Highest ranking
#1 in utopia
-•-
"It's about how your hips move," the hand that sits on my waist finds my hip, his fingertips trailing lightly along the fabric of my skirt. "When you arch your spine," he continues on, letting that same hand migrate...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Three long days pass which involve me succumbing to my house arrest and so, in turn, hearing nothing from Kian. I expected nothing less – I trust that he wants me to enjoy my last few months of freedom, but what power does he honestly have? I'm stuck here and he is out there. That's simply how it is.
Frankly, it couldn't be much worse. The staff tread on eggshells around me – metaphorically of course – but their conscious effort to act as though my life isn't being completely stolen from me is exhausting to watch. More so when Leevy returns and she speaks so fondly of her newly wed life. I'm happy for her, try to be anyway, but I can't help but feel terribly jealous. In fact, I occasionally find myself glaring at her the same way that blonde did Kian and I in the market. The simple memory leaves me even more deflated that I was before.
These levels work in a way that promises my success to be met with a quality of life like no other. Yet currently, it seems that these levels are hardly influential. Leevy is married to the self-proclaimed 'love of her life' and wears the smile on her face as proudly as she wears the ring on her finger. Kian has but a single room where he lives, surrounded by books and drinking as a form of entertainment, but his life seems to contain a type of enjoyment I have never once experienced here. In this place, a Manor of dozens of rooms, swathed in dresses of the finest fabrics, with staff that cater to my every need.
Where, I am not allowed to leave for the next three months, until I marry Mister Eason Winslow – the thirty-eight-year-old man with a desperate desire to plant his seed into my waiting uterus to continue on his lineage. Then, I'll be whisked away to another Manor, one which I doubt I'll be able to leave either.
I'm certainly not going to sit about and hide that I'm completely bitter, because I am. And evidently so, if my refusal to dine with my parents, meet the requests of Eason, even leave my bedroom is any evidence to go by.
I sit on my bed, legs curled off to the side as I cradle a mug of tea, herbal, to try and coax me into a kinder sleep. My eyes watch Zaveri tackle the condition of my room – hanging fresh laundry, tidying my vanity station, washing down the surfaces which have been used today. She picks up the cosmetic wipes which I use nightly to clean my face and offers them to me.
"No thank you." I say.
She furrows her brows, her eyes flickering to the product she holds before returning to me. "You must wash your face miss." She returns.
"And I can quite well do that with soap and water." I assure her, placing the tea on my nightstand before tucking my hair behind my ears. "I refuse to have every single aspect of my life controlled. So, I will not be using the wipes my mother has requested I use. Ever again." Zaveri bows her head in submission to the authority of my tone and returns the wipes to their place on the vanity.
She stays quite for a moment before turning to me again. "Miss?" She says.
