6 – Badly behaved

If my father thinks it’s going to be easy to beat me, he’s sorely mistaken. This isn’t the first mess I’ve gotten into, and it certainly won’t be the last. What I can say is that I’m willing to take a chunk out of him if I have to.

The room doesn’t match his violent intentions. The walls are painted with stars, moons, a castle in the clouds, on one side, the daytime version of the scene, on the other, the nighttime version.

This place isn’t unfamiliar, and it doesn’t bring good feelings. My mother said she ran away from him for fourteen years. God knows what this bastard did to me, an innocent child, in this room.

He removes his belt, ready to hit me. He tries, once, twice. I lunge at him, but the son of a bitch is strong. He pins me to the ground and sits on my legs. I fight against the hands tightening around my neck.

He’s even more insane than I imagined—he’s trying to kill me. I use my nails, short as they are, to scratch at his skin and draw blood. I manage to claw at his face and leave a line where blood starts to trickle.

He lets go of my neck to slap me hard. I taste the metallic tang of blood in my mouth.

He touches the cut I gave him. Shocked. Furious. And the worst expression of all: a smile.

“You really are my daughter, huh?” he says, and I swear there’s a twisted kind of pride in his voice.

As if someone snapped their fingers, the sick grin vanishes from his face, like he momentarily forgot what he was supposed to do, and some light snapped him back.

“You just need to learn not to defy me,” he says, ready to continue.

Knocking sounds echo at the door.

“I’m busy,” he replies with a neutral yet arrogant tone.

Someone on the other side mentions that a guest has arrived.

Once again, the bastard that is my father shifts his behavior completely. He stands up, all composed, straightens his suit, runs a hand through his hair.

From the outside, he could easily pass as someone who just stepped out of a car after a long trip, fixing himself up for a meeting. He has to be some kind of sociopath.

Confirming my thoughts, he offers me his hand.

“You think I’m some kind of submissive dog?” I say, pulling away from his hand and curling up in a corner of the room.

I get up with the help of the wall. My head is pounding, my lip burns, my cheek stings, and my neck feels like it’s still being strangled.

“Of course not. Hurry up, little one. You need to look presentable to meet your future husband.” He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the blood from his face.

Who the hell carries a handkerchief?

“There’s no fucking way. Bring him here if you want, I’ll cause a scene,” I say. It actually makes him laugh. A real laugh.

“Sweetheart, do you know why your fiancé chose you when you were just a willful little girl?” He waits. I don’t answer, so he continues, “He likes rebellious girls. He insisted on waiting for you for fourteen years. The worse you behave, the sooner he’ll want to set a wedding date.”

“You can’t force me to marry. I know my rights!” I shout, and the look he gives me, his posture, makes me feel so small.

To him, I must look like a tantrum-throwing child. He doesn’t even take my threats seriously. He looks at me with the smugness of someone negotiating the price of their property.

“You have a lot to learn, Leonor. A lot. And I don’t have time to explain. That’s your mother’s responsibility. I’ll send someone to get you ready.”

He leaves the room, and I’m left with a bitter taste in my mouth. This is the fucking worst day of my life. Bastard. Bastard. Bastard.

Damn him, and damn me, for being dumb enough to sign up for that school.

It doesn’t even feel like it was today. It feels like years ago that I woke up as a normal girl with a slightly paranoid mother.

Soon after, two women enter the room, both dressed in black. Then two men also in black. And my mother.

All of them lined up, composed, looking at me like I’m about to attack them at any moment, like I’m some unhinged lunatic. Maybe they’re right.

I debate whether I should run and knock down whoever gets in my way, or just sit still and threaten anyone who comes near me.

“Leonor, you need to calm down,” my mother starts.

“Do you see me attacking anyone?” I snap back. Just because she expects a tantrum, I sit on the floor like a well-behaved little girl.

The four of them cautiously approach me. My mother steps in front and reaches me first.

“I’ll take care of this,” she says, reaching for the suitcase they’re carrying.

I stay quiet as she cleans my face. I don’t make a sound, don’t flinch, just keep staring at her stern expression.

I honestly don’t understand what happened to the mother I’ve known my whole life. This isn’t her, this is a cheap knockoff.

“What’s the plan?” I ask quietly.

Hope surges through my veins when she gives me that scolding look I hate so much. A subtle eye-roll toward the four uniforms around us, and I understand, we can’t talk here.

Thank heavens and all the saints. Her brain didn’t melt into submission.

“Here’s what’s going to happen: you’re going to greet your fiancé like the most delicate of roses.”

“Not a fucking chance,” I say. I get another scolding look in return. This must be the day I’ve cursed the most in front of my mother in my entire short life.

“I know the guy. Your rebellion will only make him more interested. The more polite you are, the longer the wedding will be delayed. Was I clear?”

The same words Lucius used.

There are so many questions in my mind I don’t even know where to start doubting. Just in case, I decide to trust my mother. She would never put me in danger.

I let them get me ready without saying another word. It’s decided that my cream dress with bows is good enough for the introduction. I’m led by my mother, the entourage following behind.

We walk arm in arm like well-behaved ladies quietly complying with the situation. I force myself to smile sweetly as we enter the room.

Aside from the staff standing at attention, only my father and two other men are present. They’re chatting near the bar. This time, if they offer me a drink, I’m saying yes.

One of the men has his back to me, speaking with a man old enough to be my grandfather. The older man’s face lights up when he sees me.

“I heard I have a fiancé. May I have the pleasure of knowing your name?” I say, thinking the man with his back turned is about to introduce himself.

“The pleasure is all mine, dear Leonor,” the older man says. No. Hell no. It’s going to be much harder to fake my agreement with this nonsense while that old man stares at me like that.

My third-age fiancé opens his mouth to say more. I brace myself to swallow all the curses on the tip of my tongue.

The sharp crash of glass shattering cuts through the room before anyone can react. The man with his back to me turns around, he’s only a few years older than me, but he’s young.

Tall, broad-shouldered, I could compare him to a wardrobe. His green eyes meet mine with such intensity that I don’t even register the shards cutting into his hand.

“Forgive my son’s manners, dear,” my fiancé says. I don’t hear him. I’m focused entirely on his son.

The man of my dreams, supposedly a figment of my imagination, stares at me, thoroughly displeased.