Page 20 of Where Quiet Hearts Scream (Dark Hearts #3)

S erafina

Five minutes later, I walk into the lounge where Papa, another man I don’t recognize, and—well, I may as well get used to it— Andreas are sitting on sofas cradling empty espresso cups. They stand when I enter the room.

Where Papa’s face comes alive, albeit with a thread of apprehension, Andreas’ face falls. A lightness that was evident when he was speaking with my father has diminished, and in its place is a darkness, a heaviness. It is chased by a furrowed brow and a tight jaw.

Without removing his gaze from me, he speaks to my father through gritted teeth.

“Mr. Castellano. I wish to speak with you alone.”

I stop and stare at Papa. I thought Andreas wanted to see me, but I’ve been dismissed? My lips part in shock as I wait for Papa’s response. He lets out a long, saddened breath.

“Sera, please go and wait for me in my office.”

“What? Why?”

“Just go. I will see you shortly.”

I turn around and walk back out of the lounge but I don’t go to Papa’s office. I stand at the other side of the door and press an ear to it.

Andreas’s fury is unmistakable.

“What has happened to her?” he says, a razor edge to his tone.

Papa doesn’t answer straight away, but when he does, my heart aches.

“We’ve tried everything, Andreas. We simply can’t get her to eat, go outside, or even watch a movie. Allegra is a good cook and she has prepared all the meals Sera is usually very fond of, but she hardly eats a bite.”

“Have you asked her nicely ?” Though I can’t see him, I can sense Andreas’ irritation. It’s in the thinning of his voice and the lilt of his tone. “Have you told her it is non-negotiable?”

“Um, I…” Papa stammers.

Then Andreas’ voice cuts back in. “That is not the woman I met in the Hamptons.”

I almost snort with derision. He is not the man I met in the Hamptons either.

“She’s a shadow of that person. She looks ill . Her skin is dull, her hair dry, her eyes are devoid of light. Why and how have you let this happen? ”

“I’ll make her eat, Andreas, I promise. I hadn’t realized the difference in her appearance had become so marked.”

I can hear Andreas’ tight breaths moving in and out of his nostrils but my mind is snagged on my father. Andreas is right. Papa either hasn’t noticed the extent of my decline or he’s turned a blind eye. Whereas Andreas has noticed it and demanded change.

“Get her back to the way she was in the Hamptons,” he demands. “She needs to look like herself. Who wants to look back over wedding photos and not like what they see?”

I want to laugh out loud. Where does that man derive his optimism? Because I’d like to place an order please. I can’t imagine a day I will ever look back at my wedding day photos and like them.

“The wedding is just two weeks away and as you’ve already let it go this far, I don’t trust that you’ll get her back to the way she was.

I’ll be sending a chef. You will ensure she sits at the table and eats three full meals a day plus snacks.

She doesn’t leave the table until she’s finished.

I will send vitamin supplements, books, walking shoes—anything you need to encourage her to get outside, get some fresh air, get well again. ”

Anger vibrates through me. He’s giving my father orders to treat me like a child.

Then, if that isn’t humiliating enough, he punctuates his orders with a threat.

“If you don’t do as I ask, I’ll take her to a safe house and you and everyone else in your family will kept away from her for a year. Do you understand?”

My hand curls into my chest. Andreas has just given my father an ultimatum. Feed me up or sever all contact between me and my family for a full year.

The room falls quiet and my throat hurts when I swallow. I tiptoe backward, anxious they might suddenly open the door and see that I’ve been standing here all along.

As I back away to Papa’s office, there’s only one thought filling my mind.

I can’t not see my family—my sisters—for a whole year.

I would die. And it’s not Papa’s fault that my health has deteriorated.

I’ve basically been on a hunger strike. Having no appetite to speak of has certainly helped, but the weight has dropped off at an alarming rate, probably boosted by stress levels like I’ve never known.

By not taking care of myself, I’ve held onto the only ounce of autonomy I have over my life.

It’s the only thing I’m able to control.

Everything else has slipped from my grip.

