepping out into the chilly night air. The click of the car door closing behind me seemed to echo in the silence as I made my way up the stone path to the front door.
I made my way up the staircase to my room, each step feeling heavier than the last. As I closed the door behind me, shutting out the world beyond,I stood for a moment in the dim light, the silence of the house enveloping me like a heavy blanket. As I turned away from the door, my eyes fell upon the mirror hanging on the wall opposite.
The woman reflected back at me stood tall and poised, her posture exuding confidence and grace. She wore a simple yet elegant white dress that draped softly around her figure nude-colored heels adorned her feet, adding a touch of sophistication to her ensemble.
A hint of color graced her lips, delicate jewelry adorned her ears and wrists, catching the light with every movement. Caramel brown locks, cascading in loose waves down to her waist in a cascade of shimmering silk.
A delicate smile played on her lips, a sharp contrast to the tears that welled up in her eyes. And as a single tear slipped down her cheek, mirroring the sorrow that weighed heavy on my own heart, I finally allowed myself to collapse.
Alone in my room, the facade I had carefully constructed crumbled around me, leaving me raw and vulnerable in its wake. Tears flowed freely down my cheeks.
In that moment of release, I let go of the walls I had built around my heart, allowing myself to feel the full weight of my emotions for the first time in what felt like an eternity.
Tears blurring my vision as I was brought back by memories.
As I stood amidst the opulent grandeur of the banquet hall, the weight of the judgmental stares bore down on me like a heavy cloak. Whispers of scandal and condemnation followed in our wake, casting a shadow over my mother and me, branding us with the mark of social pariahs.
I was just a child then, too young to fully grasp the gravity of the accusations hurled our way, but old enough to feel the sting of their disapproval. Tears threatened to spill from my eyes as I struggled to navigate the sea of faces that regarded us with thinly veiled disdain.
Unable to bear the suffocating atmosphere any longer, I fled the suffocating confines of the hall, seeking solace amidst the tranquility of the gardens beyond. There, beneath the soft glow of moonlight, I let the tears flow freely, my heart heavy with sorrow and shame.
It was in that moment of vulnerability that he found me. He approached with cautious steps, reluctantly extending a handkerchief in offering, his voice soft and soothing as he spoke words of comfort.
"Don't cry," he said gently, his words a balm to my wounded soul. "I don't like seeing girls cry."
In that simple gesture of compassion, I found a flicker of hope amidst the despair, a ray of light piercing through the darkness that threatened to consume me. Though I had yet to understand the complexities of love, in that moment, I knew that I had found something rare and precious in the depths of his gaze.
And as I accepted the handkerchief with trembling hands, I felt a spark ignite within me, igniting a flame that would burn bright and true for years to come.
The revelation of my new father's long-standing friendship with his own father filled me with a radiant hope, a hope that dimmed swiftly as I noticed the furrow of his brow whenever I drew near. His frowns were as constant as my attempts to earn even a fleeting smile.
Each time I approached, his expression darkened further, as though my very presence cast a shadow over his day. His disdain was palpable, his discomfort evident in the tense lines of his face.
Yet, undeterred by his obvious displeasure, I persisted, clinging to the fragile hope that perhaps one day my efforts would soften his scowl. But with each passing moment, his irritation seemed to deepen, his frowns a silent rebuke to my persistence.
Despite the ache of rejection that gnawed at my heart, I couldn't bring myself to retreat.
The news of Tristan's and my engagement ignited a whirlwind of emotions within me, a blend of elation and trepidation swirling in the depths of my soul. While my heart soared at the prospect of our union, a pang of uncertainty gripped me as I glimpsed the anguish flickering in Tristan's eyes.
His discomfort was palpable, a silent testament to the chasm that divided our worlds. Tristan, the heir to the illustrious Andrews dynasty, belonged to a realm of opulence and prestige, a world where lineage and status held sway. In stark contrast, I bore the weight of a label too heavy to shed—the daughter of a mistress.
The whispers that followed, the scrutinizing gazes of high society's elite—they were a harsh reminder of the gulf between us, a divide too vast to bridge. In the eyes of the world, I was an outsider, unworthy of standing by Tristan's side.
My mother, a waitress at a hotel, found solace in the companionship of Mr. Richard Bennet following the loss of his wife to cancer. Witnessing her rediscover happiness in his company filled me with a profound sense of joy, and I wholeheartedly offered them my blessings. However, I never anticipated the weight of the label that would be thrust upon me: "The daughter of a mistress."
Despite Mr. Richard's vehement assurances that his relationship with his late wife had lacked any emotional connection, the whispers and judgmental stares from others persisted. Though he attempted to shield us from the gossip, the cruel words still managed to find their way to our ears.
Caught in the crossfire of society's scrutiny, I watched helplessly as my mother grappled with the pain of being branded as a mistress and the toll it took on her. There were moments when I found her silently weeping, her tears a testament to the wounds inflicted by the harsh judgments of others. Yet, in the face of her suffering, I found myself at a loss for words, unable to offer the comfort she so desperately needed.
Driven by a strong desire to be seen as his equal, I set out to prove myself worthy of him. I wanted to show that I belonged by his side.
I worked hard to learn the ways of high society, practicing how to behave and speak like them. I also picked up their hobbies, like playing instruments and horseback riding, hoping to fit in better.
After tireless effort, it appeared my hard work had paid off as I finally earned Tiffany Andrews' nod of approval. Her recognition was a validation of all my endeavors, a sign that perhaps I had indeed succeeded in my quest for acceptance.
