𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 | 𝟏𝟖+

𝐗𝐗

TALK THAT TALK  - RIHANNA FT JAY Z
ᴠᴏʟᴜᴍᴇ : ▮▮▮▮▮▮▯▯▯

Chapter twenty

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Drive me crazy

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This has to be my worst night so far.

I could have stayed at home, nestled naked on my silk sheet, watching the most tragic romantic movie on television, crying and sleeping like a baby later.

But instead, I'm staying into a shitty dinner with people who don't even appreciate me and make my life a living hell.

Emilio had to stop me from throwing my plate full of food at the elderly woman seated in front of me, giving me the worst look and doing nothing to hide it.

She better pray I don't jump on her because she's one blow away from turning into ashes.

I was pissed off enough tonight to not give a fuck about my attitude anymore. The engagement, my sister, everyone. Alessandro.

I know Andrea was trying to irritate me all night. She was continuously flirting with Alessandro, touching, kissing, and openly discussing what they were going to do tonight.

In their bed.

Which means they could be living together now.

I pushed the glass of wine down my throat and nearly choked on the abrupt voice behind me.

"You're drinking wine, Sollana?" I quickly placed my glass on the table and turned my head to see my father's scowl, almost angry.

"No, it's cranberry juice." I lied while fumbling nervously with my jewellery. "I asked Isabella for it since they were only serving alcohol." I swallowed the lump in my throat, and he nodded. It was in fact wine, but if he known, I would have been killed.

Isabella was our maid; she took care of cleaning, cooking, and assisting my father with events like this.

To me, she is more than just a maid.

She has been here since I was born. I was not allowed to speak with her for some reason, but I was a stubborn child and did so anyway.

I would talk to her about my day and everything else after school because Mama and Papa were both too busy with work. She also used to read me bedtime stories when I cried because Mama couldn't kiss me to sleep.

When my father would lock me in the closet after hitting me, I'd spend hours sobbing for help in the dark. My mother was too terrified to do it, my brother would have been yelled at, and my sister, well, she didn't care.

But at night, when everyone was sleeping, Isabella was the one to unlock the door when her shift ended, finding me curled in a ball at the back of the closet in terror, dried tears on my cheeks, murmuring numbers until she opened the door.