Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
“Don’t tell me you miss that fucking monstrosity?”
“No, but where is it?”
“Bottom of the ocean by now.” He shrugs. “Who cares. You’ll wear my ring once we’re married.”
“I don’t want your ring.”
“You’ll wear it anyway. Get dressed and try to remember I’m not your enemy, will you? It’s getting tiring,” he says and walks out.
Feeling like a chastised, petulant child, I flip off the closed door before walking into the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. I comb my fingers through my hair, but there’s only so much I can do.
Back in the bedroom, I open the closet door. I’m not sure what I’m expecting, but what I see is not it. For a full minute, I stare up at the dress hanging there because it’s beautiful. It’s a simple floor length dress of white satin and lace. The satin drapes at the neck and delicate spaghetti straps hold it up. On the floor is a pair of pretty shoes.
I touch the gown, take it off the hanger. It is as light as a feather and so utterly different than the one Mira had picked out for me. This one is something I would choose myself.
I take off the nightgown and slip the dress over my head. I reach back to zip it. It’s a near perfect fit. There isn’t a mirror in the room, so I can’t see what I look like.
Someone knocks on the door a moment later. I look over my shoulder as Silas opens it. He stops short, mouth falling open.
It takes him a minute before he recovers, clears his throat and steps toward me.
“I’m not ready,” I say.
He brushes my hands away, his fingers warm against my skin. We’re silent, awkwardly so. I’m holding my breath, trying not to make a sound, trying not to feel that spark of electricity, of excitement at his touch as he zips the dress all the way up. He slides his hands over the smooth satin as he turns me to face him.
I clear my throat, stupidly nervous, and find I can’t meet his eyes. I try to remind myself that this isn’t real.
“You look beautiful,” he says.
“I look like I don’t own a comb, not to mention the truck that ran me over,” I say, sitting on the edge of the bed to slip on the shoes.
He smiles, crouches down to take them from me. “You always look beautiful. You just don’t see it.”
I don’t know how to respond, so I regress to anger like I have with him for the last few years. “I can do that myself,” I say, trying to pull my foot free when he takes it in his hands.
“If it hurts, we can…”
“What? Go barefoot?”
“I’ll carry you.”
“It’s fine.”
He nods, slips the shoes on. I’m grateful they’re about half a size too big. I stand up as he straightens and look up at him, feeling self-conscious and, honestly, nervous.
“Ophelia, the dress—”
“This isn’t real, Silas. You don’t have to pretend anything, so drop the act. You’re getting what you want, and I’m walking away once it’s over. That’s the deal. So, let’s go get this done so we can both be free of each other.”
I stalk out of the bedroom and into the hallway. It’s a single-story cabin and I see the fire in the living room burning in a stove similar to the one in the bedroom. Lourdes is there, along with her brother. She takes me in and smiles wide.
“You look beautiful, my dear,” Lourdes says.
“Thank you.”
“This is my brother, Father Emiliano.”
“Hello, Father,” I say, not sure if I should be irritated or outright angry at their complicity with Silas’s plan but there is a part of me that wants this. A part I am trying hard to ignore.
“Ready?” he asks as Silas joins us.
“Can’t wait,” I say.
Silas chuckles, wraps a hand around the back of my neck and turns me toward the front door.
Lourdes gives me her coat, but I notice she doesn’t have another and refuse it. Silas takes his own off the coat rack and sets it over my shoulders. I’d refuse that too, but when Father Emiliano opens the front door and we step out into the bracing morning, wind blowing rain at our faces, I shiver and hug it close. His aftershave lingers, and I breathe it in. We follow Lourdes and Father Emiliano to the chapel. It’s a short walk. Much of the snow is gone, the temperature just a few degrees above freezing but enough to turn what could have been more snow into rain.
I notice then the small graveyard, the tops of the grave markers sticking out of the snow. I glance up at Silas and follow his gaze to the angel, whose wings and head are just visible. For a moment, he looks so incredibly sad that I am tempted to reach out, to comfort him.