THE CONTROL: An Arranged Marriage Romance by Elena Monroe (best big ereader txt) 📗

judgment in the room was absent but my heart sped up, my palms got sticky in a nervous perspiration, and all my demons began to bully me.

If you like dick, then why didn’t you like the island?

If you like dick, then why didn’t you ever show it?

If you like dick, then why are you ashamed?

Standing up abruptly, I walked away. I didn’t need to answer to anyone but my own demons— not these monsters.

By the time I came back down from my room the party was in full swing, music shaking your ear drums, and the smell of bad choices filled the air.

Standing there with my drink, I kept my distance from the guys when Cam came up to me, publicly touching my arm and planting a kiss on my cheek.

I didn’t have to look to know all three of them were staring and judging. I felt all the eyes in the room bore into me and the panic of explaining my trauma at my back when the demons took over.

“Don’t touch me, fag,” I spat out, loud enough for everyone to hear.

The room’s attention was now on him instead of questioning my sexuality when I shifted, swatting his touch away. His face caved in, morphing into betrayal when we had no alliance in the first place.

I would never align myself with anyone after Eve left.

After that party, things only got worse: Cam had an entire football team backing him being gay and me being the asshole that treated him like shit. He was about to be another scar, another trauma, another box in my mind I hid things in when I knew better.

I had killed and buried someone before and now wasn’t any different.

EVE

I always felt like a visitor in my new life after I was dragged to Denmark when my mom got engaged. I was living in a palace that wasn’t my home, with people who weren’t my family, being groomed into a position I didn’t ask for or want to be in—Princess. It wasn’t just my mother picking up our life and moving me to Denmark in her suitcase, but a world of forced changes for me to rebel against.

As soon as their wedding was over, she went on a month-long honeymoon and flew around the world being presented as the new queen. I was left alone to be poked and prodded until all the control I had come with was stripped from me. All of that control was replaced with clothing that acted like a corset, holding all the trouble inside that I knew best.

As I got older, I made changes that nobody approved of, but couldn’t do anything about—like dressing myself in a way that wasn’t so royal. Oversized t-shirts with harnesses, hot shorts, less than lady-like heels, see-through anything, skintight dresses, and my favorite... fishnets—all meant to show them exactly how a caged animal can behave if mistreated.

No one genuinely cared anymore because I was finally the age to be married.

Wheeling my bags by my side looking for Bowey’s car, I traipsed down the wide walkway of arrivals and departures.

After my last visit to LA, I officially realized how holding out for a hero was a waste of my damn time. I desperately yearned for any attention he’d give me, but he barely acknowledged my presence. I had spent all those years in Denmark living on the single glimmer of hope that this would all be worth it when I got to marry my best friend.

Well, I wasn’t his best friend, and he wasn’t my Bowey anymore.

There he was, dragging a cigarette from his lips, elbow digging into the ledge of the open window and not looking for me at all. He didn’t have to try so hard to make me feel guilty, I already felt more guilt than he would ever know. I thought the small, insecure boy I left would have no choice but to stand up for himself in my absence.

Something went wrong and no one was telling me.

Standing outside the passenger door, I crossed my arms letting the poise wear off as my anger started to rise when he made no attempt to open my door or even acknowledge my presence. With my two large roller bags in baby blue and my Chanel bag resting on top, I waited for him to notice me for another solid sixty seconds in silence.

Leaning down into the open space where the window was open, I glared at him but tried my best to keep my tone as pleasant as possible, “Aren’t you going to help with my bags?”

His head twisted slowly in my direction, “What happened to your arms, Princess?”

Okay, so we’re playing hard ball. 

With a swear on the tip of my tongue and an insult already loaded, the ability to kick my Pretty Princess behavior became impossible.

No matter how much I rebelled, no matter how much freedom I took back, the habits I was forced to commit to keep my true self hostage.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I opened the door and searched for the handle that prompted the seat to pop forward, making room for my luggage. Without his help, I managed to shove them in with no regard for his leather, paint, or whatever else made this car so expensive.

My arms felt like jello as I sat down in the passenger seat, now further up at an uncomfortable angle because of my belongings pushed into the space behind me.

That’s when the stench in the air hit my nostrils.

Alcohol. 

That all too familiar, woody putrid smell made my features sour. “Are you drunk?”

It shouldn’t be shocking. During all of my visits, he spent his time completely obliterated, and I followed him around cleaning up the empties.

Looking him over, I felt just