Page 47 of Mostly Shattered

My mother touches my arm in reassurance. “You have nothing to worry about. The lawyers have seen to everything. Mortimer spoke with the Freemonts. They’re on board with the arrangement.”

“I don’t want to marry him,” I tell her, trying to grip her arm in my desperation. “Please don’t make me. I find him repulsive.”

Astrid removes her hand from me. “Life is rarely about what we want. Focus on why you must.”

Mortimer’s premonition or my grandfather’s prophecy?

I don’t want to do either, but maybe I don’t have a choice.

A reedy laugh comes from the living room. The sound is unmistakably Chester. It makes my skin crawl, and I recoil.

“Do it for your family,” Astrid says. “I can give you something to help with the marital duties. It’ll be like you’re not even there.”

Did she just offer to drug me through my wedding night?

I mean… well, yeah. Not remembering sex with Chester would be the ideal.

Wait, no. I can’t even fathom all of that right now.

“Never mind. We can discuss that later. Our guests are waiting.” Astrid gestures that I’m to follow her.

I don’t want to do this.

As we enter the living room, I steel my nerves and school my expressions. Chester and his parents sit with my father. They glance in my direction, but my appearance is not enough to stop Francis. He’s too busy recounting his latest business conquest.

“You must go to the underground market cigar auction in Paris,” Francis says to my father, leaning back with a satisfied grin. “I outbid everyone, of course. There was some tech tycoon desperate to get his hands on this box of Cubans. I doubled every one of his bids. You should have seen his face. Worth every penny.”

He laughs boisterously, not caring if anyone else in the room joins him.

As they continue to ignore me, I can’t help but steal a moment to observe my would-be fiancé, Chester Freemont. He is the embodiment of entitled wealth, and it’s easy to see where he gets the attitude. Through no merit of his own and suffering no hardships, Chester made it clear on our dates that he believes the world owes him whatever he wants.Though he looks like he’s in his early 30s, I know him to be older. Such is the way with immortals.

Chester’s appearance perfectly aligns with his personality. His hair is meticulously slicked back, so shiny it almost appears greasy. He often dons designer suits that are both wrinkle-free and tasteless, exuding an air of expensive yet questionable fashion sense. His pale complexion resembles that of someone perpetually clammy, and a smug smirk seems to be permanently etched on his face. When he laughs, it’s a thin, high-pitched sound that grates on the nerves, echoing unpleasantly through the room. His affected, bored tone slithers through conversations, drawing attention to his unlikable nature and leaving an uncomfortable atmosphere in its wake.

His parents exemplify his attitude. His mother constantly wrinkles her nose as if she’s caught a whiff of something unpleasant, while his father dominates conversations, blustering loudly and overpowering anyone else who tries to interject.

“You know, Tamara.” Francis finally turns his attention to where I’m waiting. He takes a cigar from his jacket and tips it toward me before placing it in his mouth. “It’s important to understand that we Freemonts only settle for the best.”

The way he says it, the implication is clear. They’re doing me a favor by allowing me to marryinto their prestigious family. He produces a second cigar for my father.

Francis’s attention causes the others to acknowledge I’m there, as if giving them permission to turn their attention to me.

I can’t marry into this family.

I’d rather jump off the balcony.

Only I can’t. If I take the easy way out, Conrad will go after Paul.

Fuck, life is unfair!

“Tamara.” Chester stands and holds out his arms like he expects me to run into them. “You look lovely.”

“Doesn’t she,” Astrid agrees. “The blue suits her.”

Chester is staring at my chest. I don’t think he’s thinking about the blue. I hunch my shoulders forward to hide my figure. In the slinky material, it does little good.

When I don’t cross over to him, he comes toward me. His eyes move over my body as if inspecting a broodmare he’s about to purchase. I won’t be surprised if he pulls my lips back to check my teeth and lifts my feet off the floor to inspect my hooves.

Even Chester’s mannerisms get on my nerves. He’s always leaning in too close, like he’s trying to dominate the conversation. And that smile of his never quite reaches his eyes, which always appearcold and calculating. His voice oozes smarminess, dripping with fake charm and condescension. Every drawled word is a reminder of his wealth, and he flaunts it so effortlessly that it’s obnoxious. It’s like he’s used to always being treated like the smartest person in the room, but most of his ideas lack substance and seem to rely solely on his family’s fortune.

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