Chapter 7: Son of the groom

I choke on a laugh made of pure nervousness. All eyes turn to me. I can’t help it, I laugh and laugh until I’m bent over, holding my knees, shaking with giggles.

It has to be a joke. One of the dirtiest ones.

The supposed figment of my imagination is, in daylight, one hell of a gorgeous man. He. Is. My. Fiancé’s. Son.

My fiancé’s son.

A joke! An absolute joke! Why am I the only one laughing?

“She’s a little nutty. Want some water, sweetheart? Maybe tell us what’s so funny?”

Someone, no idea who, shows up with a glass of water. Unfortunately, it is just water. If it were one of my parents, it would definitely be something stronger. Just what I need right now.

I raise a finger, asking them to wait a moment. I down the water like it’s something much stronger. As much as I’d love to share the hilarity of the moment, I doubt anyone else would find it funny. How could they? My sexual fantasies about this man go back to puberty, and that’s staying locked deep inside.

I hand the glass back and flash a sweet, polite smile.

“I just get a little nervous around blood. Please, forgive me,” I say to my senile fiancé without taking my eyes off his very hot son.

“Go clean yourself up, Damien.” The man’s voice is serious. He looks back and forth between us, just as annoyed as his son appears to be.

Damien. Da-mi-en. Damien!

The sound of his name is sweet in my mind. It must sound even better out loud.

“I have a stepson, how cute. At least I won’t have to worry about raising a child,” I let a bit more acidity slip than I intended. I quickly smile again, more innocent this time. “Sorry again. Must still be a little nervous.”

I touch my forehead gently with my fingers, like a tiny self-punishment gesture. Silly me. I lower my hand, still watching my new “stepson.”

It’s a joke. A huge joke I can’t share with this particular audience.

If my friends knew about this, they’d die laughing with me. And to think I was supposed to be celebrating my birthday with them today. In just a few hours, my life flipped completely upside down. And here I am. With a stepson. A hilarious joke.

Lucius introduces my mother, who apparently already knew them from years ago. The formal greetings go around, and the only one who doesn’t say a word is Damien. Da-mi-en. I really like that name.

I must be going crazy to find amusement in this situation, to enjoy a name, to laugh like this in such grotesque circumstances. They must have hit my head way too hard in that car. And then my dad with the doorframe... and maybe also the lack of oxygen when he tried to strangle me. Not tried, he did.

All of that must’ve messed with my brain chemistry. I’ve become some kind of giggly idiot.

My head throbs now, the pain nearly impossible to hide. I lift my arm toward my fiancé before reaching for my sore neck and ruining the makeup my mother applied. He crosses the space between us impressively fast.

“You know my name, but I don’t know yours yet,” I say sweetly. He kisses my hand with exaggerated slowness, almost drooling over me.

He actually smells nice and looks well put together. He must’ve been attractive when he was younger. I’d probably have found him hot if I were twenty years older. Proof of that is standing right beside us, his younger version, saying nothing.

His hand is loosely bandaged with gauze.

My fiancé holds my chin, trying to capture my full attention.

“My name is Romero, darling. At your service,” he croons with a deep, charming voice.

I resist the urge to glance at the son again. If he ends up looking like this one day, I won’t complain. But that day is a long way off. Doesn’t anyone notice the giant age gap between us?

“Can I ask how old you are?” I ask on purpose, acidity disguised as innocence.

Lucius drains his drink in one go, steps between us, and pulls me to his side.

“You’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other over the next few days. Please rest tonight, you’ve had a long journey,” my father says, leaving no room for conversation.

After the necessary goodbyes, it’s just me and my parents in the room again.

No one says a word for a few minutes. I help myself to the bar, pop open a thirty-year-old bottle of whiskey, and drink straight from the bottle.

“Have some manners, Leonor. The glasses are there for a reason,” my father scolds, pointing at the very tasteful collection of glassware. Everything in the room is stylish, drinks, glasses, décor.

I’m tempted to answer in the most disrespectful, creative way possible. But the throbbing in my head and the phantom grip still lingering on my neck push me to keep drinking.

“Is she a virgin?” he asks my mother.

I almost choke on my drink. I wait for her answer, but she says nothing. She knows me too well.

“Obviously not! Fucking hell, how am I supposed to fix this now?” he snaps with barely contained frustration.

“He seems like a worldly man, with an adult son and all. I’m sure he understands women aren’t saintly little virgins,” I finally let my disdain slip out without filter.

The drink goes down warm and smooth. The buzz shouldn’t take long to hit. I’ll just pretend tomorrow that my headache is from a hangover.

“Stay the hell away from his son.” His words make me choke again, whether from shock or from trying not to laugh, I’m not sure. “I’m serious, Leonor. Don’t fuck with my business.”

First of all, I didn’t ask for a fiancé. Second, who the hell is this man who just showed up in my life and thinks he can control my decisions?

And third, it’s my birthday. I get a free pass to do whatever the hell I want and blame the alcohol. Best way to celebrate adulthood.

Another great joke, I thought I’d finally be free, and instead I got a prison-warden dad.

My mother says something to him, but I’m not listening. I don’t want to. I’m trusting that she has a plan. Leonora is usually two steps ahead.

“I’m spending the rest of my birthday with this bottle. And... these two over here as well.” I cradle three bottles like fragile babies.

“I’ll deal with you tomorrow,” Lucius mutters bitterly. He snatches the extra bottles from my arms, puts them away, and drags me by the arm to a bedroom.

My mother rushes after us to wish me goodnight. We’re like one big happy family.

I throw myself onto the bed, wondering if it’s worth trying to unlock the door after I hear the click of the lock from the outside.

I smile to myself. Imaginary friends and hallucinations don’t need keys to get through doors.

“I know you’re somewhere out there, Da-mi-en. Gonna pretend I’m crazy again and say you’ve never seen me before? Gonna run from me like last time?”

The alcohol’s definitely working. I leave the bottle in some random corner. The room seems nice, big, comfy. I’m too dizzy to pay attention to the details, but I know the bed is soft.

“I’ve waited eighteen years to find you, Leonor. Run from you? Never.”

There it is, the voice I’d been hoping to hear through that entire twisted, mismatched meeting earlier. A balm to my ears.