Page 7 of Captive Bride

They can transform me from a sullen girl in her lingerie to a ravishing Capulet socialite.

Makeup is like magic. So are clothes. So are diamonds...at least, for my outside image.

Nothing can fix what’s going on inside.

Thelma brings me a glass of champagne, and I take it gratefully.

The more alcohol I can have in my system tonight, the better.

“Baby, you better start smiling otherwise your parents are gonna be upset,” she says.

“You’re wrong,” I say wryly. “They don’t need me to smile. They just need me to show up. Hopefully, I can just make a quick appearance and be gone.”

“I don’t think so, Baby, not tonight. Your parents are expecting you to be there. It’s your engagement night after all. You’re gonna have to dance with him.”

Oh, ew—did she just say ‘dance’?

The guy looks like he could be my father. He’s so...old and ancient.

Again, my skin crawls. To think of actually having to sleep with this man really makes me want to kill myself. I’m not exaggerating.

Is it wrong that I think about that so often?

You would, too, if you were held captive in a skyscraper in the city and never allowed to leave. You would think about it if you had to marry the Governor, who is old, portly, and scary.

I look at her and say, “Do me a favor?”

She knows what I’m going to say before I say it.

“Yes, honey, I’ll go downstairs and check things out.”

“Thanks. What would I do without my spy?”

She smiles at me warmly and leaves.

We have kind of a system for these parties. She goes down to check things out and to determine exactly how long I’ll need to stay while I stay up here and get ready, wishing my life was over.

I know tonight is different.

I know my parents will expect me to be there to make a solid appearance for the Capulets. But that doesn’t mean I’m dreading it any less. I can’t even imagine having to mingle tonight.

Every other time there’s been a party, it was different because I wasn’t engaged.

Tonight, the spotlight will be on me, and I’m dreading the attention.

Just as I’m trying to control the hot tears that threaten to spill down my cheeks, my mother enters the room. Everyone becomes silent, not wanting to upset the matriarch of the family.

She walks in, fully dressed.

She always has a face full of makeup and the most expensive clothes on.

“Isobel, you’re not even ready yet,” she chides me. “What’ve you been doing here this entire time?”

“Well, mother,” I say taking a sip of my champagne, “I’ve been enjoying my last few moments of freedom.”

She buzzes right past my statement. She’s just ignoring me now.

“Is this what you’re wearing?” she asks more to Patrick than to me. “No, no, no. Patrick, she can’t wear black. This isn’t a funeral, this is an engagement party. Put her in something light and bright. Something white. And she needs to look dazzling. Everyone needs to be jealous of Isobel tonight. She’s marrying into old money, you know.”

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