Eternal Splendor

CAMILLA "WHAT!" They've got to be kidding me. I mean, I know Dad is perfectly capable of orchestrating this, but Mum?! How could she betray my trust like this? "Mum, please, you've got to stop this madness," I implore, desperately hoping she'll put an end to this insanity. "I'm sorry, Camilla, but my hands are tied, baby. It's a done deal," she says, her eyes pleading with me. Eyes that remind me of all the ladylike etiquette I've been drilled with, about how, as a lady, I should be complacent and let the men make most of the decisions. Well, to hell with those etiquettes. "When do your hands ever not feel tied, Mum? Don't you ever get tired of being the perfect wife all the time? This is about your daughter, and you're not fighting hard enough for her. I hate you!" I scream at her, for the first time in my life. It feels terrible, yet oddly refreshing. A rejuvenating release. "You won't speak to your mother in that tone, young lady," Dad thundered from the far end of the living area. He's encircled by the art pieces he's amassed over the years, and occasionally, when his business dealings go exceptionally well, he enjoys indulging in the fantasy of being a prosperous art collector, acquiring paintings on a whim. However, the irony lies in this: he’s the most exquisite masterpiece ever to grace our front porch, and I say that in the most masculine terms possible. Dad stands at an imposing 6'11" with the physique of a model straight out of Abercrombie & Fitch. Even at his age, he still manages to captivate the attention of women, a fact that, truth be told, can be a bit unsettling to contemplate. "Or what Dad?" At this moment, I don't care about anything. He's the worst, and he doesn't deserve my admiration. I don't wait for him to respond. Instead, I pivot on my heels and storm up to my room. I hastily strip off my clothes, opting to wash away my tears with hot water. I let the tears mix with the stream, so I can't distinguish one from the other. I stand there for a long while until the once-hot water runs cold. Afterwards, I return to my room, change into a tank top and shorts, crawl into bed, curl up, and sob until I fall asleep. At some point later, I awake to find my younger brother sleeping on the bed beside me, his arms wrapped around me. My heart melts at the sight. Thank goodness I don't have any sisters. No one to be used as a bargaining chip. No one to be married off to a random wealthy man in exchange for my dad's business expansion. I hug my brother even tighter. At least his life won't be subjected to the constraints of being a woman. We lie there for a while until I hear a knock on my door. "Your father demands your immediate presence. He says to come alone," I hear Noah, my dad's most trusted employee, say. I've always seen him around. I sigh, wearied and resigned. I make my way to my father's study because I know that when he wants a one-on-one conversation, his study is the chosen venue. It's a conservative room, painted white with brown, sturdy wooden office furniture. There's a brown curtain, sofas lining the office walls, and a door to the toilet on the far left. In this room, my father guards his wealth meticulously. He has people watching over it constantly. I enter the study to find my dad engrossed in a file. I clear my throat to announce my presence. He barely spares me a glance. "Take a seat and wait for a moment. But I don't budge. "I'd rather you just tell me now. Who knows what news you'll be springing on me next. Perhaps you've signed away one of my kidneys, which wouldn't surprise me, considering you've already signed away my life," I snap, knowing that tantrums won't get me anywhere. But a girl can hope. No response. If he heard me, he wouldn't acknowledge it. After what feels like an eternity, with me still standing my ground, he finally looks up from the files. "I want to inform you about a small banquet we're hosting in two days to celebrate your successful engagement to Trevor. I needn't remind you how vital this is for us, especially for me. So, I implore you to be on your best behavior on that day. Look your best, too. I'll have a stylist brought to you." I scoff. "Some father you are! Have you ever stopped to think about how I feel in all of this?" I yell at him. He pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing. "Your feelings are inconsequential in this matter, Camilla. I thought I'd made that clear. This wedding is set in stone. You're marrying Trevor Hamilton. The sooner you make peace with it, the better for you. You may leave." I want to scream, cry, yell, pull my hair out, curse at my father. But I merely bow courteously and exit the room, my stupid etiquette training deciding to make an appearance at the most inopportune moment. I hate my life! TREVOR Some ladies are just plain foolish. I observe the woman