Elizabeth
The last guests trickled out of the reception hall, their laughter and chattering fading as they departed into the cool evening. The air in the room felt a little emptier, the vibrant buzz slowly dissipating into silence. I stood by the entrance, nodding mechanically to people I hardly knew. It was always like this, wasn't it? A perfect show for an audience that would quickly forget your name after the curtain fell.
"Come here," my mother's voice sliced through the stillness, sharp and expectant. She was standing near the exit, her arms crossed and her expression one of impatience.
I didn't want to, but I knew better than to ignore her. A sense of dread filled my chest as I made my way over to her. My mother always had a way of making everything feel heavier, more suffocating.
"I need to talk to you," she began, without even offering a greeting. Her gaze flicked over me, her eyes scanning me from head to toe as though I were some kind of object she was inspecting for faults.
"Yes, Mom?" I asked quietly, trying to maintain some composure. She wasn't a woman known for softening her words.
She frowned. "You look like you've lost your will to live. Is this how you want to be in this marriage? Is this what you're bringing to the table?" She gestured toward the empty hall behind us where Alexander had just disappeared into the other room. "This is your chance. Your only chance to be something other than the unremarkable daughter. And yet..."
I wanted to argue, to remind her how I didn't ask for this, how I didn't choose this life. But I knew better. Any attempt to defend myself would only make her angrier, as if my very existence had been a disappointment to her.
"Do you know how many girls would kill to be in your position?" she continued, her voice biting. "You've married a man who could give you everything you ever wanted. And yet, you stand there like a lump, unable to appreciate it. This is why your sister is better than you. She would never let an opportunity slide."
Her words stung. The comparison was always there, always sharp and cutting. My younger sister, Vanessa, was everything I was not. Pretty, popular, and loved by everyone. She had been the one who was always praised, always the perfect example of what my parents wanted me to be. They would never let her marry someone they considered invalid, someone who had fallen from grace and was now bound to a wheelchair. No, that burden was mine to bear. I was the expendable one, the disappointment. The one they could toss into this arrangement without worrying about the fallout.
"Maybe she would've done better," I muttered under my breath, more to myself than to her.
"What did you say?" Her voice was low and dangerous now, her eyes narrowing. "Don't talk about your sister that way. She's everything you are not. She's never caused us shame. She has ambition. You on the other hand..." She didn't finish the sentence, but I didn't need her to.
It was always like this.
"I didn't ask for any of this," I said, though the words felt hollow. My chest was tight, and my hands were clenched into fists at my sides. I could feel the weight of my mother's disappointment crushing me, suffocating the very breath from my lungs.
She ignored my comment, her gaze hard and calculating. "It doesn't matter what you asked for. What matters now is making sure this marriage works. Make him happy. Have his children. Don't ruin everything like you always do."
My throat tightened as I looked at her. "You never gave me a chance. You never—"
"Don't start that nonsense," she snapped, cutting me off. "You've had chances, plenty of them. But you squandered them on your dreams. What's important now is making sure your husband is happy, and you better be good at it. He's not a patient man. Don't expect him to just sit there and tolerate you being... nothing."
I could barely hold it in any longer. The frustration, the anger, the years of living under her cold, uncaring gaze. "I'm not Vanessa," I finally blurted out, my voice shaking. "I'm not her. I'm not going to be the one you parade around and tell people how perfect she is. I'm me. And I don't want this. I don't want him."
Her face went cold. "You don't have a choice. You'll do what's expected of you. You'll carry this burden for as long as it takes. It's the least you can do for your family. And don't think for a second that you can't handle it. You're not strong enough to fight me on this."
Just as I was about to respond, a cool, calm voice interrupted us.
"I think we're done here," Alexander's voice cut through the tension, and I glanced up, startled to see him in the doorway, his wheelchair rolling toward us with an air of authority that made my heart race. He stopped a few feet away, his gaze flickering between me and my mother. The way he said we made it sound like he had every right to step into this conversation. As though he, too, had a say in how this would go.
"Mrs Montenegro," he called out coldly, "I believe the guests have left. I would like to spend some time with my wife."
There was something chilling about the way he said the word wife. No affection, no warmth—just a cold and factual statement. I felt my breath catch in my throat, and I couldn't bring myself to look at him.
My mother's face tightened, her eyes flashing with anger, but there was nothing she could do. The situation, the very words he'd used, had settled the matter for her. I was no longer under her care.
"Fine," she said curtly, stepping back. "We're done here, then."
Alexander didn't even acknowledge her as she walked off. The silence between us felt heavy, as though something unsaid hung in the air.
I turned back to him, my thoughts whirling, trying to process everything that had just happened.
"Thank you," I said softly, unsure of what else to say.
He didn't look at me. "It's nothing," he muttered. "I'm sure you're used to it by now."
I bit my lip, my heart sinking. I wasn't sure what hurt more—the fact that my mother had so little regard for me or that Alexander had witnessed it all.