Page 54 of Veiled Vows

So why does it hurt?

21

JASMINE

“Is this too tight?” Mom walks around me with a tape measure in hand, wrapping it around my bust as she moves.

“No, but I thought you already knew what size I was? Has something changed?”

“I want to get you a dress for the engagement party,” she replies.

I catch her hand as she passes in front of me. “We’re having an engagement party?”

Her eyes meet mine. “Don’t tell me you don’t want one?”

I haven’t even considered it, but now that it’s a prospect, I’m not sure I do. Given the fact Catherine is in recovery and I have no desire to be around Alto, there aren’t many people I’d like to invite. “No?” slips out as more of a question.

Bianca immediately balls the tape up in her palm and stomps away to the counter. “You’re impossible sometimes, Jasmine,” she mutters. “I’m trying my best to make this situation bearable for you, and I feel like you’re throwing it all back in my face!”

Concern pulses through me like a wave. “Mom, what do you mean?” I follow her to the other end of the lounge where she has several fabric samples spread out in binders. “I’m fine.”

“Are you?” She slams the tape down on the table and clutches at her chest with one hand. “Your father has you marrying an absolute monster of a man. We’re going to be tied to a terrible family for the rest of our lives and you…” She turns to face me with deep sadness darkening her face. “God knows what that family will do to you.”

“Don’t you think I can take care of myself?” I ask, attempting to ease how she feels.

“It doesn’t matter how strong you are, darling.” She takes my hand in hers and squeezes it painfully tight. “They are so much worse, and they will ruin you.”

“Roman isn’t like that.”

“Isn’t he?” she scoffs bitterly. “All Gattis are the same. Wretches, the lot of them! And he’s far too old for you!”

“Mom, he really isn’t. And what does it matter how old he is? Dad is seven years older than you, and what about the other man you wanted me to marry? Was he my age?”

She doesn’t answer, whichismy answer.

My heart aches. She’s distressed because of me, because I created this situation with the Gattis, so it’s on me to fix it. “If you met him properly, you’d understand.”

“I don’t want to meet him.” She turns away like a child having a tantrum and snatches up several fabric squares from the table. “But the least you can do is let me throw a party.”

“Do you really want to throw me a party to celebrate, or are you just doing it to show off to every other family waiting for this union to take place?” I ask, pulling my hand away. My mother may often be miles away in her own thoughts, but I know how much she values her social standing, and throwing anengagement party will definitely catch the eye of a certain larger family I’m trying to keep off our necks.

“I resent that you would even ask me that,” she mutters, refusing to look at me.

“Well then, if you really care then let’s not have a party. Let’s have dinner instead.”

“No!” she barks and spins to face me. “I will not host that family in this house!”

“Not the family. Just Roman. He’s going to be my husband, and I think you would like him if you just spoke to him and got to know him a little.”

“You wouldn’t have to marry him at all if not for your father,” she grumbles under her breath, crumpling some of the fabric in her hands.

I place my hands over hers and gently ease the silk out from between her fingers. “Dad’s doing what he thinks is best?—”

“No, he’s doing what will make him more money. That’s all he ever does.”

“—but,” I say louder to get her attention. “That doesn’t mean we can’t be nice. I know you think Roman has a reputation, we all know how savage the Gatti guard dog is, but he’s really not like that in person. You need to meet him, okay?”

It takesme two days to get my mother to agree to dinner and a further two for it to be planned out. My father is less agreeable to sitting down with Roman but eventually agrees after pressure from my mother. Despite her initial pushback, her enjoyment in planning dinners takes over, and soon the dining room is flooded with warm, golden light from candles lit all around the room. The best red cloth drapes the table, the best silver platessignpost everyone’s seats, and the chef’s been cooking diligently all day under Mother’s strict eye.

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