Page 88 of Pretty Little Princess

I pause at the door, tension humming through my body as I watch Silvia closely. She keeps her eye on her father’s retreating back. Then, once he’s gone, she grips my forearm and pulls me onto the front porch.

Though I’m sure Silvia did it to avoid her father overhearing what she wants to say, I stiffen. Because, while my mother’s in the car, like she said, I’m sure she’ll be watching us like a hawk. And she’s sure to make note of any potential weakness we might use to our advantage.

“What do you want?” I ask, the question coming out terse in my stress.

I really do care to know what Silvia wants for her life, for this wedding. I might be the only one who will bother asking her that, and the worst part is I can’t do anything about it. Because I’m just a pawn in this too. Even if I know what she wants, it’s not like I can do anything to give it to her. And that makes my tone clipped and impatient.

Silvia swallows visibly, her innocent hazel eyes peering up at me and stoking my guilt back to life. And when she answers, I’m sure she mistook my question. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry about the other night,” she murmurs, reaching out to grip my forearm.

Her eyes shine in the porchlight, warning me that she’s about to cry.

“I don’t know what my father said to you after he sent me to my room, and I know that you’ve already been struggling with us having to get married at all… I just… I wanted–”

Her voice breaks, and the sound tears at my heart. I hate that she feels the need to apologize–worse that my actions have brought her to tears yet again. But I know I can’t let her cry. Not in front of my mother, who would enjoy seeing Silvia’s pain.

“Don’t cry,” I rasp, pulling my arm from Silvia’s grasp. “What’s done is done.”

Hurt flashes across Silvia’s delicate face, but my curt reply has done its job, as she takes a deep breath to collect herself. “Well then, good night, Pyotr,” she says, and before I can respond, she dashes inside.

The door slams shut a moment later, leaving me in agonizing silence.

30

SILVIA

Salt crystals leave my eyelids scratchy and dry as I try to open my eyes. I must have finally cried myself to sleep after Pyotr and his mother left last night. Curled beneath the covers of my bed, I try to ignore the headache throbbing in my temples.

I just don’t know what to do anymore. Things could not be more confusing or mixed up. And I don’t know how to make the situation right. Every time Pyotr and I seem to take a step in the right direction, it’s as if we take two steps back. It’s exhausting, and I wonder whether we might find our way back after this most recent experience.

Groaning, I unfold my body, stretching out across my mattress to try and find some source of comfort. But I feel as though someone’s punched a hole in my gut. Stressed and emotional, I cover my eyes with my palms and go through dinner last night once again.

From the start, it was a disaster–I didn’t even know it was taking place until Alfie came to inform me I was needed downstairs. And then the entire night was spent listening to our parents decide our fate. I don’t know why they even bothered having us in the room.

The worst of it, though, was that Pyotr barely seemed willing to look at me. And now I really don’t know where we stand. Based on his final words to me, I would say we’re not good.What’s done is done.That means he’s not happy about how everything shook out.

Can I blame him?We’re expected to marry in a matter of months. And he’s already expressed resistance to an arranged marriage at all. We had such a good, healthy conversation right before he dropped me off on our last date. But that all seems lost in turmoil, and now, our freedom has been completely stripped away.

Emotions war throughout my body, making my head spin and stomach ache. More than ache, actually–I almost feel like I might throw up. A wave of nausea powers through me as soon as I have the thought, and I’m up out of bed in an instant.

Dashing across my room to the adjoining bathroom, I barely make it to the toilet in time. Day-old spaghetti and red wine hit the porcelain bowl in a gory display. And the smell of my sick only makes me heave harder.

A second bout of nausea roars through me, and I purge my stomach until nothing but bile remains. Cold sweat trickles down the back of my neck. Wiping a shaky hand across my forehead, I collapse onto the cold stone floor of my bathroom. Though I keep close to the toilet just in case. But I think I’ll be okay.

Well, not really. I’m not even a little bit alright with my situation. But at least now that I’ve thrown up, my stomach feels much better. Still, my chest aches with uncertainty.

“You’ve finally done it, Silvia,” I state blandly. “Worried yourself sick–literally–and what good has it done you?”

I roll my eyes at the soap opera my life has become. Then my gaze lands on the basket sitting on top of my toilet tank. A fresh box of tampons keeps a spare roll of toilet paper company there.

My heart skips a beat.

When was the last time I used one?

Things have been so tumultuous lately, I’ve lost track of time.

Scrambling up off the bathroom floor, I race back into my bedroom to find my laptop. Clicking open my calendar, I confirm the date, then start counting back to my last period. I’m overdue. By weeks.

Lump lobbed firmly in my throat, I stare wide-eyed at the screen. But that can’t be right. It hasn’t been long enough since the last time Pyotr and I had sex for me to be seeing any signs.Right?Which would mean, if I’m pregnant, it must have happened from our first time together.

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