18. Hellena

18

HELLENA

R inging bells.

Supposedly of joy.

Not the death knell I hear over and over in my head.

Along with the basic facts of the affair. It's all I seem to be able to keep straight or make my brain do.

Traditional bullshit decorations and proceedings that everyone expects to make their dreams come true. All of it reeks of ulterior motives. Paid guests. Outrageous decorations rush ordered.

All of the so-called beauty is starkly contrasted with the rest of the day's details.

The day is overcast.

It seems cold, despite it being the end of summer.

Margaret bustles about the room, fussing over me. My hair, my makeup.

The dress is black. A little joke I thought would taint the day like a drop of ink in water.

Not sure I can find the humor in it now.

I should never have allowed things to get this far, to actually reach the point where there was no going back.

Outside, a crowd of well-wishers and sycophants gather to show their support for Marco. To garner favor with him.

Kiss his ass.

To see him marry his fucking ex-stepdaughter.

Another outrageous fact that might have me in stitches. If I wasn't so fucking terrified.

If I had an ounce of control over the situation.

All I can do is what I am told.

As it's always been. As far back as I can remember.

I've never had a choice.

I do what I'm told.

At least since the Sinful appeared in my life. Or maybe it reaches back further.

"Miss Hellena, your flowers," Margaret mutters softly. She's trying her best to stay positive. But she can see that I'm broken.

That I'm not the glowing bride I should be on this day.

It should be them.

My guys.

My lovers.

Not a villain, a monster out of a nightmare.

Sheer white and red flutters outside the window in the breeze.

"It's time." I hear a voice at the door.

So I rise. I walk.

When I reach the front door of the mansion, I pause, looking out over the gathering. The opulent decorations.

Where the hell did he even get all of this?

All the decadence money can buy, hoisted to block out the disaster outside the walls.

The aisle yawns ahead of me, a march to the gallows.

And all I can hear are his words from two days ago.

"I won't badger you. I won't even ask what I want to know. Not yet."

I step down the wide stone stairs.

"You will simply do as I say. Sit there. Stand up. Keep your mouth shut."

Faces turn to watch me, all empty.

"You will go to your room once we are back at the mansion and wait. And then you will put on that dress. And you will marry me."

Flower petals rustle underfoot, the soft velvet of the red carpet cushioning every thump of my feet.

"And then we'll really see the truth of the Sinful. You'll either tell me everything I want to know…"

Music reaches through the haze of my thoughts, sounding offkey. Dissonant.

The stage looms ahead.

"Or they will act. I should say he will act. Your father, Damon. Watching all this time from behind the scenes. Waiting. He must be."

A countdown starts in my head. Ten steps.

I can't look up. I won't look at the stage, at the evil man waiting there for me.

"And when your father, or the Sinful, or whoever is biding their time makes their move…"

Nine. Eight.

The stairs to the stage rise in my field of vision.

"I will offer them a trade."

Seven. Six.

"Your life for the keys to the city, so to speak. A fair trade. Blood for a legacy."

Five. Four.

I know, the minute he has what he wants, he'll throw me away. Like he did my mother.

"But make no mistake, Hellena. You will always, always belong to me."

Three. Two.

One.

The last three steps are monumental. Impossibly high steps, weighed down by my doom plated pumps.

In another life, the thought would make me smile despite the situation.

In another life, I would tell Marco to go fuck himself.

A hand guides me into place in front of the minister, Grico, or Lonnie, or Vance. All three of them encircle the podium. Guarding Marco. Guarding me.

Looking out once over the audience, all I see is black and white. Vapid stares.

All worshiping at the altar of Marco's power.

Grinning with maniacal, fake joy. It is a celebration, after all.

But this isn't my wedding. This isn't the day I imagined.

In my heart, I am dying. Not getting married.

And even if tonight, he tries to have me…

I won't be present.

So I focus on those three faces. The loves of my life. My reasons for living.

Tucking them so deep inside my soul that they'll never be torn away, until I find a way to end everything once and for all.

A final choice.

My choice.

"Are you ready to begin?"

"Get on with it," Marco snaps.

His shoes are the only part of him I see, my head lowered, my eyes downcast.

"Look. Up," he orders.

I comply.

Another few words, lost on me. Until I feel that hand again, shifting me into position, facing the officiant. I wonder if they held a gun to his head, too, forced him to preside over this debacle.

Another nudge from the right.

That's when I realize that the man at my side is Sing.

Keeping me in place. I must have been wavering.

Slouching.

He offers me the slightest bit of support and comfort by staying near to me.

Or that's what I tell myself.

Because I am truly alone here, surrounded by only Marco's people. His guards. His associates. His family members.

My ears don't register the first few things the minister says, his voice a shrill rasp, echoing out over the crowd. But the tone follows a pattern, something we've all heard a million times on TV.

Or maybe he says something inspiring.

Something uplifting.

"Would you like to say something, Mister Vice?"

I catch the question at the end of the ramble.

"I would." He turns out to face the gathering, to face me. "This day marks the dawn of an empire. The joining of power. Of fate. Today, I take this vow. I swear on every drop of blood spilled along my journey, in exchange for what you give me now, symbolized in your hand, in your heart, I promise to give you more than you can ever imagine, a legacy that will echo your name for generations to come. What love we lack will come in time."

I smile, on cue, the direction given by a whisper from Sing.

"You will join me. You will be my queen. And together, we will change the world."

A drop of rain taps the stage next to me.

Then another.

"Quickly. Now," Marco clips, frowning at the darkening spots on the wood.

"Do you, Marco Alejandro Vice, take this woman to be your wife?" The man's voice trembles.

"I do," Marco shouts, smiling in triumph.

"And do you, Hellena Michaels, take this man to be your husband…?"

Time stands still. Like it has so many times before.

When I walked into Rachelle's house, my home, to find a drug dealer holding a gun to her head. When Gavin wiped out those same drug dealers before they could kill us.

When the Sinful sold me off to the highest bidder.

When a bullet tore through my side.

When a bomb destroyed my town.

So many times.

"Hellena Michaels. You take this man," he repeats, no longer asking, but commanding.

My entire being recoils.

The deepest fear I've ever known bubbles up in my gut. Along with rage, defiance.

Desperation. Despair.

I won't stand for this. I can't stand for this.

Marco is ignoring my lack of response, reaching for my hand to slide that shackle onto my finger.

Fuck waiting. So what if I'm all alone.

My hand slips into Sing's coat, snatching his gun.

Whipping it around at that bastard's face.

"I do not !"