Page 20 of Knot Like Other Girls

"Then don't," Skye says, as if it's the simplest thing in the world. "You don't owe that mannequin anything, Bella. You don't have to go through with this."

I close my eyes, wishing it were that easy. "You know I can't just walk away. My family?—"

"Your family can figure their own shit out," Skye interrupts, a hint of steel in her voice. "It's not your job to fix their problems. Especially not by selling yourself to the highest bidder."

Her words hit me like a slap, and I flinch. "That's not what I'm doing," I protest weakly, but even to my own ears, it sounds hollow.

"Isn't it?" Skye challenges. "Bella, honey, I love you, but you've got to wake up. This isn't a fairy tale. Braxley isn't going to magically turn into Prince Charming just because you say 'I do.' And your family... they're using you. You know that, right?"

I bite my lip, fighting back tears. Deep down, I know she's right. I've always known. But hearing it said out loud, by the one person who's always been honest with me, makes it impossible to ignore.

"I don't know what to do," I whisper, hating how small and lost I sound.

Skye sighs, and I can picture her running a hand through her purple-tipped hair in frustration. "You start by being honest with yourself. Do you want to marry Braxley? Forget about your family, forget about the money. Just you. Do you want to spend the rest of your life with him?"

The question hangs in the air, heavy and unavoidable. I think about Braxley, about his obsession with his image, his constant need for validation. I think about how he ran when the shot was fired, leaving me behind without a second thought. I think about the way he looks at me sometimes, like I'm just another accessory to be dressed up and shown off.

"No," I say finally, the word feeling like both a confession and a relief. "No, I don't want to marry him."

"Then don't," Skye says again, but this time her voice is softer, full of understanding. "I know it's not that simple, but Bella, you deserve so much more than this. You deserve to be with someone who sees you. Who values you for who you are, not what you can do for them."

I nod, forgetting for a moment that she can't see me. "I know. I just... I don't know how to get out of this. It feels like I'm trapped."

"You're not trapped," Skye insists. "You always have a choice. It might not be an easy one, but it's there. And whatever you decide, I've got your back. You know that, right?"

A lump forms in my throat, and I have to swallow hard before I can speak. "I know. Thank you, Skye. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Probably marry that walking Instagram filter," Skye quips, and despite everything, I find myself laughing.

"God, you're right. He really is, isn't he?"

"Absolutely. I bet he's got an 'extra wounds' filter on right now."

The mental image is so absurd, and yet so perfectly Braxley, that I can't help but giggle. It feels good to laugh, even if it's just for a moment.

"Listen," Skye says, her voice turning serious again. "I know you've got a lot to think about, and I'm guessing you need to get back to the shitshow. But promise me something, okay?"

"What's that?"

"Don't make any decisions right now. Not about the proposal, not about anything. You're exhausted and stressed, and that's not the time to make life-altering choices. Get some rest, if you can. And when you're ready, we'll figure shit out together. Okay?"

I nod again, feeling a small spark of hope for the first time in what feels like forever. "Okay. I promise."

"Good," Skye says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. "And remember, if it gets too much, you can always fake food poisoning and come crash at my place. I'm only two hours away from LA. I'll even break out the good ice cream."

I laugh, wiping away a stray tear. "You're the best, you know that?"

"I know," Skye says cheekily. "Now go. And Bella? I'm proud of you. For being honest, for questioning things. That takes guts."

We say our goodbyes, and I end the call, feeling both lighter and heavier than before. Lighter, because for the first time in months, I feel like I have options. Heavier, because I just had to confront some things I'm not ready to confront.

For now, I have coffee to deliver.

I walk up to the counter as the barista sets down a tray of four lidded drinks and force a smile, murmuring a "gracias" as I gather the tray. When I turn to leave, I catch sight of a TV mounted in the corner of the cafeteria. It's tuned to a local newschannel, and my heart nearly stops when I see Braxley's face splashed across the screen.

The volume is low, but I can make out enough to get the gist. They're reporting on the assassination attempt. Braxley's publicist must have been working overtime because the story they're spinning is pure fantasy.

According to the news, Braxley heroically thwarted an attack by international terrorists, saving countless lives in the process. There's even grainy cell phone footage of him "comforting" hysterical guests after the shooting. In reality, that was him having a meltdown about his ruined Armani suit, but I suppose that doesn't make for as compelling a narrative.

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