Chapter 4
It had been days since that last ugly scene, and I buried myself in healing—at least on the surface. I made sure every wound was cleaned, every bruise tended to, every part of me forced to look alive even when I didn’t feel it.
Calhoun didn’t ask. Not once. Not about the pain in my body, not about the way sleep refused to come to me unless I was completely drained. It was as though I was invisible.
So I kept myself busy. The party Carmela demanded had to be flawless, and that became my excuse for everything. If I didn’t think, I couldn’t feel. If I didn’t feel, I wouldn’t fall apart. But the pressure came at me like a storm. The staff followed me around with endless questions, decorators called me at odd hours about colors and flowers, the planners wanted confirmation on things I didn’t even remember agreeing to. My head never stopped pounding. And Calhoun...when he did call...it wasn’t to check on me. No. It was only to remind me of what Carmela wanted. How spectacular she expected her event to be.
By the time the four days bled into each other, I couldn’t even remember what I ate or if I slept. All I knew was the migraine drilling into my skull as I dragged myself into the venue. My legs felt like sandbags, my chest tight, but I forced myself to keep moving. The party was set for 8pm sharp, and if nothing else, it had to be perfect.
The lights dazzled, chandeliers dripping like golden waterfalls, music humming softly to welcome the elites that began to fill the hall. And then, as though she’d been waiting for the perfect moment, Carmela arrived.
I don’t think I’d ever seen a dress like that before. Midnight blue silk that clung to her figure as though it had been poured on her body, crystals embroidered along the bodice, catching every shard of light in the hall. The gown pooled at her feet in a sweeping train, the kind only seen on red carpets. Her hair was slicked back, diamonds dripping from her ears, her chin tilted with that practiced arrogance. She didn’t just walk in—she sashayed—her heels clicking like an anthem meant to remind the world she was the center of it. And, of course, the guests swarmed her with their praises.
“She looks breathtaking,” someone whispered nearby.
“That gown alone must have cost tens of thousands,” another added.
“Well, Carmela is Calhoun’s weakness, isn’t she? Look at this...look at what should have been a simple welcome party, yet here we are at what feels like a gala.”
“I remember in college,” a man chuckled, “Calhoun wouldn’t let any guy look at her twice. He beat one to a pulp just for holding her hand in a group assignment.”
“Oh, yes! And the gifts—don’t get me started. Carmela was showered with things that made the entire school jealous.”
“She was born lucky,” someone sighed. “And she still is.”