I found both my parents at the long formal dining table that was covered in dishes with pastries, eggs, bacon, and sausage. Far more food than the three of us could ever eat. They glanced up at me right as the scent of the food hit me, making me gag. Luckily there was nothing left in my stomach to throw up.
“Is something wrong with our food?” my mother sniped.
My face set, I sat at the opposite end of the polished dark wood table, something I’d never been so bold to do before, causing both parents to give me dead stares. “Oh no, nothing’s wrong with the food,” I replied, giving them just as lifeless of a stare with my hands folded in front of me on the table. “It’s your kidnapping methods that there’s something wrong with.” My mother’s mouth popped open, and Father raised his eyebrows, as if mentioning the truth of what they’d done was taboo. “Jared didn't allow me to get my medication before he forced me into his car and brought me here. That medicine keeps me from vomiting all day long to the point of becoming dehydrated and malnourished.” I smiled sweetly, or rather bared my teeth at them, batting my lashes.
Mother’s mouth closed, her lips becoming a thin line. My dad chuckled, covering it with a cough, as if Jared dragging me to their house were amusing. With one more cough, he settled his amused gaze on me again. “We’ll expect you to keep that gag reflex under control at dinner tonight.” My eyes snapped wide open, the rest of my face falling flat. “We’re having the Roches over for dinner this evening to discuss your engagement and the, er, issue.” He waved at my stomach.
“Issue?” I said woodenly, raising my eyebrows. Then I took a deep breath before flipping them the double bird, getting up from the table, and going back to my room without glancing back at them. Another thing I had always, always wanted to do when they commanded I do something or other against my will. Such as forcing mine and Jared’s engagement all those years ago. Now they were calling my children an issue. I wanted to snarl at them, to knock their freaking dense, emotionless heads together.
My father had instructed me to keep my gag reflex under control at dinner, but it was now completely out of control. I cried and cried around each gag while I sat by the toilet in my bathroom. I had yet to have one sip of water, but even that sounded unappetizing. Curled in a ball on the cool floor of the bathroom, I prayed I would have the strength to put up a good fight at dinner. Hopefully the Roches would be so repulsed by my behavior that they wouldn’t want their son marrying me.
Much later, after I woke on the floor in the bathroom and threw up again, Henrietta found me fixing my hair. She informed me the Roches would be there any minute and I needed to make my way downstairs. My limbs were Jell-O; I felt weak all around. Yet I had taken the time to do my hair and makeup and changed into an unwrinkled black skirt and a green light sweater that barely covered my belly. If I was going to battle this out, I was going to look my best while doing it.
The doorbell rang while I made my way down the stairs, causing my stomach to churn, but I held my gag back. The stairs began swirling before me, so I scrunched my eyes shut to get down the last few. Henrietta was welcoming the Roches inside once I got to the dining room. Mr. Roche, a tall, lean man with sunken brown eyes, a sharp nose, and jutting cheekbones led his family in. He wore dark, pressed slacks and a collared shirt, and his dark hair was slicked back. The distaste in his gaze when he looked me up and down was palpable, which was exactly why I’d chosen such a tight-fitting sweater.
Mrs. Roche, who was a small, almost frail-looking woman with enormous fake boobs, bleached-blonde hair, and perky painted lips, followed him in. Her dark blue pencil skirt looked extremely uncomfortable, but the low-cut taupe blouse she wore was specifically designed for accentuating her boob job. Lips pursed, she glared at me. My head swam, but I kept my face in a bored mask.
Even when Jared entered the room behind her, wearing plaid shorts and a tight-fitting polo, his hair its usual mess of waves hanging in his face. With a smirk, he sent me a wink that gave me the childish urge to stick my tongue out at him. None of them said a word to me, but this was what was expected, even before I ran away. The room was much too hot; everything swirled around it. I had to take a seat, or I might end up collapsing.
My parents came in, fashionably after their guests, greeting them with handshakes, kisses on cheeks, and fake smiles.
“Take a seat,” my father instructed when he took his at the end of the table, my mother at his side, right next to me. Mr. Roche sat on my dad’s other side, his wife next to him. To my horror, that put Jared across from me.
Henrietta had some help this evening, the extra staff bringing in appetizers—the stench of which made my stomach roll—and filling wineglasses. I got water, which I sipped, hoping it would help the room stop spinning. Jared watched me with that leer in place, but I did my best to gaze anywhere else.
Before anyone took a drink of their wine, my father raised his glass, saying, “To the future.” Everyone followed his example, including Jared. I didn’t move to pick up my glass, which didn’t go unnoticed.
“Chloe, your father made a toast,” my mother said around her fake smile. She pinched my
