The first few months after Sly left were bearable. Normal, even. Painful, but I kept a smile painted on my face as I pushed through my responsibilities and acted as though nothing was amiss.
I should have known better than to think I could continue through the motions. Somewhere around month four was when Augustinsistedwe move in together.
We’re getting married, after all.
With my refusal to cohabitate came another attack. This time, he was more careful—only leaving bruises where they couldn’t be seen. Wouldn’t want to draw suspicion that New York’s most loved man is actually a monster.
I knew moving in with him would be dangerous to my safety, but I feared what he would do if I refused again. Would he lift his hand to me? Kick me while I was on the ground? Knock me unconscious?
These were all things he’s done to me—just the lovely side of August the world doesn’t get to see, but when I rile him up, or even when I don’t, he shows me his true colors.
The only thing stopping me from running, hiding, and refusing to live with him, is the looming threat that he’ll turn his anger toward the one person I’m trying to protect.
It isn’t worth finding out if he’ll make good on that threat.
So, I packed up my daily belongings and moved in with my fiancè, leaving the solitude of my apartment in the hands of Cecilia, who begged me not to go.
But I had to. I had no choice.
Every two weeks, August brings me new photos of Sly. Evidence that he’s still breathing and living his life. Those snapshots are my only reason to keep going—they keep me focused. Reminding me the only thing standing between Sly and the threat August placed on his head is my compliance.
Still, every photo of him ignites an ache in my heart that takes another two weeks to dissipate, only for the wound to reopen when August drops more pictures in my lap.
He’s dangling the bait, and I take it every time.
Seeing the images of Sly hurts even more because I now know where he is. August started leaving the pictures for me to keep a few months ago, and after weeks of piecing together buildings and road signs, I was able to reverse image search on the internet and figure out Sly is in a place called Ridgewood, California, a small city a little outside of San Francisco.
I have no idea why he ended up there, but knowing where he is brings me a little peace.
It’s a blessing and a curse, getting these bi-weekly reminders, but I know once August and I are legally wed, it will stop. Once I’m no longer a flight risk, and everything August and Joseph want is finally obtained, the threat to Sly’s life will end.
“Oh my gosh, Vinnie! How is wedding planning going?” Hera Whitney and her friend, Norah, take the open seats across from me. Hera is a hotel heiress who thinks she’s God's gift to New York. She immediately dialed up her fakeness level with me once my engagement to August St. Jean became the talk of the town.
“I still haven’t seen your ring in person,” Norah comments, reaching her hand across the table, clamping her fingers open and closed to signal for me to give her my hand.
I don’t.
“It’s going great,” I say simply before popping a grape into my mouth. I have no interest in speaking to either of them, let alone filling them in on wedding plans.
The truth is, my mother has taken the reins on those tasks, spearheading the event with grace and precision. Every detail has been thought of, no expense spared. The only decisions I’ve made are my dress and the flowers. Not that I care about any of it, but if I have to marry the worst man ever, these two elements of the wedding day will be exactly how I want them.
They’ll be the only glimmer of happiness on what is supposed to be the best day of my life.
Instead, it will be the worst.
“Tell us everything!” Norah insists, not getting the hint.
Lifting my gaze, I find her leaning forward with her chin balanced on the top of her hand, waiting to hang on my every word.
“Spare no details,” Hera adds, and when my eyes slide over to her, she’s seated the same as Norah.
These women are staring at me as though I’ve stepped into the nickname the press gave me—the PaladinoPrincess. Eight months ago, they couldn’t have cared less about my life, and now they’re begging me for details.
Unbelievable.
Shaking my head, I abruptly stand, and the chair groans against the floor as it’s pushed out. Something inside of me snaps, and I become overwhelmed with emotion.
Anger.
