I towel-dried my hair then wiped the steam from the mirror, and my reflection stopped me dead in my tracks. The courage I’d been building went up in a puff of smoke. The woman staring back at me had red-rimmed eyes and limp hair and a coward’s posture.

On the flight home, I might have considered going to the extreme, bucking my grandmother’s demands of me and walking away from everything I’ve ever known. But for what? Freedom?

What does an animal born in captivity know of freedom?

I turned off my bathroom light and walked toward my bed, all too eager to bury myself beneath the sheets.

The courage I lost that night never returns. The days start to pass, and I find myself right back where I was before Italy. Life becomes a familiar hamster wheel as I dress in the clothes Margaret picks for me and go to work at Morgan Fine Art Gallery or attend a charity luncheon or accompany my grandmother on a shopping trip or to one of her clubs.

All the while, I carry a tight ball of anxiety with me everywhere I go. My appetite disappears. I sleep so little at night it’s hard to hide the evidence in the morning.

The guilt gnaws at me constantly. Not only did I upset my grandmother in Italy, I showed her a side of myself I’m always so careful to suppress. The woman who flirted with Emmett in the bathtub, who sneaked out to visit him on the pier, who was late to dinner and disrespectful to her host—she’s not someone my grandmother would be proud of.

I feel terrible about my ruined betrothal to Royce. Had things only worked out between us, if I could only go back and fix my bad behavior, act differently, behave like I’ve been taught to…I wouldn’t be feeling as if my life is falling to pieces.

I don’t want to go against my grandmother’s wishes. I want to make her happy and do the exact right thing, always. Now, I’m doing everything she’s asked, and yet somehow, I still feel like I’m failing. I need advice, but I have no one to turn to, and that sad realization emphasizes the fact that I have never felt so utterly alone in all my life.

For sanity’s sake, I keep thoughts of Emmett on the periphery of my mind, as far from reach as possible. Every now and then, a sweeping feeling takes hold from either end of the spectrum: anger at him for playing with fire or pity over the fact that he’s been dragged into this. Though, one thing is for certain: I can’t completely absolve him of guilt. He questioned me, taunted me, flirted with me until ultimately, he got what he wanted. He lit the match, and we all burned.

While the days pass, I hear no further bits of information about the betrothal. I’m too nervous to bring it up to my grandmother, and she doesn’t broach the subject with me either. I’m almost delusional enough to think the problem will solve itself until two weeks after the trip to Lake Como, when Margaret and I are packing for the St. John’s Alumni Fundraiser. My grandmother comes in to survey what we’ve picked so far. She smooths the material of a Versace skirt. “Choose something especially pretty to wear for the event as it’ll be the first time you’re presented alongside your fiancé.”