Storm Reawakened

A Hasty Marriage

~ Three Weeks Later ~

Time, I guess, functions in this world of make believe as it does in the real one. And this reveals something else to me—whatever events I knew to be true were all things pertaining to Diana. It's her story. There's nothing illustrious about Evara Storm's life other than her evil doings.

But as the days and weeks go by, I discover aspects of Evara that aren't written in black and white within bounded pages of a paperback.

Her father spoils her rotten, always taking her side but the Duke is a dotting father who is a good man at heart. The servants of the house, although subjected to her mistreatment, still care for her and last but not least...not a soul beyond the Storm estate in the capital gives a damn.

Duke Hawthorne and Lord Raven were the only two to make a visit and any letters that came afterwards, pertained to the engagement. False congratulations and insensitive questions laced between the lines for gossips to drink up.

They're fishing for invites or juicy tidbits on how I got Hawthorne to ask for my hand in marriage. Bottom line—they're probably dying to know if Evara slept with him or not.

Sighing, I let my eyes fall to the floor as a woman with measuring tape waltzes around me and chatters away. She's the head seamstress of the shop I'm currently in, seated in a leather couch in a salon that also functions as a fitting room.

"Is anything wrong?" she asked, a tight smile plastered onto her face.

"Another dress perhaps?" Duke Hawthorne suggested sardonically.

Ergh. This guy again.

For someone who hates Evara—who hates me, I don't see the point in him insisting that he be a part of every aspect of the wedding. I planned on having Ellis and Arin along with the head of servants to make all the arrangements.

The irony, I think with a frail smile. An event planner who doesn't want anything to do with planning her own wedding.

"Choose whatever you think is best, Madam," I finally said, meeting her questioning eyes while the Duke crosses his arms and midnight blue orbs shine in confusion.

"Miss Storm, really..." she stammered, unsure what to make of my disinterest.

Ignoring her, I rise and run out the door needing fresh air. The beginnings of a panic attack were taking hold and the corset didn't help either—dresses and wedding cake be damned. That's the least of my problems.

The coachman by the carriage straightens upon seeing me, but I turn away from both him and the massive glittering carriage that could take Cinderella to the ball.

I'm walking down a cobbled stone street in a daze until a firm hand stretches out and takes hold of my arm. Frowning down at it, I meet Hawthorne's gaze and hate the fluttering of butterflies lightly moving their wings in the pit of my stomach.

"What's wrong, Miss Storm?"

Hello. Where's Siri when I need it! Is that genuine concern I detect coming from him?

"Everything. I can't be here, doing this. Someone wants me dead!" I heaved, my chest rising and falling heavily in one of Evara's low cut dresses.

One of many seductively cut out dresses, I might add. There's no exact setting for the novel, the author blending eras and periods into this world and Evara's wardrobe is a blaring example of how absurdly incredible imagination can be.

Hawthorne remains quiet, his typical stoic dark look revealing nothing but his features suddenly soften and take me aback. "No one is going to kill you, Evara."

I open my mouth and realize something else—how at ease I feel being called the villainess. It now feels natural to be called Evara. Blair Aven seems like a distant person, slowly being erased even by me.

"I don't belong here," I whispered flatly.

Tears begin to prick the corners of my eyes as a surge of homesickness looms over me. I miss cars, the sound of traffic in the city, all the neon lights, my tiny apartment. And dammit, I even miss McDonald's.

Especially McDonald's.

Is this what it's like hitting a low pathetic point? When I dream of chicken nuggets? I want to drool and cry all at once. 

"In a bridal shop? I thought that was everything you ever wanted, but from the scorn currently on your face, I can tell that's not the case."

Giving Hawthorne a sideways glance of reproach, I roll my eyes. "Despite everything, I've changed. And I don't care for any of this. I just feel so exhausted," I said, my voice breaking at the end even as I try to fight off a second wave of homesickness.

"I'm not going to let anyone kill you, Evara." Hawthorne tucks a loose strand of hair behind one of my ears, and I swear I can practically see him in a panel with glitter and blossoming flowers.

I give another one of my unladylike snorts and shake my head. "What are you going to do? Teach me how to wield a sword?"

Ppfft. This guy's never seen my gym grade. It really shouldn't be possible to flunk gym class in high school, but I was so so sooo close to being an exception to that assumption.

"If that's what you want, it can be arranged. But not now, come on. Let's get your mind off of things."

Easier said than done but the moment we turn a corner and arrive at a market square, I'm already forgetting death and murder.

Fresh bread works miracles.

I immediately order a helping of pastries and loaves, nibbling on a buttery tart when Hawthorne chuckles.

"What?" I asked through bites.

"I never thought I'd see this. Evara Storm usually picks at her food or tosses it at the servants."

Ouch. So not only was she insane but a food waster too? And throwing perfectly edible food at people?What is wrong with this author? Does Evara not have a single redeeming quality about her?

"It's a welcome change, however," he continued, his voice suddenly going soft.

Help. I think I'm malfunctioning! A cold, arrogant Hawthorne, I can deal with. But Mr. Nice Guy? Mr. Let Me Be Your Knight In Shining Armour? Ummm...no.

Hawthorne flashes a dazzling smile and I wonder if eminent death is the only thing I need to worry about. But being a modern woman, I don't gush under the pressure of that smile and shove a pastry in his mouth.

***********

I should have clung to my worries.

I should have been careful.

I should have trusted my gut and then punched it.

Because not only did I get drunk again, but I'm now married to Duke Hawthorne after a wedding ceremony that lasted less than ten minutes.