Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 104532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 523(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
When I don’t budge, he looks up. “Don’t worry. Gia and I will be there.”
Their presence at our wedding is the least of my concerns. I can’t give a fuck if they show their faces or not.
“Was there anything else?” he asks with an arched brow.
“No,” I bite out, making an oath to myself as I stomp from his office.
I’ll never fight for anyone’s approval again.
I decided to make Violet mine from the moment I first laid eyes on her, long before she spilled coffee on Elliot’s keyboard and threw wine on my shirt. Her feisty behavior only confirmed what I already knew—that she’s perfect for me. Even stealing from me, no matter how fucking much that hurts, is proof of what a great match we are.
We’re two of a kind, both of us thieves. She stole my work. In turn, I stole her. By my design, she’s finally mine, and I take care of what’s mine. It doesn’t matter that she slayed me. As her husband, it will be my duty to protect her, which means I can’t tell Gus the truth. I can’t tell him what Violet has done. She’s put me in an impossible situation. Living with the lie is the most difficult thing I’ve done. Looking into Elliot’s smug face eats at me like acid, but for now, there’s nothing to do. I made my choice.
Either way, as of today, Gus Starley is dead to me.
CHAPTER 3
Violet
The moving company arrives a short while later. One of the ladies drives the truck while the other drives the new Lexus Leon has bought for me. Leon must’ve given them the spare key.
Despite my protest, they insist on unpacking my clothes. While they’re busy, I call my mom to reassure her that I’m fine, even though nothing can be further from the truth. I tell her about the dress and pretend to be excited. My mom says the fact that Leon is in such a rush to marry me is a good sign. I only agree to make her feel better. What’s the point of punishing her with the truth? She has her own load of hardships to carry.
Invading Leon’s privacy, I clear a space at his desk and unpack my pencils and paint. If I don’t sit in a proper chair at a desk, my hip and back aches after a while. I can’t draw sitting on a sofa or cross-legged on the floor.
For the rest of the day, I sketch, finding escape in the fantasy characters that grow wings and claws that allow them to climb through the porthole down the side of the ship and fly off into space. A bloody battle follows, red gore splattering the pages. The woman who never gets away is pinned to the floor on her stomach, one of the winged creatures puncturing her back with its claws and sinking his teeth into her shoulder to hold her in place as he impales her on his erection and locks the barb of his cock in her womb. It’s the darkest of my drawings to date, matching my mood.
I’ve never been lonely, but since I’ve met Leon, I’m becoming well acquainted with the sentiment. Alone in his house, I’ve never felt lonelier. If today is an indication of how the rest of my days will be, I’ll go out of my mind. I have to get out and keep busy. It’s my own fault I don’t have friends. I could never trust anyone enough to give them a chance.
A memory of Aunt Ginger invades my mind. I sat at her kitchen table, drawing while she cooked macaroni and cheese. When she looked over my shoulder at the picture, she asked me about the girl standing a distance from the group and the monkey dance they were doing. I told her about the teasing and the nicknames. Aunt Ginger told me to own my imperfections like a soldier owns his scars. She said her Billy had a hole in his throat the size of a fifty-cent coin, and he told people through that very same hole to go you-know-what themselves. She said he still had the hole as a ghost because he accepted it as a part of him and that it can only happen when you make peace with what’s broken in your body.
A smile stretches my lips. I miss Aunt Ginger. My mom covered me up in long dresses and skirts to protect me. Aunt Ginger encouraged me to wear shorts and jump over the hurdles I’d built with side tables and cushions in her lounge. She made shorts that fastened with buttons on the side because I couldn’t pull normal shorts over the pins and metal frame in my leg. My leg still bears the scars. They’re white and embossed, an ugly roadmap to where the fixator penetrated my skin. If Aunt Ginger were here, she’d tell me to wear that dress tomorrow and own my imperfect body, which is a much easier feat than owning your imperfect soul. You can’t show off your sins without shame.