7

Delilah

The sound of a door clicking has me opening my eyes from a deep sleep. I won’t admit to Carmine that it’s been my best night’s sleep in a while. My back doesn’t hurt from an old mattress, and the comforter is thick and warm, cocooning me in peace. I never want to leave this bed.

Sitting up, I stretch my arms above my head. I know I need to get up and face the reality I’ve put myself in, but the silence is nice. There are no questions, tears, or expectations to meet. I’m alone with no one to answer to, and it’s nice.

I have time to consider my decisions and why I made them without asking for anyone else’s opinion.

I sling the blanket off and toss my legs over the edge of the bed, my feet dangling above the floor because the bed’s so high. Rolling my head over my shoulder to stretch my neck, Christy’s words echo in my head.

“You can’t always be the solution for your father’s mistakes, Delilah.”

And while putting himself at Carmine’s mercy was one of my father’s solutions to his problems, it wasn’t the first.

Dad is horrible at managing money.

I never discussed my dad’s irresponsible spending because I never wanted him to feel bad. I knew he did his best with me, especially after mom left and he had to take on both roles. It couldn’t have been easy, so I helped whenever I could.

The shop has been in trouble more than once.

Dad tends to get desperate and wants a solution right away, but it always gets him in trouble. He gambled away the shop’s money reserve for emergencies. He lost every cent.

And I took out a student loan to replenish it.

I knew I didn’t have to pay it back immediately, so deciding to take out the loan was easy. He thanked me profusely and told me he’d pay me back monthly.

He never did.

He spent the money on a new truck—that he totaled because he was drinking and driving.

I had to take out another loan to bail him out of jail.

And then I had pay for another car.

Suddenly, I had racked up thirty thousand dollars of debt, and none of it was for school because I was on an academic scholarship.

It’s not that he isn’t a good father, He is. Never once have I questioned if he loves me. He always lets me know, but Dad has always been a mess. He’s never made great choices; before I cleaned up his messes, it was mom.

Now that I’m older, I understand why she left. She was tired,

exhausted from taking care of Dad.

After this, after agreeing to carry Carmine’s baby and marry him, I am done too. I can’t continue to pay for Dad’s mistakes. There’s nothing left for me to do. There’s nothing left for me to give. I’ve given up my credit, my life, and now my body.

I love my dad so much it hurts, but I realize he isn’t good for me.

Family or not, he is toxic and wearing me down. I’m young. I’m only twenty-one, and I’m already tired of life. I’m tired of fixing him.

Maybe that’s selfish of me, but it’s about time I was selfish.

I deserve that much.

Standing, I notice a note on the nightstand with my name in elegant script on the front. Of course, he had handwriting like this—the kind angled with precision, the loops sharp and to a point. It’s almost romantic, but I knew everything he signed meant death.

I trace my name with my fingers, the letters telling a story with how perfect they are, as if the person writing is daring to be told otherwise. There’s a hidden challenge here, one of a man always in control, and nothing, not even little ole me, can ruffle his feathers.

I can’t wait to be the reason for his downfall.

Delilah,

When you awaken, dinner is in the kitchen, and in the closet are fresh clothes. Please, get comfortable and meet me so we can review the contract.

Your Dearest Future Husband,

Carmine

I scoff, my fingers twitching to crumble the paper and throw it across the room.

Husband.

Out of all the people I thought I’d marry, I never once thought it would be someone like him. So cruel, so calculated, and so necessary.

Sighing, I fold the note and place it on the nightstand beside the bed. The moon's bright glow shines through the window, giving me enough light to walk to the bathroom. Looking at myself in the mirror, I wince when I see the woman staring back at me.

My hair is a mess from sleeping, and I have indents from the pillow on the left side of my face. My lipstick is smeared, and my mascara has darkened my eyes.

With an annoyed groan, I flip the light in the closet and freeze when I see the clothes he talked about in the note.

One half of the closet is filled his with his pristine suits and Italian leather shoes. Even his plain white T-shirts are hung with care, aligned perfectly on black velvet hangers.

“Of course, you hang T-shirts on velvet,” I mutter.

I double-check to see if I’m alone and touch the deep blue suit jacket, loving how soft it feels. It’s like silk. Feeling bold, I drag my fingers over every suit hanging, ranging from black to blue. There’s even a dark purple blazer.

I bet it looked beautiful against his tanned skin.

I jerk my hand back as if burned. Being a captive shouldn’t look so good. Is he trying to buy my trust by filling the closet with pretty clothes and expensive purses? Everything is here.

Dresses, skirts, blouses, shirts, heels, sandals, belts, jeans, anything I could ever want is here. How did he know my size?

“Oh my God,” I whisper, in awe.