His Chains

“You craved it. You wanted it. Now you can have it.”

He whispered in my ear, sending shivers down my spine. Yes, I wanted him. Yes, I craved for him. Not anymore. No more! My heart screamed.

I wanted to shout this at him. I wanted to show him I don’t care anymore. But when did I open my mouth in front of him?

I ran up the tiny, black bridge over the lake. I ran till I was out of breath, out of reach from him. I stopped at a massive redwood tree. Clutching my chest, heaving. I dropped down to the muddy ground, crying.

“Why? Why did you make me love him?” I yelled, looking up at an ominous sky, filled with clouds, promising a huge storm tonight or tomorrow. I cried till I ran out of energy. I didn’t know how much time I was unconscious. I didn’t know who carried me up to my room. I didn’t know who changed my stinking, mud-filled clothes.

All I knew was that tomorrow I was being thrust into a wedding I never wanted, marrying the man who had once filled my dreams with hope and joy, but who now filled my heart with resentment and dread. The thought of exchanging vows with him sent shivers down my spine, reminding me of the bittersweet memories that had turned to ash.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━Few days earlier ⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰ ━━━━

“Clementina!”

I snapped my head up. My mother never called me by my birth name, unless I made a grave mistake. I peeked over my canvas. My mother, in a terribly overflowing pink gown, which crashed horribly with her strawberry blonde hair, walked to me with a scrunched-up face.

She loathed Eldermere Hall with all her guts. She couldn’t stand any mud or damp places. She cherished the city, overcrowded, bustling malls and the never ending dinner parties. I hated our home in London. I hated her dinner parties and the women with flashy clothes and fake nails, drinking their sorrows while their husbands banged the young girls.

My mother never liked me. She preferred my little sister more as she was the spitting image of her. Both my mother and sister were strawberry blondes with elegant bone structure and slender bodies. In contrast, I was a bit rounder, softer, curvier body, with a stack of raven black hair, just like my Great Gran. She literally raised me in the Elderemere Hall. Maybe that was why I prefer staying indoors and painting, where both my mom and sister are outdoorsy people who thrive on crowds.

Whenever it was October, I came to Elderemere to attend the Country Masque, a masquerade ball, hosted by Aubert’s. It was the only time I preferred an outdoor activity. However, this time, father insisted that mother attend along with me. He was just concerned after my mother spent half a million in a casino. So he, not so discreetly, pushed her with me.

She whined the whole day, saying the lights were dull and yellow. Moaned that the grounds were too damp for her liking. The eggs were too runny. I just rolled my eyes, ate my grilled mushrooms and, not too runny eggs, in silence.

I needed some peace. A quiet place away from the city lights. Eldermere Hall lies on the outskirts of Yorkshire. My therapy. My happy place. And my mother was ruining it.

I sighed.

“What is it now, mother?” I made sure my voice was laced with discontent.

She snorted and said,

“No need to sound too sour, Mina.” She put her hands on her hips and wrinkled her nose while looking at the canvas.

“What are you doodling?” She asked with disinterest. I was currently painting the landscape over my great gran’s headstone. I rolled my eyes and said,

“It is not doodling, mother. Doodling is when you draw- never mind it. What is it ?” She huffed.

“The Viremonts sent an invite!” She squealed.

Confusion consumed me. The Viremonts, almost royals, never set a foot in North Yorkshire for more than fifteen years. The last gathering they attended was the Yule gathering in December, fifteen years ago, when I was just eleven.

“That doesn’t make sense. Are you sure, mother?” I asked her in bewilderment.

My mother huffed and said, “Of course, Mina. I know a genuine gossip when it crosses my ears. They are in a rush to find a bride for Derek. I mean, it was six months since the poor man was widowed. He needs a companion. But they sent an invite that they will meet us for dinner after this god awful masquerade ball.”

I was still confused. Six months was less time to grieve for any human. The society I lived in would sneer if anyone married in less than a year. Of course, a man like Derek Viremont, with a serious god complex and towering arrogance that would reach stars, could do whatever he wanted, and people would just praise him for that.

I held a small prayer that I would not face him at the Country Masque. The thought of our paths crossing sent a shiver of unease down my spine. I really didn’t want my peace to be ruined further.

Yet again, when did God truly hear any of my prayers?