who accompanied me home trying to stuff my jewelry into her purse. Since she can't even see them, I assume it's the Cartier set I wore to the club where I met her. Such exquisite and timeless $2,000 luxury is worthy to turn even the most honest of men rogue. So, on one hand, I can excuse why she'd want to steal it. On the other hand though, the stronger hand actually, doesn't excuse her behavior. Pilfering people’s properties still remains an activity amongst demons, not humans. A mischievous idea crosses my mind, and I decide to mess with her a little. I stir, doing the whole "I'm just waking up and stretching my muscles" routine, causing her to hastily tuck some more jewelry into her underwear. "Hey, are you leaving already?" I ask in my best 'just woke up' voice. She puts on a fake smile. "I have somewhere to be, so I have to go. Of course you do, you thief. I get out of bed and approach her. "So soon? I was hoping to have one more round," I say, unzipping her top. She laughs nervously. "I really need to be on my way now. Maybe we can do this some other time." She struggles against me as I try to pull her top over her shoulders. After a brief struggle, I manage to win, taking off her shirt and unhooking her bra. "You know what I really hate, aside from someone trying to leave in the morning without letting me know? Someone who takes my property along with them," I tell her as her bra unclasps and my jewelry tumbles out. I take her purse from her hand and empty its contents as well. "Now that we've established that fact, get out!" She does the walk of shame out of the guest room. As she exits, I call one of the security personnel to keep a close eye on her and make sure she doesn't try anything foolish. I shake my head and chuckle. Today's event was less crazy than usual. Once, I had to throw a girl out because she wouldn't stop screaming and insisted she was meant for me. Another time, a girl threatened to kill herself if I didn't call a priest for our marriage. It's always one event or another. Why do I go through the hassle of bringing them home, you may ask? Because I live for the adventure each of them brings. It's a new day, so I have to go around the city, checking the progress of my various businesses. I do this routine check daily, unlike the misconception that the wealthy only check on their businesses once every two weeks. I wonder why people think so little of the wealthy. If we were truly lazy, how did we amass such wealth at such a young age? Luck? "Hey Siri, read me my schedule for the day," I say as I stride to the bathroom for my morning shower. "You have a meeting with your board of directors at 10 am today, and a lunch date with Mr. Tate at 2 pm. You also have to meet up with Mrs. Alonzo at 4 pm at the golf course," Siri replies in her automated voice. Having Siri read me my schedule every morning was my PA's idea. According to her, it helps prepare one's mind for the day. I'm not entirely convinced, but it's become a routine. I step into the bathroom, relishing a revitalizing shower, my mind wandering to the deal I struck with Mr. Tate. To be honest, I have no interest in getting married just yet; I'm still all about the single life. But there's something oddly satisfying in knowing that I have managed to take away one of Mr Tate’s most cherished possessions. She's considered precious not because she holds any sentimental value to him; quite the contrary, he was saving her for the highest bidder. Piece of garbage! I step out of the bathroom, feeling refreshed and ready to face the day. I enter the walk-in closet in the guest room, which is filled with my clothing. There's hardly any space left in my closet, which is amusing because most of my clothing items are monochrome. I pick out a white shirt and burgundy trousers and simply throw them on. I tousle my hair to give it that 'I didn't bother to look good' appearance. It messes with the heads of the girls, but I really should stop, considering I'm getting married in a few weeks. I put on my Cartier wristwatch set and slip into my custom-made Balenciaga shoes. I had them custom-made because I thought the soles were fluffy enough, and I was desperate for them due to the long hours I spent on my feet. I summon my chauffeur to get the Lamborghini ready, which will be the chosen car for today's trips. For some reason, I've been feeling quite showy today, don't know why, and I love it. I glide down the escalator to the ground floor of my penthouse, securing the house behind me. It will remain sealed until I choose to unlock it using my iris and fingerprint. I text Mr. Tate back just to acknowledge his message. I wonder how his daughter will look. I hope, for my sake, she inherited her mother's genes. As soon as I get into the car, the chauffeur drives off, effortlessly navigating the upper town. Man.. I love this life!