Traded To Mr Dawson Cage

Seven

I got off from the bed and ran to the door.

I started banging hard against it.

“DAWSON!” I screamed, slamming my fists against the wood. “Open this door!”

The loud sound echoed through the massive room, but no one answered.

“Please!” My voice cracked. “Please, let me out!”

I banged the door again and again until my hands hurt but still, I didn’t stop.

“You can’t do this to me!” I cried. “My mother is dead!”

Every time my mind reeled on that reality, it felt like someone was stabbing me all over again.

“You can’t keep me here while they bury her!” I screamed through sobs. “Please! Please, just let me say goodbye to her!”

There was still no response. I was only met with cold and cruel silence.

Dejected, I slid down the door slowly until I hit the floor.

My entire body shook violently.

Dune stood nearby, helplessly clutching her little notebook to her chest. Her expression looked miserable, but it didn’t matter.

I covered my mouth and cried so hard my chest started hurting.

“I promised her…” I whispered brokenly. “I promised I’d keep fighting…”

Fresh sobs tore through me at the thought that I couldn’t even bury my own mother or see her for one last time.

I hate him.

I hated Dawson so much that it scared me.

Eventually, I forced myself up and stumbled toward the bathroom.

Dune hurried after me slightly, trying to help but I jerked away from her instantly.

“Don’t touch me!”

She froze.

“I said leave me alone,” I muttered weakly.

She hesitated and then she slowly raised her notebook.

'You should bathe.'

Something about the normalness of that sentence broke something inside me again.

Bathe?

My mother was dead.

I let out this horrible sound between a laugh and a sob.

“I don’t care,” I whispered.

Dune stepped closer carefully.

I snapped immediately. “JUST f*****g GO!”

She flinched and the silence afterward felt awful but I didn’t apologize.

I walked toward the bathtub like my body weighed a thousand pounds. Then I turned the water on and climbed inside.

The cold water soaked through my naked body as I buried myself deeper into the tub.

I cried again.

I cried until I couldn’t breathe properly and until I physically couldn’t produce sound anymore.

But even then, the tears kept falling.

***

The days after that blurred together even after I stopped counting.

It was like Dawson intentionally decided to stay away from me probably because he knew I'd attempt to claw out his eyes for not letting me attend my mother's funeral.

Morning and night became meaningless to me. Sometimes Dune brought trays of food, tea and medicine I never touched.

At first she tried to convince me with her notebook near the bed.

'Please eat something.'

I ignored her.

The next day, she tried.

'Just a little.'

'You will get sick.'

I almost laughed at that.

Sick?

What difference did it make anymore?

I stopped caring about my body, my appearance and practically everything.

All I did was cry all the damn time with the image of my mother's face etched deep inside my memory.

I kept hearing her voice.

'Let me go…'

“No,” I whispered into the darkness one night, tears soaking the pillow beneath my cheek. “You weren’t supposed to go…”

I barely slept but when I did, I dreamed about awful things.

Hospital machines flatlining.

Chains around my wrists.

Dawson’s hands wrapped around my throat.

My mother calling my name while I couldn’t reach her.

Then Dawson standing there watching everything happen with those cold eyes of his.

I started looking terrible because I'd turned pale. My lips were dried and cracked and my eyes were swollen from constant bitterness.

I looked haunted like someone already halfway dead but Dawson never showed his face.

I didn’t know whether to be relieved or furious about it.

Then the wedding day came.

I sat silently in front of the mirror with the engagement ring still sat on my finger like a curse.

Dune did my makeup and the moment she saw my face properly, her expression changed.

Pain flickered through her eyes because there was no hiding it.

My eyes were horribly swollen and my face looked drained of life.

Dune sighed softly through her nose before opening the concealer.

After all she dabbed beneath my eyes, tears still rolled down my face without my permission.

Dune paused for a second and looked at me helplessly. Then she scribbled something quickly and showed it to me.

'Please stop crying or the makeup will not stay.'

I stared at the words.

“I can’t,” I whispered hoarsely, my voice sounded broken.

“I can’t do this…”

“I don’t even know where my mother is.”

Fresh tears blurred my vision immediately.

“She died alone,” I said shakily. “And I wasn’t even there…”

Dune lowered the notebook slowly and looked at through the mirror.

I didn’t look like a bride.

Immediately, there was a knock at the door before it opened slightly and one of Dawson’s bodyguards stepped inside.

“It’s time.”

Dune helped me stand. My knees almost gave out immediately because I hadn’t eaten properly in days.

The bodyguard watched me coldly.

“Hurry up.”

I wanted to scream at him. But instead, I stayed silent because I was tired.

The drive to the church felt daunting.

I kept thinking about my mother, wondering where she was buried, if anyone cried for her besides me and if she thought I abandoned her before she died.

The church was enormous as the large doors opened slowly.

My heels clicked weakly against the polished floor as I walked inside. I immediately noticed how empty it was with not many guests, just a handful of people scattered around.

Men in expensive suits and women dripping in jewelry. They were basically people who looked powerful and dangerous.

My gaze settled on Morgana and I wanted to haul my flower at her when she gave me a sleek smile, but I didn't.

Then my gaze lifted toward the altar to see Dawson waiting with his perfectly tailored black suit, cold expression and perfect posture.

He stood like a man attending a business merger instead of a wedding.

My heart pounded painfully against my chest as I approached the altar.

Every instinct in me screamed to run but there was nowhere to run to and the closer I got, the more trapped I felt.

Then finally, I stopped in front of him.

His eyes moved over me slowly with disgusted and dangerous assessment.

“You look terrible,” he said flatly.

His words hit me instantly but I said nothing.

He frowned slightly.

“You look like a shadow of yourself,” he continued coldly. “Compose yourself immediately.” He hissed under his breath.

My fingers curled tightly against the fabric of my dress as anger flickered through the grief.

Compose myself?

My mother's dead, I had been imprisoned for days and forced into this hell hole called marriage and the almighty Dawson Cage wanted me to compose myself?

I lifted my head up to look straight at him and instead of responding to his insult, I asked the only thing that mattered to me.

“Where is she buried?”

His expression hardened immediately.

“My mother,” I whispered as my throat burned. “Where did you bury her?”

A muscle ticked in his jaw.

I stared at him desperately with tears blurring my vision again.

“Please.” I begged silently and I was aware I looked so pathetic.

My voice trembled for the first time since arriving at the church.

“I just want to know where she is.”

Dawson’s face darkened into a scowl.