Gazing at my reflection in the mirror, I saw a version of myself that seemed worlds away from the poised and elegant woman I usually portrayed. Tears dampened my cheeks, but with a steadying breath, I wiped them away, running my fingers through my hair to restore some semblance of order. And then, summoning a small, measured smile, I met my own eyes in the mirror—not too small, not too wide, just enough.
"Just.." I steadied my breath, " perfect."
As the morning sun filtered through the curtains, I stirred awake, feeling the weight of the previous day's emotions lingering in the corners of my eyes. With a sigh, I glanced at my reflection in the mirror, noticing the faint puffiness that betrayed my restless night. Quickly, I reached for my trusty eye cream, gently patting it on to conceal any traces of tears and fatigue.
With dishes in hand, carefully crafted under the watchful eye of our home chef, I made my way to Tristan's apartment, a flutter of nervous excitement dancing in my chest. Standing before his door, I raised my hand and knocked, the sound echoing softly in the hallway.
But as the moments stretched on, there was no answer. I waited patiently, a sense of unease creeping into my thoughts. Knocking again, I called out Tristan's name, my voice carrying a hint of uncertainty.
"Tristan? It's Clementine," I called out once more, the words hanging in the air. A flicker of worry crossed my mind as I wondered why there was no response. Was he not home? Or perhaps he was simply occupied with something else? Either way, couldn't shake the feeling of apprehension that settled over me as I stood outside his door, the dishes in my hands growing heavier with each passing moment.
I hesitated, my knuckles hovering just inches from the door as I debated whether to knock again. Before I could decide, the door swung open, revealing a disheveled Tristan. His eyes, heavy with sleep, blinked in annoyance at the interruption. It was evident he had just emerged from a deep slumber; his unruly hair stood in every direction, a testament to his recent battle with the snooze button.
As my gaze trailed downward, I couldn't help but notice his bare chest, the definition of his muscles softened by the morning light filtering through the doorway. Heat rushed to my cheeks, and I quickly averted my eyes, suddenly aware of the intimacy of the moment. Tristan stood before me, clad only in a pair of gray sweatpants, the fabric clinging to his frame in a way that left little to the imagination.
"Cameron you—" his words trailing off mid-sentence upon recognizing that it was me.
I cleared my throat, attempting to dispel the awkward tension that hung between us like a heavy fog. My cheeks burned with embarrassment, undoubtedly resembling a ripe tomato.
"Here," I managed, thrusting the dishes forward in an attempt to divert attention away from my mortification. "I brought you breakfast."
Tristan's gaze remained fixed on me, his expression unreadable as I stood there, feeling increasingly awkward with each passing second. The silence stretched on, thick and heavy, until I couldn't bear it any longer.
"C-can I come in?" I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper, the sound barely audible against the backdrop of the morning.
Tristan didn't respond immediately, his eyes still locked with mine in an unyielding stare. For a moment, it seemed as though he might refuse, but then, with a barely perceptible nod, he stepped back, allowing me a glimpse inside his apartment.
I hesitated for a moment before tentatively crossing the threshold, my footsteps echoing softly against the floorboards. The air inside was cool and still, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the morning sun filtering through the windows.
As I stepped into Tristan's apartment, I was struck by the air of pristine quality that surrounded me. Everything was impeccably arranged, from the sleek, modern furniture to the polished hardwood floors that gleamed underfoot. Yet, despite the evident luxury, there was a distinct coldness that permeated the space, casting a pall over its otherwise flawless exterior.
The walls, painted in shades of cool gray and white, seemed to repel warmth rather than embrace it. They stood bare, devoid of any artwork or photographs that might have added a personal touch to the space.
Even the air felt cold and sterile, lacking the warmth and vitality that one would expect to find in a home.
Stepping into his impeccably designed kitchen, complete with state-of-the-art appliances and polished granite countertops I carefully placed the dishes I had brought onto the pristine dining table.
Opening the fridge, I was greeted by a sparse collection of necessities: a handful of regular beers and energy drinks.
By the time I finished arranging the dishes on the elegant dining table, Tristan sauntered into the kitchen, the soft patter of his footsteps a welcome interruption to the stillness.
Clad in a simple white shirt and sweatpants. His hair, still damp from a recent shower, glistened in the soft glow of the overhead lights, water droplets clinging to the strands of his hair.
"Let's eat?" I asked tentatively, gesturing towards the spread of dishes with a forced smile.
Tristan's response was a subtle nod, his gaze avoiding mine as he settled into his seat at the table. The air between us grew heavy with unspoken words, the silence hanging awkwardly in the air like a heavy fog.
As we picked at our food, the only sound that filled the room was the muted clinking of utensils against plates. Each bite felt like an eternity, the tension palpable with every passing moment.
Desperate to break the suffocating silence, I searched for something, anything, to say. But each attempt died on my lips, swallowed by the weight of uncertainty that gripped me.
"There's this gallery opening tonight," I began, my voice faltering slightly as I struggled to find the right words. "My friend asked me to go, and, well... I was wondering if you'd like to come with me?"
"I will," a smile grazed onto my lips at his response.
"It's not like I have much of a choice anyways." The smile on my lips immediately faltered.
"I won't force you to go if you don't want to, we could just sit this one out," I said, "I'm sure she'll understand.."
Tristan's words pierced the air with a weight I couldn't ignore. "No, I'll go," he said, his voice tinged with a sense of duty rather than enthusiasm. "I'll keep my end of the bargain."
His response echoed the terms of our agreement. Half a year. Six months. Just six months, to change his mind or face the consequences by ending our engagement.
As the realization sank in, a wave of emotions crashed over me. Hurt mingled with frustration, resentment simmered beneath the surface. Did he hate me that much? Was I simply a burden he couldn't wait to be rid of?
"Alright…see you tonight." I said with a smile.