07

Elena

This man was fucking insane. Out of his goddamn mind. My room was…my room. Literally a copy-and-paste version of it. How the fuck ? What the fuck ?

No, like, what the actual fuck ?

How was it possible for him to get every single detail of my room done correctly ? It didn’t make sense. I didn’t know him. I’d never met him. No one’s ever met him and lived to tell the tale. Yet he showed up on my wedding day, no less, with my favorite flowers and my name on his skin.

My mind was struggling to wrap around the events that transpired, and I knew I’d never understand them. He was Oisín Callahan.

The Oisín Callahan.

The rumors and stories people spewed about him were terrifying, enough to make your blood run cold. What if he brought me here to kill me ?

It didn’t make sense for him to kill me, especially after making a scene, slapping a ring on my finger, and forcing the priest to marry us. Right ? Right. Reflexively, my eyes darted to the ring on my finger.

I hated how it was the ring of my dreams ; an emerald cut with an enormously shiny and very rare blue diamond. It had white diamonds around the center stone and diamonds down the band’s side.

Disgusted by myself and my appreciation of my wedding ring, I took it off and tossed it on the bed, not wanting the feel of it on my finger for a second longer. I didn’t want anything to tie me to that barbarian outside.

I couldn’t believe I was here. This day went from shit to shittier to the absolute fucking shittiest. It all happened so fast, and now that I was alone in a creepy-stalker version of my room, I didn’t know how to process it.

If he thought this room would bring me some sort of comfort, then he was even more unhinged than I initially thought. I didn’t even want to know how he knew what my room looked like or what my favorite flowers were.

The creep thought of how he knew all of this sent a shiver down my spine. The bed was in the center of the room, and the details got creepier as I saw he even got the same pillows and blankets.

My shelf of cooking books I owned, along with new ones, was hung precisely how I had it hung over a little reading nook with a couch and cotton throw blanket.

I walked to the closet, and my hands were shaking when I saw that they were all my clothes. Frantic, I went to the dresser and ripped out the drawers. My bras, panties, lingerie, and even my socks were all there.

My heart was jackhammering in my chest, and my breathing grew difficult and short. Was this guy a stalker or just a fucking creep ? How did he get all of my belongings here ?

I stepped back outside and went to the desk he had, and opened the drawers. I sobbed when I saw the picture frame. It was a picture of my nonna and me together. I first took it as a selfie since my nonna hated photos, then later printed it out to frame it.

I looked through the drawers and saw the other frames I had. I had one of my father and me, one of my parents, and one of us together. I gripped them tightly and curled up with them on my bed. I held them to my chest and stayed in bed crying for, I don’t know how long.

My sobs were disgustingly filled with raspy hiccups and loud sniffles, but I didn’t care who heard me. I missed my family, and I missed my home. My actual home. Despite the hurt and pain he caused me, I missed Enzo, and I missed Marcelo.

He didn’t deserve to die the way he did. I never even got to admit my feelings to him, and then I was forced to in front of everyone, only for him to die. I blamed myself and hated myself. My mind tortured me as it bombarded me with images of Marcelo’s limp, bullet-riddled body, and I cried even harder.

There was a knock at the door, and I stayed curled up, refusing to move or acknowledge anyone. I told myself they’d eventually give up and leave me alone, but I should never put anything past these people.

The sound of the door unlocking and opening had me jolting out of my bed to be met with an elderly woman with sunlike hair.

« Mrs. Callahan. » She greeted me sweetly as if I wasn’t here against my will. « Dinner will be served in an hour. »

« I’m not hungry. »

She sat on the edge of the bed and gave me a gentle sigh. « I know everything seems glum, but Mr. Callahan is a good man, a very good man. He sent me here to tell you about dinner, but he insists that you come down on your own accord. His daughter is very anxious to meet you as well. »

« His what ? » I screamed. « He has a kid ? » I gaped up at her. « Who…who would have this man’s child ? He’s the incarnation of Satan himself. »

Ignoring my sudden outburst, she ushered me to stand up with her. Reluctantly, I got out of bed, and she began unbuttoning my wedding dress and helping me out of the zipper.

The dress pooled around my feet, and I stepped out when she reached down to grab it. I saw her eyes go over the bruises on my arm, and feeling self-anxious, I covered my body and took a step back.

« Shower. Wash up. Dinner is in an hour. » She spoke and then stepped out of my room.

I felt like a zombie walking into the bathroom to wash up. I didn’t want to have dinner with him. I hated this man with every inch of my being. And he has a daughter, so she was probably excited about meeting me.

He probably told her about her new mom and how I was just as happy to meet her. I couldn’t put anything past the murderous bastard. I shouldn’t have this guilt about not wanting to meet her resonating in my gut, yet I did.

It felt like such a bitch move, something childish not to show up when there was a little girl who’s probably never had a mother in her life. That’s the thing. I wasn’t the mothering type. At least, I don’t think I was. I’ve never in my life thought about children.

Sure, I was good with them, and most of my customers at the bakery had kids or were kids, but those were passing moments. They weren’t permanent. This would be permanent, really fucking permanent.

She’d probably get so attached to me, and then what ? Fuck. My head was pounding, and I felt so tired that it hurt to stand. I showered with bile in the pit of my gut because the creep even had every bath product I owned.

By everything, I mean everything. Even my razors and exfoliating hand gloves. It was a perversely nice gesture. You had to admire his dedication and stalker tendencies. I wasn’t going to dress up, mainly because he didn’t deserve to see me look good, and the other part was because I was tired.

After drying my hair, I brushed it out and tossed it into a bun. I slipped into my grey sweats that came with a black-sleeved shirt. I wasn’t going to bother with anything, and even though the bathroom was stacked with all my favorite skin-care items, I didn’t have the energy.

I walked out of the bathroom and eyed the ring I threw on my bed for a few moments but left it there. I didn’t want to wear it. It was bad enough that we were legally married. I left my room and walked down the stairs, and the number of men he had working for him was intense.

I lost count of men in ordinary clothes with guns strapped to their chests. When they saw me walking down, they cleared their throats and moved out of my way. They all bowed their heads respectfully, which I found odd, and walked past them.

It didn’t take me long to find the kitchen area. His house was more significant than ours, and even I had to admit the interior design was immaculate.

You could tell everything was lavish, and costly. There were too many inexpensive paintings, chandeliers, and marble flooring that even I knew required an immense bank account.

The savory smell of beef, chicken, garlic, and tomatoes hit me, and my stomach growled in response as I neared the kitchen. The kitchen was something plucked out of my dream.

It was glorious and beautiful, and it took my breath away. It wasn’t overly luxurious or out of its way expensive, but homey. It felt rustic and comfortable, and my eyes skirted over every inch.

The floor was oak wooden flooring with a herringbone pattern, while the walls were egg-shell white. Three inverted bronze pendant lights hung over a marble granite rectangle-shaped island counter with six black-wooden chairs behind it.

My feet walked over to the stainless-steel oven, and I got down on my hind legs and traced the be and name with my fingers. Miele. This was ridiculously expensive and was one of the top ovens that existed. Straightening my back, I traced the knobs, and I giggled like a schoolgirl.

This oven was expensive for a reason, dual fuel range, six sealed burners, a convection oven included, backlight precision knobs, and so much more. I opened and closed it, and the grip was just like how it showed online and in videos.

The inside was even more mind-blowing, and I knew it was childish to be this excited over an oven, but it wasn’t any oven. It was the oven of the century.

« Do you like it, mo ghrá amháin ? »