His footsteps are light as he leaves the owner’s deck. Blood rushes through my ears as the silence descends around me. My body moves without my direct acknowledgement, without thinking I should be doing anything in particular. Slowly, I walk towards the primary cabin where our belongings are. My heels echo against the floor and walls, too loud. They are too loud. Like the thumping of my pulse in my ears.
My phone presses to my ear and rings before I think better of it. It can’t be that late here yet, but the time difference means it’s closer to one o’clock in the morning in Greece. It rings though, like it has since I memorised the number when I was still a kid. It keeps ringing until the dulcet soft tones of myyiayia’sGreek come through the line.
“Hello, this is Sotiriou. Leave your name and number, or I won’t call you back.”
I clear my throat, trying to keep the tears from falling and further ruining my makeup. “Hi,Yiayia. It’s Del.”
My words hang there for a moment. I am not sure what I am saying or what I should say next.
“I’m sorry I’m not there with you. I-” My voice cracks, and I slip into Greek as if that will comfort me while she is so far away.“I miss you. I promise to come see you soon and tell you everything. I love you.”
I end the call, my phone slips down my dress and I lose sight of it as tears finally pour free. Before they can fall onto my dress, I dab them away with the back of my hand. A homesickness like I haven’t felt before settles in me. The weight of my engagement ring feels more like a chain around my finger, anchoring me to this reality. I have wanted for nothing my entire life, but I am in need now. I need to get away. I need to escape this hell. I need to get out of this engagement contract.
The bland-patterned wallpaper lulls me into a weak trance as I practise measured breathing to calm myself. The shivering stops, my nose clears up, and the cage I’ve built inside myself, which seals away any soft feelings, is locked up tight again. If I knew how to throw away that key, I would. I’d toss it into a pile of keys, so even if I felt the urge to unlock that cage, I’d never be able to find the right one.
I open the closet doors until I find the one that Miles so graciously assigned to me. There are two garment bags inside, an empty one that my pink dress came in and one that contains a dress he found suitable for this evening. Carefully, I slip off mine. I don’t think about the creases in the silk, the slight wet spots from where tears landed on it. I pull out his dress and stare at the ivory, beige, ruched mess.
One battle lost does not mean this war is over.
My go bag is tucked under the bathroom sink like I asked. Fuck knows how much time I spent in a daze since Miles left me, so I don’t spend any more than necessary fixing my makeup. I pick the roots of my curls out to make them look fuller since some of my definition is gone and call it good enough. I still look good.
I am good.
The dress I slide on now is clearly not designed for a plus-size body, maybe even the average body. Honestly, this would look hideous on anyone. It barely fits over my hips, the ruching doing the opposite of what it should. The silk fabric is taut and exposes more of my belly line than I’m usually comfortable with. There is no shame in having a pronounced stomach, but I show it off when I want to. Not because this shit bag I am supposed to marry tells me to.
I pull the zip up with a bit of manoeuvring and slide my pink strappy heels back on. The steps for my plan are already in motion. I will not let a threat from Miles ruin the rest of my life. Nor will I allow anyone else to use me as a means to an end.
It’s like I was never even gone. The party is exactly like I left it. Members of the catering crew scurry about with trays laden with caviar and empty glasses as party-goers sip champagne and talk about nothing. I don’t see Miles among the crowd and am glad for it. His mother is still talking to the Vanderburgs, though I doubt about tee times or anything to do with the country club for that matter. That family is trying to unseat the current mayor as if their life depends on it, and party-goers will want a piece of that influential pie.
Finally, I let out the anxious breath I locked in my chest.
It’s surreal looking around the bridge deck and realising no one noticed I was gone. Why was no one concerned that I wasn’t there? Anger bubbles up inside of me at being ignored by these people. I am the bride-to-be. Did Miles tell everyone a lie about where I was or what I was doing? My stomach turns, and I’m not sure if it’s because of the boat rocking or the fear still trying to break me. I have a plan; Miles’s threat will not stop me.
I make a beeline for the bar with every intent to get a glass of something bubbly to settle my stomach, but I’m quickly pulled to the side by someone I barely know to talk about myyiayiaand her skincare company. My grandmother’s family has been in the business of lotions and potions for as long as anyone can remember. It wasn’t until my mother met my father that they gained international renown as a luxury skincare brand that you could only find in the most exclusive spas. Yiayia has never cared about that; her only concern is providing her family a better life. Honestly, everything I tell them can be found on her website or the brand’s social media page, but hearing it from me leaves an impression.
Once I promised to have a PR package sent to this woman with “a huge following,” they finally let me leave the conversation. I don’t even make it two steps before Lottie grabs my hand. She looks at my face and a sly smirk graces her lips.
“Looks like you’ve had quite the rendezvous, Phi-phi.”
“Yes,” I agree immediately, refusing to admit an ounce of weakness. “Now, let’s get a strong drink.”
That isn’t a part of the Delphini Fields brand. The downside to making my life, and my personality, my job is that I am always on. There are no breaks, no time for tears. There is no being angry in public. No one can know what I’ve been through to get to this point in my life unless it is candy-coated and beautifully humble. Everything about me is my brand.
“So, will you tell me all the spicy details?” she asks.
“No.” I plaster on my own smirk, if only to prove her assumption it was an illicit meeting true. She eyes my dress, and I wonder if she is going to comment on what a crime against fashion it is. Or will she compliment it regardless, because, like everyone else, she enjoys whites and neutral tones as much as the next elitist?
“You weren’t gone for a very long time. Doesn’t seem like he spent much time on his knees.”
“Now, that I can agree with.” We’re talking about two different sorts of being on your knees here, but I don’t care. Lottie tolerates Miles the way everyone who isn’t licking his boot does. It doesn’t matter what her real feelings are when the Bradshaw name can move mountains up and down the East Coast.
“Next time,” I promise, subtly eyeing the crowd for my target.
We each take a glass of champagne and we toast to men on their knees. While Lottie takes a delicate sip, I drink the glass in one long gulp. This isn’t what I wanted. Fine champagne like this one doesn’t fizz or tickle my nose. It easily slides down my throat, and I want to feel the burn. I want to feel anything to justify the burning in my gut that is desperate to be unleashed. Raising a perfectly manicured finger, I signal for the bartender.
“Martini, extra cold, three olives.” It’s rude, but I barely look at him. Like everyone else here, I assume my drink will be made as requested. Life is a show; everything is a performance, and I am about to give the most important one of my life. The one of the happy, in-love fiancé who could think of nowhere better to be than on this stupid fucking yacht.
Lottie takes another sip of her champagne and skims me over again.
