The Unwanted Marriage: Dion and Faye's Story (The Windsors)

2

She walks toward me and kneels beside my bench, a shaky smile on her lips. I hold my arm open for her, and she hugs me tightly. I sigh as I place my chin on top of her head and hug her back.

“I don’t think I can do this,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. She’s the only person who knows about the guilt and shame I carry, the sins that weigh heavy on me.

“It wasn’t your fault, Dion,” she lies.

“I can’t do this to her. Not her.”

Sierra pulls away to look at me, her expression guarded. “But you must, and if it’s absolution you seek, what better way to find it than by making Faye happy? Maybe you’ll find that in doing so, you’ll experience the happiness you deserve, too. Because you do, Dion. You deserve to be happy.”

I look into my sister’s eyes, taking in her sincerity. How could she possibly believe that with such fierceness, such conviction? How could she sit here without blaming me for everything I’ve taken from her, from us?

Would she still feel the same way if she knew about the viciousness I hide away? I’m worried my venom will end up infecting Faye too. Being with me will taint her, corrupt her — and a sick, wicked part of me wants it to. What would Sierra say if I admit that I haven’t just been running away from my fiancée out of guilt?

Chapter Two

Faye

My back is perfectly straight as I raise a fork to my lips, the slight tremor in my hand betraying the dread that’s taking root deep in my gut. I tighten my grip on the metal, willing myself to stay calm as I chew on my tasteless poached eggs.

We’re all just waiting for it — waiting for Father to snap at us over something. Will it be the food today? Perhaps he’ll think we’re chewing too loudly. Whatever it is, something is bound to give. Normally, he’d already have left for work by now, and the fact he hasn’t does not bode well for any of us.

My stepmother, Abigail, carries the same expression that I undoubtedly do. It’s fake pleasantness born from fear. We’re both eerily calm, having learned the hard way that any other behavior will set my father off.

I control my breathing and focus on swallowing my food. I won’t let him catch me wasting a single bite, no matter how close I am to throwing up.

My anxiety continues to rise as my two younger half-sisters, Linda and Chloe, squirm in their seats. With each passing second, I can see my father’s annoyance build. Please, I silently beg. Please don’t let them be punished for their restlessness.

I’m equal parts glad and fearful that my two younger step-sisters haven’t had to learn how to adjust their behavior to our father. It means there’s still hope for them, that their spirits aren’t quite broken just yet — but it also means his actions hurt them more than they do me. I’ve become used to it now, but I hope they’ll never have to. Not much longer now. Just a few more months, and things will finally get better.

“Linda,” Father says, and she tenses. For a split-second, dread flashes through my sister’s eyes, but then she controls it, pasting on the smile we’ve all perfected. So far, he hasn’t hurt the girls, but how much longer can I protect them?

“Yes, Father?”

“When do you leave for college?”

A pang of longing settles deep in my chest, and I take a shaky breath. I only just graduated, but unlike my younger sister, I was never allowed to live on campus. I don’t begrudge her the experience, but a small part of me wishes I could’ve had that too.

“Three weeks from now,” she answers, her voice soft, sweet.

Linda has so many choices ahead of her, and I wonder if she realizes what a luxury that is. My sister will get to choose her own major, her friends. She’ll leave our father’s clutches and escape into a world that will let her shape her own future — it’s everything I’ve ever wanted for her.

I wonder what it might be like to discover your own interests, the way she will. I was forced to major in Business so I’d be knowledgeable enough to have meaningful conversations with Dion, but I never had any interest in it. Everything in my life was by design, all of it meant to turn me into the perfect wife for him.

I’m not even sure I’d be a pianist if not for him. If I was never expected to marry him, would I have been forced to learn? Would my childhood have consisted of rigorous practice and competitions? Maybe — my mother was a famous pianist, after all, and so was my grandfather. My father is convinced it was in Mom’s genes, since neither Chloe nor Linda have any talent for it that he can exploit, much to his bitter regret.

“Toward the end of your first semester, you must take time off for Faye’s wedding. We’ll need you here, and you will support your sister.”

Despondency turns into desolation as I take another bite of my food, pretending to be unaffected. I’m glad neither of my sisters are standing in my shoes, but I’d give the world to have one single day of true freedom — of not feeling like a sacrifice, a broodmare.

Chloe shifts in her seat, and I glance up at her through my lashes. Two more years, and she too will escape this place we’re forced to call home. I, on the other hand, will merely be exchanging it for a different gilded cage.

My mind involuntarily drifts to a different future, one where I’d be free to choose what I wear and where I go, what I eat and how I speak. I’d travel the world, seeking new adventures, even if it’s just to figure out what I’d enjoy, who I am. I’d play an abandoned piano in a small train station, simply because I want to, and not because I’m expected to. I’d dance in the rain and drink more than is appropriate, savoring each moment that makes me feel alive. I’d hold hands with a man that chose me, that wants me, and we’d be happy. When I think of that future, it isn’t Dion’s green eyes I think of. No. In my wildest dreams, the eyes twinkling back at me are a beautiful coffee brown, the color hinting at the depth of his devotion.

I feel Father’s gaze on me moments before his knife clatters against the table, the sound of metal hitting marble an omen I’ve learned to recognize. “Faye,” he says, his voice deceptively calm. “Have you spoken to Dion recently? From what I understand, he’s preparing to move back from London, so he’ll be here more often now.”

My stomach drops at the thought of my fiancé. I haven’t heard from him in months, and one way or another, my father will find a way to blame me for it. Our wedding date was set a month ago, but we haven’t so much as discussed it with each other. I should’ve known he’d be moving back soon, but somehow, I thought I had more time left.

“I’ve contacted him on numerous occasions and he told me that he’d get in touch with me when required,” I lie, my tone perfectly calm. I’ve only called Dion once, a few weeks ago, and it went straight to voicemail. I haven’t tried calling him since, but there’s no way my father could know that.