masked | 18+

IV

AMANI

I STAND AT THE closed end of the door, my fingers shaking against my white dress. I try to swallow my nerves, but end up empty handed when the nerves resurface like bile creeping up my throat. I can't stop the trembling, the feeling of being left and abandoned creeping up against me. There wasn't an aisle to walk down, per se. That's not what the traditionalist wants, and I am to be their queen. I respect their wants, their needs. A pathetic laugh rumbles out of my chest.

Even in my own marriage, I can't choose what I want for myself. It's all crap. Everything. My husband-to-be had arrived four days ago on the estate, and has said he wanted to speak to my father. Definitely not something I found well, especially when I asked the maids what they talked about, their lips were sealed shut. Of course, my mind taunts, you give everything to them, and they give you nothing!

A shiver runs over my body, and I visibly shake from the nerves. My god, I hate this. I wish the wedding didn't have to happen. Some sick part of me was hoping my husband would drop dead or get cold feet and not do this. Not tie my future to this island, to duties. I've fulfilled my entire life. Part of me was hoping he'd spare me – that he'd let me live like the previous women in his life; free. Malik and I hadn't spoken much, except for the time in the gardens, which was the last time I saw him. Just as I promised him.

Meaning he himself hadn't spoken about his love affairs back in the states, but I was no fool. Malik was fresh in his thirties, and I am not naïve enough to think that man hasn't had a sexual encounter before this match made in hell. I just wish I was naïve enough to think he might give me the same freedom he gave the other women in his life. Malik had made it clear that this wedding was pure business only, stunning me, but relieving me at the same time.

In that way, I only had to act like his wife when other people were around. I could continue my hobbies, doing the things I loved, without his influence. You want to live like that the rest of your life? my stupid heart beats, craving a love so strong it'll puncture my lungs. You want to live like a ghost, like a wallpaper, till you die?

The sound of heels clicking against the carpeted floor steals away my opportunity to answer my begging heart, and shut the voices up. I turn my head sharply toward the sound, and see a crying Manon walking toward me, a handkerchief draped up to her face. My heart swoons at the sight. Manon was the chef in the kitchen, the woman who raised me when death took the opportunity from my mother. She paddles toward me like a small sad child, and I can't help the familiar sting in my own eyes.

"Mon amour," she coaxes, and a sob edges out of me. I bring my hand up, and take deep steady breaths trying my best to get a hold of my emotions but I fail graciously, and Manon allows me to. For the first time in years I let myself free-fall, depending on someone else than my moral compass because I am tired. So tired, it feels like my mind is spiralling. And this is only the start of said spiral, said stress, said having to pretend I love my life, love my husband.

"I can't do this," I sob into her arms. She runs a soothing hand down my spine, and whispers sweet-nothings into my ear. Manon is one of the few women who speak English. "I can't do this, Manon. He's out there, waiting for me! They all are, and here I am, crying my eyes out! I can't do this, my God, what was I thinking?" I hurry out, my worst fears having a mind of their own.

"You can do this," Manon says to me in accented English. "The girl I raised never saw a task, and cowered down from it. It's scary, yes. You're to marry a man who barely knows you, vice versa, yes, but don't start speaking that...comment dit-on...shit!" she pipes, and I laugh against her bosom. "I know you can do this, mon amour. Don't let your fears take over that head of steel, compris?"