Love Taken for Granted

The person on the other end of the line was silent for a moment. I could hear faint sounds in the background—a clock ticking, the shuffle of papers, the subtle rustle of someone shifting in their seat. When he finally spoke, his tone carried a hint of uncertainty, as if he were trying to piece together who I had become.

"I do remember you," he said, his voice steady but cautious. "May I ask—"

"Can you help me leave the country?" I interrupted, my words rushing out before I lost my nerve. My voice broke slightly, the desperation in it impossible to hide. Right now, I had no one else.

He paused again, the silence stretching between us like a taut string. Then he said, "I can, but... you have to do me a favor too."

My grip on the phone tightened. "What favor?"

I was baffled. The Natalie of today was a shadow of her former self—a once-proud heiress now reduced to a former convict, a woman whose very existence seemed less than ordinary. What could I possibly offer someone like him?

"I'm not young anymore," he began, his voice calm and measured, "and my parents have been pressuring me to settle down. You remember that our families once arranged our engagement, right?"

"Yes," I replied softly, the memory faint but familiar.

"Then fulfill the promise and marry me," he said. His voice was crisp, leaving no room for interpretation.

My breath hitched. There was no laughter, no hesitation. He wasn't joking.

I hesitated, staring at the jagged edges of the tree stump outside the window, feeling the weight of the moment pressing down on me. After a long pause, I whispered, "Alright, I agree."

The moment I hung up, the door to my room swung open with a loud creak. Sean stepped in, his presence filling the space like a storm cloud.

"There's a banquet tonight," he said, his tone commanding. "You're coming with me."

I opened my mouth to refuse, but his cold, dismissive gaze froze the words in my throat.

"You don't have the right to say no," he added sharply before turning on his heel and leaving without another word.

***

The banquet hall was a glittering spectacle, its towering chandeliers casting a golden glow over the crowd. The polished marble floors gleamed beneath the soft light and the scent of expensive perfume mingled with the faint aroma of fine wine.

I stood in the farthest corner of the room, my shoulders hunched as I tried to make myself invisible amidst the opulence. The lively chatter of the crowd was deafening, a sharp contrast to the growing unease gnawing at me.

The grand space was suffocating. Every glance cast my way felt like a dagger, every murmured conversation seemed laced with mockery.

Sure enough, it wasn't long before Wanda caught sight of me. Her eyes glimmered with a predatory light as her lips curled into a sweet but venomous smile. With a subtle tilt of her head, she summoned her entourage, who began to close in on me like vultures circling their prey.

They carried glasses of wine, their laughter sharp and cutting.

Wanda sauntered forward, her slender figure commanding attention as she raised her voice just enough for the crowd to hear. "Natalie used to love drinking. So, let's consider this her welcome-back banquet."

Her words sent a ripple of laughter through the room.

"Natalie, let's celebrate the occasion," she continued, her smile widening as she looked at me. "Drink up, won't you?"

I swallowed hard, my throat dry as the crowd pressed in closer. The overwhelming scent of high-proof liquor stung my nostrils and my stomach churned violently.

Wanda stood at the center of it all, her expression as sweet as honey, but her eyes cold and calculating. Her power over the crowd was absolute—they eagerly echoed her words, eager to please the woman Sean so obviously adored.

They didn't know.

They didn't know the life I had endured in prison, where every meal was a test of survival. I had swallowed moldy bread and rancid gruel just to keep my body moving. My stomach was a fragile, hollow shell now, barely able to handle a proper meal, let alone this much alcohol.

But I couldn't refuse. I knew Wanda too well. She would smile sweetly and play the victim at the slightest provocation. And Sean? He didn't even need to speak. A single shift in his expression was enough to turn the entire room against me.

Steeling myself, I reached for the glass nearest to me, the cold surface slick against my trembling fingers. I raised it to my lips and tipped it back, letting the liquid scorch my throat as it went down.

It felt like swallowing fire. The burn tore through me, igniting a searing pain in my stomach.

The crowd cheered.

"Another one!" someone jeered.

I downed the second glass, then the third, each one a knife slicing through my insides. The alcohol blurred my vision and sent waves of nausea crashing over me, but I didn't stop. I couldn't.

By the time I finished the fifth glass, my legs felt like jelly and cold sweat clung to my skin.

Wanda stepped forward then, her high heels clicking against the marble floor with a deliberate rhythm. She stopped just inches from me, her head tilted as she regarded me with mock concern.

"I'm the one who should be toasting you the most," she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "How about we have three more drinks?"

Her manicured hand reached for the table, picking up the bottle of the strongest liquor in the room. With a smug smile, she poured it into my empty glass, the liquid splashing noisily against the rim.

I lifted my gaze, my vision swimming as I looked toward Sean. He stood in the middle of the crowd, his figure tall and composed, his face illuminated by the soft glow of the chandeliers.

He didn't look at me. Instead, he idly fiddled with his phone.