Every choice I thought I had has been squashed beneath a size 14 calf-leather shoe.

Every opportunity I’ve been raised to think is available to me suddenly isn’t. Not to me. Not anymore.

I feel the familiar urges deep inside my gut. Every weighty emotion I feel is added to the tornado swirling around my tissues, my blood, my bones. It is ballooning, faster than it ever did before.

It makes me feel light-headed and desperate for release. I need an outlet for all these horrible, dark, swirling emotions, otherwise they will just sit inside me, festering away, getting darker and more sinister.

There’s only one thing I know to do when I feel like this. The alternative is to sit through a debilitating panic attack, which doesn’t rid me of the feelings, it simply packs them away for later.

No. I need to get them out of my body.

I ignore Papa’s order to wait in his office and instead take the stairs two at a time up to my room. The sense of relief intensifies when I lock myself inside then fling open the doors to my closet.

My heart is hammering inside my chest as I reach up high for the box I’d banished there when I first came home.

Andreas’ words play on repeat in my head. How can he not see that my decline is caused by unhappiness , not obstinance. That my refusal to look after myself is because of him , not because of my family’s inability to coax me.

The helplessness of my situation makes my vision swell until I can barely see. Andreas Corioni is not even my husband, yet he’s already controlling my life. He’s already begun taking away my independence, bit by bit. He’s already forcing his influence on my physical being.

How dare he? It’s my body.

My fingers find purchase on the metal container and I pull it down to my chest. I immediately feel as though a sense of peace is so close I can touch it.

An enormous breath leaves my lungs and I walk calmly to my desk, rest the box on the surface and open it.

I hold the key up, turning it beneath the overhead light in my bedroom, watching its scratched surface still manage to glimmer somehow.

I walk around to the other side of the desk, sit on my chair and feed the key into the top drawer lock.

There’s a soft click and my heart pounds faster.

I pull on the handle and slide the drawer open.

Adrenalin courses through my veins making my limbs tingle with anticipation.

Another box sits inside the drawer. I take it out and place it on my desk, then I close my eyes and open it.

I breathe in and feel the familiar scent of antiseptic fill my nostrils. As my lids slowly lift, a warmth fills me up. Despite returning to my family ten weeks ago, only now do I feel like I’ve come home.

My fingers are eerily still as I pick up the first instrument I see. An old, trusted favorite. I tap the edge of the blade with a nail, the ting sound pulling dark memories from the recesses of my mind.

Holding the blade in my right hand, I draw the hem of my dress up my thigh, letting it pool at the hip.

A patchwork of scars stares up at me, like the lines and angles of a birth chart.

They’re no longer angry and raw. They’ve settled into my skin, forever an intrinsic part of me.

My short time in the Hamptons gave them that.

I locate an as-yet untouched area on my inner thigh and press the blade to my skin.

My vision becomes acute as I zero in on the piece of flesh bowing beneath the pressure.

When the skin finally punctures, a feeling of bliss rushes through me at warp speed.

All those emotions that I’ve been bottling up and trying to organize and put into manageable boxes, that ultimately raged untethered around my gut, come pouring out through that one small incision.

Tension unravels across my shoulders and my spine softens.

I let my eyes drift closed and pull the blade toward my body.

Blood runs down my thigh and the conditioned air presses a kiss to the wound. I feel no pain. Only immense relief.

Finally, I’m languishing in a state of forbidden relief, but the outer edges are darkened by the reminder that, soon, Andreas will see my scars.

Being forced into a marriage with a man who’s lied to me the entire time I’ve known him is traumatizing enough, but to know that he will have his own exclusive window into my deepest, most private battles while he rips my virginity from me, is beyond comprehension.

What’s even the point in worrying about it? He’s going to see the scars—there’s no way around it. What’s one more for the road?

I might be able to stall on our wedding night by insisting on darkness. Or I could wear something racy that covers me up while still giving him access to my innocence. But I won’t be able to hide my scars from him forever.

One day, he’ll find them.

One day, he’ll see how ugly I really am.

One day, he’ll be sorry he married me.