Slap.
"How dare you be so stupid as to not see me?"
I look up to see my sister, Hilda, screaming at the top of her lungs at the poor maid.
She's shivering in fear, and rightfully so.
It's the Hilda Pavern she has angered.
Hilda Pavern, heiress to the great Pavern family, is not one to mess with; she's the most vicious, egotistical bitch you could ever come across—pray the stars protect you.
I see the poor maid glancing around for anybody to meet her eye so she can beg for help, but little does she know, nobody speaks for anyone here.
If you catch Hilda's eyes—or any of the Paverns' eyes, for that matter—you had better start chanting the names of all the gods you can remember.
I look down at my fashion magazine, not really reading anything but just flipping through the pages.
Across from me sits my aunt, Lydia Pavern, the witch of the family.
She's the typical evil villainess you come across in novels, scheming others' downfalls just to make herself feel better about her failed life.
She has neither guilt nor remorse.
She is smirking at Hilda's cruelty, as she has always applauded the devilish tendencies that aid in the quicker downfall of the Paverns.
"Now, now, my lovely Hilda, just cut a finger off her; it's not that big a deal," says Ash, the wild beast of the Paverns.
He is Hilda's partner in crime.
They're twins and have done everything together their entire lives. Similarly, they share the same taste for blood and gore.
At this point, the maid has gone practically as white as a sheet.
"Please no, master!
I'm really sorry!
Please forgive me!"
"How dare you interrupt your masters' conversation?" Lydia chimes in.
"I'll settle for a hand, Ash; a finger is too little of a treat for me," Hilda says with a smirk on her face.
Ash's lips contort into the exact same smirk as Hilda's.
"Then a hand it is.
Anything for my precious sister."
Ash raises a knife to cut off the maid's hand with Hilda watching excitedly with glinting eyes.
"Masters!
The Great Lord is here."
A neutral statement from an meek maid makes everyone drop whatever they are doing and stand up.
After all, we are all gathered here for the Great Lord of the Paverns—Simon Pavern, my father and the current head of our house.
Usually, bi-weekly Fridays are reserved for family dinners.
But today, an urgent meeting was called, and the mandatory attendance of every Pavern has alarmed everyone present in the room.
We are all led into the dining room where the Great Lord sits like a king at the head of the table, flanked by Hilda and Lydia.
Next sits my mother, Lorraine, followed by Ash and then my seat.
There is a look of anticipatory dread regarding what the Great Lord is going to announce and demand of us.
The dinner starts with appetizers that stimulate no one's appetite, accompanied by the mandatory business and personal briefings everyone must give to the Great Lord.
Then comes the soup, soured by Hilda's whining.
The dinner follows its due course with Lydia's usual antics and Ash's updates on corporate issues.
I never speak, as I am not spoken to.
I am a ghost in that room.
I am a hungry ghost, but one with acid reflux, as their mere presence is enough to make me regurgitate whatever tasty food I eat.
After several minutes of back-and-forth between the Paverns, I am finally addressed.
"Nadia Pavern."
A cold, hollow rendition of my name echoes in the dining hall, stopping all the clinking of cutlery.
"Yes, sir," I answer.
It is rare for Simon Pavern to talk to his daughter, whom he only sired as a spare.
"You are to enter the Rawlins' house."
This statement sucks the oxygen out of the air, but only for me.
"That was a good one, Dad," Hilda says, grinning from ear to ear.
A cold look flashes across Simon's face toward Hilda, which scares her, as she isn't used to being on the receiving end of his chilly demeanor.
But I know he isn't joking.
He never jokes about me.
"Is she really being married off to that beast, honey?" Lorraine asks.
"Yes, dear. Nadia will marry Magnus Rawlins."
I look up from my plate and ask, "Has it been finalized?"
"Yes."
"Very well," I say.
The rest of the dinner follows the usual routine of the Paverns pretending to be a family, and I eat quietly as I always do.
•
Two days later, I was on my way to meet Magnus Rawlins.
"The sky is perfectly matching my day."
I chuckle out loud while looking out the car window.
It looks like there's a heavy black shroud paving the way to The Rawlins Hotel.
Surely, this must be a sign.
I walk into one of the biggest hotel chains in the world, The Rawlins—well deserving of its fame.
I am guided into a suite where my fiancé, the Butcher of the Rawlins—Magnus Rawlins—waits in a three-piece black and grey suit.
His face would look beautiful carved up as decor in a museum, and he wears a smirk that tempts you to skin him alive.
Our eyes meet, and he glares at me.
Now that puts me in the mood for a good fight.
I strut towards him with flair and elegance and sit across from him.
"Glad to see you so lively, Ms. Pavern," says the beast with a scoff.
"Glad to see you alive too, Mr. Rawlins," I snipe back.
"Haha, you're still the charming tease as ever," says Magnus.
"And you, the prized bait," I reply.
"So, whatever shall we do about this situation?" Magnus asks.
"We'll have a separate contract of our own.
I don't want you having any leverage in this transaction," I say, my eyes filled with contempt.
"Leverage, you say?
Madam, if it were up to me, you'd be six feet under," Magnus says menacingly.
"And what makes you think you'd be walking to do that?" I snipe back again.
Magnus looks me in the eye, trying to gauge my reactions, and I glare back at him even more sinisterly.
A wicked smile spreads across his lips, which could use some color—the color of blood.
He drops all the threats, leans over the table, and speaks—
"So, shall we get married, Nadia?"