catalina
. . .
My wrists ache from where he yanked me through the door, and my chest feels like it’s caving in on itself. I don’t remember sitting down. My body is on autopilot, but my mind didn’t come along.
Vartan’s voice cuts through the haze.
“You’ll be in fittings by Monday,” he says as he scrolls through his phone. “The photographer for the engagement announcement has already been confirmed. Their family is expecting someone polished, so do us both a favor and look the fucking part.”
He just flips through his phone, spewing shit out of his mouth, about designers, guest lists, and the son I’m being sold to like a fucking antique vase.
I’m not listening anymore.
My pulse starts pounding in my ears, louder than the engines. My breath shortens, causing me to hyperventilate; it feels like I’m breathing through a straw. My vision begins to tunnel, and my throat tightens.
I can’t breathe. I can’t fucking breathe.
The ceiling presses down, my seat pulls away, and the space between my ribs collapses. My heart slams against my sternum like it’s trying to get out. My hands shake, my jaw locks, and my nails dig into my palms, but I can’t feel them penetrating my skin.
I’m spiraling.
Breathe, Catalina. Get through it. You can do this.
I don’t even notice I’m trembling until Vartan looks up from his phone, narrowing his eyes with that same cold disapproval I’ve felt since I was old enough to understand shame.
“For God’s sake, Catalina,” he says, like my panic is an inconvenience. “Stop being so dramatic.” His voice cuts sharply, laced with disappointment and exhaustion, like I’m nothing but a stain on his schedule.
He watches me for a beat, before he moves to the bar cart, like we’re on some goddamn business retreat. He pours a shot of whiskey slowly, the sound of liquid hitting glass louder than it should be.
“Here,” he says, handing me the glass of whiskey. “Have something you’re good at.”
My throat goes dry. I wrap Carter’s flannel tighter around my body, like it can somehow shield me from the venom in my father’s voice.
I stare at the glass in his hand, the amber liquid sloshing around from the turbulence. I look up, staring at the man who calls himself my father. I take the glass from his grasp, tightening my fingers around the textured cup, and slam it to the floor.
The sound of shattering glass echoes through the cabin. Whiskey splashes across the carpet in a golden arc, as the shard of glass scatters at his feet.
He blinks slowly, smiling. “A tantrum?” he muses, his voice dripping with cruelty. “Very unbecoming of you, Catalina. Maybe you should practice obedience before the wedding. Wouldn’t want you to embarrass yourself more than you already have.”
I feel my stomach tighten, as if it’s trying to disappear completely. My heart slams against my ribcage so hard that I can’t hear anything else.
The wheels slam into the tarmac, jolting me out of the illusion. My eyes fly open. The world tips sideways as the plane slows, jerking me forward in my seat. My stomach turns violently, and nausea crawls up my throat like it’s trying to suffocate me.
The flight attendant opens the cabin door, her bright smile annoying me.
Vartan stands like nothing’s wrong, straightening his cuffs with mechanical precision. “Fix your fucking face,” he mutters, not sparing me a glance. “We’re home.”
Home. The word makes me want to scream.
I stay seated. I feel like a ghost, a hollowed-out thing sitting in a life that doesn’t belong to me.
All I can think about, over the roar in my ears, over the sharp pain in my chest, is that I want to go home.
Not to the fucking penthouse.
Home.
To Carter. Back to his ranch, to Boots & Bourbon, to Bell’s Books, and the reassurance he would always give me without words. Back to his voice when it’s soft, his arms when they’re the only thing holding me together. His love—the kind that never asks me to be anything but exactly who I am.
