The preceding thirty minutes happened very fast.
Marcy Vanderbilt's idea of "calming down" involved being locked in my childhood bedroom like a disobedient schnauzer.
I am twenty-four years old and on a time out.
Her order was simple: stay locked in my room like a rebellious teenager until it was time to face the cameras, read the script her PR ghouls had prepared about "pre-wedding jitters" and "a minor misunderstanding," and announce to New York City that the wedding of the century was back on track.
I am to walk the aisle in a week to wed my teenage heartthrob, Preston fucking Eugene Astor.
It wasn't even a discussion. It was how it was going to be and in our world where she ruled with iron and fist, it was law.
And my secret, quickie kitchen marriage to Carson? Was to be annulled quietly and never spoken of again.
And just like that, I was a prisoner in my own room.
I looked around. My love of fictional world started in this little haven right here. Too bad, the real world sucked.
And so, I paced. I plotted. I contemplated the various ways I could use an antique hairbrush to commit a felony. Maybe shove it up Preston's ass except something tells me the son of bitch might actually like it.
Five years. Five freaking years.
What do I have to show for it? A baby out of wed lock. A cousin-fucking fiancé. And a grandmother who would sell me to the Astors for a headline in the Times.
I thought I was going to stay locked up until I heard the sound of the power drill.
The door flew open and Lark emerged with this smirk on her face, wielding our father's power drill like she was a warrior princess or something.
"Did someone order a jail break?" She asked. She was awfully proud of herself.
I jumped up, a wide smile covering my entire face. "Lala, sweetie, you are awesome!"
"I know," she said, hugging me. "Emmy, your new husband is a hottie, I accidentally touched his abs...hot!. Where did you buy him?"
"eBay," I joked.
"You think you can order me one of those? Preferably younger. I got Daddy's card."
"Lark, focus! What's going on downstairs?"
"Oh, nothing much...just the Grandwitch calling a coven meeting with bloodsucking lawyers. I'm afraid she will be flying in on her broom soon to make you do her bidding."
I straightened my posture, an idea popping into my head. "Tell her I'll do it. I'll have the press conference."
Lark's face fell. "What? No! After all that? No!"
I rubbed her shoulder. "Do you trust me?" I asked her.
It took a while but she nodded.
"Tell Grandwitch that I will do her stupid press conference but you have to make sure two people are in that room. Carson Gibbs and Preston Astor. Do not take no for an answer, Lark."
"Sure" She agreed way too easily.
"Preston has to be conscious for it, Kid" I reminded her.
"Does he, though?" She asked me, half serious.
"Lark?" I narrowed my eyes on her.
"I will do my best. No promises".
**
An hour later, I walked side-by-side with Grandmother toward the assembled press.
She moved like a queen, her hand resting on my arm in a grip that would definitely leave a nasty mark.
"Stick to the script, Emilia" She pressed a notecard into my palm. "Word for word, no going rogue. Your life and that of your unborn child may depend on it, Little girl"
I didn't look at it. "Yes, Grandmother"
Her grip tightened on me. "Do not try me or you will be paying a visit to your dead whore of a mother. Do you understand me?"
I always hate it when she bought my mother into conversation for maximum control.
The very dead and the very beneath her, Amara Kendall, was the very best of me.
The very best of Dad, her death broke us…especially Dad yet seven months later, she forced him to marry Kelsey Bradley. Who neither loved Dad or me but that union gave me Lark and my brother, Jack, how could I ever complain about that, Lark was the best person I knew.
But Grandmother needed to leave the dead to rest in peace, God knows she didn't give mom that while she lived.
"Leave Mom out of it. I'm here, aren't I?" I asked her as we walked into the room.
The room was filled with bloggers and newscasters just like I wanted.
I looked around.
Preston was standing by his uncle, already looking vindicated.
Carson lurked in the back corner, half-hidden by a potted fern.
I broke from Grandmother's side and beelined for him.
"I see you've made a new friend. Hey Fern. It's me, wife. It's very nice to meet you," I joked.
"Hey, wife. Don't be jealous. It's just a fern. Strictly casual," he teased, leaning in to whisper. "I shouldn't be telling you this, but I like you more. No offense, fern. Wife over plants."
His tone was flirty and it made me want to smile.
"So, Husband," I said, taking a step closer. "Do you want to stand by me while I tackle a herd of reporters? There's a 1000 bucks in it for you."
"How about I just wrestle a tiger for you? Would be easier?" He joked.
"Please, Carson. Couldn't you just do this once…"
"I'm sorry, Emilia." He was firm. Gave no room for argument. "I'll be right here, cheering you on from the sidelines."
Great. Cheering me on from the sidelines. My knight in greasy flannel was sitting this one out.
Before I could argue, Preston materialized, oozing toward me with his hand outstretched, a slimy public-ready smile plastered on his face.
"Hey, Honey" He was already smiling at the camera.
I met him halfway, my own smile just as bright and twice as deadly. I leaned in when he tried to take my hand to say…
"If your tabooed, cousin-fingering hand touches me, I will find the nearest stable and stab you through the heart with a pitchfork. Okay, honey?"