Page 11 of Obsession

“Your brother wouldn’t want this,” she says steadily, lifting her hands and wiping the imaginary tears from her eyes. “Wouldn’t want me crying before your big day.” She’s dramatic in the way she pats at her under eyes and sniffles loudly.

I roll my eyes. How would she even know? Marcus wasn’t much of a brother or son, more like a dictator, controlling every move that happened in this house. He saw the world as one big chess game and we were all just pawns on his board. Pawns he wasn’t about to let make any moves on our own, God forbid we fuck up his long game. But I guess none of that matters anymore. His long game, whatever it was, is gone now. Just like him.

“We’re still having a wedding?” I question, blinking my brown eyes to feign ignorance when both Adrian and my motherturn to me. “I mean, I would hate to interrupt everyone’s grieving by being selfish. We should postpone.” When she narrows her eyes at me, I add, “Just until we find him.”

Without a body, this could go either way. But we all know that Marcus didn’t just go missing. That’s not what happens in this life.

Adrian’s lips have tilted up into a slight smile, and I think if my mother wasn’t standing next to him, he’d laugh. Does he find my attempt to cancel our marriage amusing?

“No,”—my mother waves dismissively—“what’sselfish, Madalena, is trying to take this one piece of joy away from everyone.” She turns to Adrian as if she can’t stand to look at me anymore. “Thank you,bello, for bringing my daughter home.” She pats his shoulder affectionately. “I have to get her ready for the wedding now. We’ll see you at the rehearsal dinner,si?”

“Si,” Adrian confirms, leaning in and giving my mother a peck on each cheek. He gives her one last smile before he turns to me, taking two long steps into my orbit.

I don’t back up this time, unlike last night, when he had me pinned against the wall.

“Be good, princess,” he whispers, low enough that my mother won’t hear. “And in twenty-four hours when you’remine,maybe I’ll give you a reward.”

“It’s more like thirty hours,” I correct him. “But I guess that’s close enough.” I can’t help but to let the corners of my lips tilt into a smile.

Adrian’s eyes glimmer at my comment. I think the sick fuck likes it when I mouth off to him. My comebacks and child-like brattiness have the habit of pissing off most men in my life. But Adrian smiles like he has a secret. Maybe he’s a glutton for punishment? I’m not sure. But either way, the cocky asshole is intent on marrying me.

So I’ll have to find more than just sassy comebacks to make him realize what a goddamn mistake he’s making.

I promised him I would steal his life for taking mine, and I intend to keep it.

I manageto shower and change my clothes before my mother drags me out of the house to my hair appointment. I’m not sure why I need an appointment the day before my wedding, but I keep my lips sealed and go anyway. Arguing with my mom is futile. We both inherited the same Costello genes, and this family has had a stubborn streak for three generations. We’ll never come to an agreement; both of us will argue and say nasty things until someone cries. That’s always how it ends, with one of us going just a bit too far and hurting the other’s feelings. Then we’ll ignore each other for a few hours and eventually apologize and make up, but nothing will ever change.

“Vanessa!” My mother greets her longtime stylist with a hug and a peck on the cheek. The dyed blonde woman I’ve known since I was ten gives me a smile and a look over. Her eyes linger on the strands of blue in my hair. She hates it, refused to dye it that color, so I did it myself. Much to my mother’s dismay, she wasn’t successful in trying to control every aspect of my life.

But the look on her face says today is different. She and Adrian want this marriage to happen, and nothing I say is going to change their minds.

“Can you fix that mess?” my mother asks her friend, both sets of eyes landing on my hair.

“Yes,” Vanessa says confidently, her hand patting the back of her chair in a gesture for me to sit down.

“Thank God.” My mother huffs out a breath. “She can’t get married with such an…offensivecolor on her head.” She clutches a hand to her chest as if that’s the worst possible situation. Another ache rattles through me. My mother is more concerned about the color of my hair than the man I’m marrying. She has no cares about if we get along, if he treats me well, if he even loves me. Not to mention, she hasn’t even asked me my opinion. All she cares about is making sure her status isn’t lost.

I’ve avoided wedding planning at all costs, but I know my mother has spent hours putting together what she believes will be the wedding of the century. In this family, the men run the businesses and the women plan parties. Her entire self-esteem is based on how good of an event she can throw, and my mother refuses to let anyone else in this city be better than her.

“What’s offensive about blue?” I question, crossing my arms over my chest as my mother stares at me like I’ve offended her.

She presses her lips into a thin line. “It’s notnormal,” she says, stressing her point.

What’s notnormalis what our family does to support themselves. What’s notnormalis how we flaunt our wealth around the city, pretending we’ve earned it the same way everybody else does. What’s notnormal? It’sus. But she’ll continue to pretend my hair is the problem.

I don’t say any of that, though. Instead, I march over to the shampoo chair like a petulant child who’s being forced to do something she doesn’t want. I give my hair one last look in the mirror before a cape is draped over me and Vanessa leaves to start mixing the dye.

“Do you think you could drop a curling iron in there while you’re at it?” I ask, laughing at my own joke. The assistant Vanessa tasked with washing my hair freezes her movements, her hand still on the faucet.

“Madalena, stop that nonsense right now,” my mother scolds me. Now I’ve really done it.

I give her a smile. “Well, Mother, if you don’t want people to make suicide jokes, you should stop forcing arranged marriages on them.”

The assistant pauses again, this time her fingers covered in shampoo and hovering over my head. She coughs a little, probably covering up the gasp. She’s not accustomed to what my mother would callour culture.Normal people don’t arrange the marriages of their children and use force when they don’t agree.

“Don’t stop,” my mother hisses at the poor assistant. Her hands spring into action, assaulting my head with the mint scented shampoo. “Honestly, Madalena,” she mutters, low enough that only I can hear. “It’s just hair. I don’t know what in the world is the matter with you.”

It’s just hair. Sure. But in a world where everything has been prescribed to me, every decision made for me, my hair was the only thing I had. And maybe it’s stupid for me to care so much, but it was the only thing I could count on to be fully mine. My life, my future, my body — all of it no longer belongs to me. But at least my hair could reflect who I really am.

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