My nanny told her once she was concerned because I didn’t smile unless someone was watching, and I didn’t laugh at things that, according to her, a child should.

My mom responded with a question that was left unanswered and consisted of three words. Isn’t she brilliant?

Gabriella Filano didn’t love, but she sure seemed to love my lack of life.

I was dull and uninterested when alone, and when I wasn’t alone, I was whatever I was supposed to be.

I never asked for anything and went along with all; my arranged marriage was simply one of the many examples of this.

My mother asks; my mother gets.

That was the rule.

In our house, rules were to be followed and breaking them meant breaking mentally. To do as you please was weak, because it took drive and strength to be what you should, or so she would claim.

To be honest, when the idea of having my life planned out for me was presented, I had no concerns or reservations whatsoever—something my mother banked on, I realize. She knew how I was and packaged her needs with a pretty little bow to ensure I accepted with open arms and the smile she suggested I use when spoken to.

I wanted a clear understanding of my future.

I wanted to protect myself, to remain numb and go through the motions of life rather than risk an ending like my father’s.

I wanted all those things, and she knew it, she’s the one who forever reminded me of what led Dad to his last day, glorified the idea of impassiveness.

I want none of those things anymore.

Looking around the large space, my eyes travel toward the stairway that leads to the window Anthony and I stood in front of when he brought me here. It will serve as my reminder of how large the world around me is, but how incredibly untouchable it will be from the side I’ll be standing.

This isn’t happening...

“You can begin redecorating whenever you’re ready.” My mother spins, looking at me as if she’s a realtor and I’m nothing more than a client she’s trying to sell a shitty deal to rather than her youngest daughter.

“And while you’re clearing things out...” She trails off, dropping her lipstick in her bag. “Be sure all the trash goes with it.”

“Trash is subjective, Mother, and as far as I’m concerned, you’re the filthiest.” I shock myself with my words, but I don’t care. “Get out.”

“Careful, daughter.”

“No.” I shake my head. “I have no need to be ‘careful.’” I look around this stupid fucking house. “He has all that’s mine now, right? And without a wedding...” I tip my head at her. “I wonder what he’ll do if I step out of line?”

“Jameson—”