Page 24 of Sins of Bliss

“No, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I reacted like that. I’m just not feeling like myself.”

“Oh, honey,” she sighs. “I’ll call Ross and have him bring the car around for you.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course, sweetheart,” she says as she slips past the curtain, leaving me alone.

A single tear slips out, and I wipe it away before more can fall. Pressing my palms together, I bring them to my face and steeple my nose, taking a few deep breaths.

The nausea is back, rolling through my stomach aggressively.

Reaching behind, I unzip the gown and step out of it, breathing deeply as I do to try to keep the nausea at bay. The bile creeps up my throat as I hang the dress, and the moment the hanger is situated on the hook, I can’t hold back.

Spinning, I spot a small wastebasket on the floor in the corner of the dressing room and rush to it, dropping to my kneesand leaning over at the same moment my stomach retches its contents.

My ribs burn as I dry heave, my stomach completely empty. Tears prick my eyes. I’m on my hands and knees, holding my hair back in one hand as I pray my stomach stops roiling.

The curtain flies open and soft footsteps rush in. A hand takes my hair from mine, and another rubs my back in gentle, circular motions.

“Oh, sweetheart, you weren’t kidding,” my mother coos. “It’s okay, let it all out.”

A small gasp sounds from behind us, and I assume it's the saleswoman, though I don’t care enough to check.

“I’m sorry,” I croak, leaning back on my heels, and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand in a very unladylike manner.

“It’s okay,” my mother consoles, but her hand falls away from my body, and she stills.

Turning my head to look at her, I see her staring wide-eyed at my side, and I realize I’m wearing only my bra and panties—my bruises on full display.

Her eyes sweep over the rest of me and finally meet my own, and I see her face morph into sadness. A thousand silent questions are asked, but not uttered aloud.

“Vinnie—” she starts, but I shake my head, my eyes cast to the floor, no longer wanting to see the look she’s giving me.

Standing, I turn away from her and pick up my sundress from where it sits folded on a chair. “You wouldn’t believe what happened,” I say dismissively, pretending like the lie I’m constructing is no big deal. “I came home last week, and the housekeeper had left a puddle on the floor from when she mopped. I slipped and launched myself into the credenza. Can you believe that?”

God, I hope she does.

She adds her own fake laughter alongside mine as I pull the dress overhead and settle it on my body. Without asking, she comes over and zips the dress. Once it's in place, I face her and smile.

I can see she’s skeptical, unsure if she should believe me. Her expression hardens for the briefest of moments before she smiles. “You really must be more careful, darling.”

My heart sinks with her response. There’s a large part of me who hoped she’d wrap her arms around me and tell me not to marry August, because I don’t deserve a man who is abusive, right? The little girl in me is desperate for her mother to get her out of this situation.

I really shouldn’t be surprised that she’s choosing to ignore the signs, though it does break my heart. She’s always been concerned with appearances, and to her, there’s no better match for her daughter than the most prestigious former bachelor in Manhattan.

Or maybe she truly is naïve and is taking my story at face value. My mother is sheltered, and as much as I adore her, she often doesn’t use her head.

Fighting back more tears, I give her a tight smile and straighten myself. “I will, don’t worry.”

The saleswoman clears her throat awkwardly, garnering our attention again. I’d forgotten she was lingering at the edge of the fitting room. My cheeks heat, hating that she just witnessed that exchange with my mother. “Everything is ready to be settled up at the front, ladies. Whenever you’re ready, I’ll meet you there.”

I nod, and my mother smiles at the woman. “Thank you, Veronica. You’ve been a gem through this whole process.”

Squeezing my shoulder, my mother turns her attention back to me. “I’ll have the bridal boutique sign an NDA, sweetheart,” she whispers. “Don’t you worry.”

I stand there, dumbfounded, as my mother follows the saleswoman out, her words ricocheting through my mind.

Maybe my mother isn’t as naïve as she portrays. I’m left wondering if she really is more concerned with appearances than she is with her own daughter.

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