Bound By The Beta

Blue

Her mother gave her no choice. She forced Carmilla to accompany her to the Gates mansion, first making her bathe and then taking painstaking time to dress her properly. She even tried to wash out the blue hair, but Carmilla drew a firm line there. If Bob Gates truly wanted her, the blue hair would stay. Out of guilt, perhaps, her mother said nothing more. Instead, she focused on carefully applying makeup to conceal the bruise blooming on Carmilla's cheek from the earlier slap. Her vivid blue hair was pulled into a sleek, respectable bun. Her mother attempted to tint the matching brows, but one sharp look from Carmilla made her abandon the idea.

When she was finished, Carmilla stood before the tall vanity mirror. Her cheeks were rosy against her fair skin, her lips softly pink. She looked presentable enough. She wore a modest cream gown her mother had chosen, accented with delicate blue embroidery, and a white shawl draped over her shoulders to help conceal her rebellious hair.

Once her mother left to prepare herself, Carmilla was alone. For a brief, desperate moment, she considered running away. She had savings.. money Richard had always insisted she keep hidden. It was enough to buy a ticket on the first train to Hilibury, the capital. She could find cheap lodging for a week, search for work, and eventually send money back for her father's treatment.

It would be selfish. She knew that. But she had never claimed to be an angel, and she could not accept the cruel fate her mother was pushing her toward.

Still, something made her hesitate. What if Bob Gates had changed? He had been their childhood neighbor, a troublesome boy who once rubbed boogers in Layla's hair just to get her attention. It had been two years since Carmilla left for the Academy. People could change… couldn't they? After all he was only nineteen then.

Don't be fooled by deceitful appearances. Richard's words echoed in her mind. Women have a frightening sense of intuition. Use it.

Carmilla made up her mind. She locked the door, lifted her gown and petticoats, and strapped the antique knife her father had once given her to her thigh. The blade, meant for cutting birthday cakes, would serve a far darker purpose if needed.

"Carmilla! Come downstairs," her mother called. "I'm ready!"

Since the Gates mansion wasn't far, they walked. The streets of Kilston were lively despite the lingering morning fog. A paperboy hurried past them, his gaze snagging on Carmilla's blue hair. He wasn't the only one. Several heads turned as they passed, eyes widening at the unnatural color. Carmilla was used to the stares and paid them little mind, but she could feel her mother's discomfort growing with every glance.

"You should have let me wash that color out," her mother muttered under her breath, slipping back into her familiar role of strict disciplinarian.

Carmilla ignored her, her attention drifting to a carriage rolling past, the horses neighing softly. The cobblestones beneath their feet were still damp from the morning rain. Two years away, yet everything felt unchanged. The warm, tantalizing aroma of fresh bread drifted from the bakery across the street, making her stomach growl loudly. Her mother noticed but said nothing as they continued on.

"Buy your pearls here! Real antiques!" a young salesman called, waving a sign outside the jewelry boutique.

Her mother's eyes lingered on the display for a moment before she looked away.

Soon the Gates mansion loomed before them. The old wooden structures had indeed been torn down and replaced with solid concrete. Parts of the grand house were still under construction, scaffolding clinging to one side.

The guard at the gate spotted her mother and offered a polite smile, bowing slightly as he opened the heavy iron gate for them.

"Mrs. Jackson, Mr. Gates has been expecting you. Please, come in."

The deference in the guard's voice was unmistakable. It seemed her mother had become a regular visitor here. When Carmilla glanced at her, she caught the faint, smug expression on her mother's face.

They were led into an extravagant living room, far grander than anything in her family's modest home. Tall vases overflowed with fresh peonies, and expensive-looking paintings adorned the walls. Carmilla wondered whether they were originals or clever imitations. The answer would reveal exactly how high the Gates family had climbed.

A woman in a sleek black dress with a white fur draped over her shoulders swept into the room, wearing a wide, practiced smile. The wrinkles on her face had deepened with age, but Carmilla immediately recognized her.. Bob's mother, Miriam.

Her own mother stepped forward, and the two women exchanged airy kisses on both cheeks without making contact. Carmilla understood then why her mother had chosen her best floral green gown... the one that beautifully complemented her reddish-brown hair, a rare trait in the Jackson family. She refused to appear inferior to Miriam's newfound wealth and charisma.

"Miriam," her mother breathed warmly.

"Lucy, darling! You look wonderful. Is that from the collection two years ago?"

Her mother stiffened for a fraction of a second before recovering with a smile. "Yes, I thought it was still elegant enough. This is my second child and only daughter, Carmilla Jackson."

Carmilla noticed her mother had forgotten to return the compliment. Miriam's brow twitched.

"You look rather paler than I expected," Miriam said, taking Carmilla's arms in her hands. "Oh my! Your hair is blue!"

Carmilla offered a sweet smile, refusing to be pulled into their subtle power game.

"Yes, it is," she replied smoothly. "And your fur looks beautiful. The quality of imitations has improved so much since I was at the Academy." She couldn't help herself. Anyone who insulted her mother Infront of her didn't deserve respect.

Miriam gasped.

Before the woman could respond to the sheer provocation, the sound of footsteps drew their attention. Two men were descending the staircase.

It was Bob and his father.

Bob hadn't changed much since she last saw him. He was still overweight, and his dark, hungry gaze dropped straight to her chest before slowly rising to her face. He subtly licked his lips. A wave of disgust rolled through Carmilla.

When his eyes finally reached hers, his brows furrowed.

"What awful color is that on your head?"

It wasn't a question.

His father, an older man with practiced grace, quickly interceded.

"Now, now... that's no way to greet your future fiancée. Go on, welcome her properly."

Carmilla shivered at the word fiancée. Bob rolled his eyes and lumbered toward her with an exaggerated gait.

"Carmilla, you look… quite different," he said, his voice low enough for only her to hear. "The Academy seems to have encouraged your weirdness a little too much. Don't worry. Hopefully you'll return to your gorgeous self once you're home."

Their eyes met. His were sinister and controlling. In that moment, Carmilla knew with absolute certainty: she would rather die than marry this man.

He reached for her hand, intending to kiss it. She smoothly pulled away.

"Thank you, Bob," she replied coolly.

"Shall we sit?" Bob's father suggested, gesturing toward the plush seats.

Carmilla moved to sit, but Bob's hand suddenly clamped around her arm, hard enough that she feared it would bruise. He didn't seem to like the rejection. He lifted her hand to his lips anyway, pressing a kiss to the back of it before releasing her. To anyone watching, the gesture would have looked doting.

Carmilla suppressed another shiver. She hadn't even agreed to the marriage, yet he was already hurting her.