t w o || Forced Compromises and Unplanned Occurrences

|18th January 2019|

LOCKING THE OFFICE'S MAIN DOOR AFTER ME, I place the ringing phone to my ear, "Hey, Jael."

"Woman, where the hell are you?" my cousin sister yells, returning my civil greeting with her typically rowdy one. "Zephrine has a shit load of math homework to do but all she's doing is stuff popcorn over Incredibles 2!"

Oh, dear.

I sigh. "I just got done with work, Jael," I inform her, placing the clump of keys in my bag. "I'll be there in a bit."

For the next two weeks, I'm the one in charge of everything at the office, and that, ladies and gentlemen, to be very honest, is funny because as much as I don't want to bother trusting myself with decisions and/or responsibilities after yesterday, Dave's trust in me regarding almost everything appears to have doubled its proportion, reaching a point where he felt it necessary to ask Liam to leave the responsibility of winding up everything in here, to me. Perhaps this is his new method of boosting my, what he has fondly nicknamed as a 'poorly built self-confidence'.

"Quick!" she yells once again and hangs up, not allowing me the chance to berate her about her unnecessarily loud tone. The day I lose my auditory perception will be the same day I file a case against her for raucous noise production and human harassment.

Jael Paine is the epitome of insanity, a real pain in my... everything, I swear.

My fingers are somewhere close to placing the phone in my bag when the indecently loud clearing of a throat startles me. Ah, another loud person to preach to regarding the comforts a soft-spoken voice can bring to mankind- just great. The phone drops from my grip, and I turn around to see the person who has been on my mind for the whole time since yesterday, yet also the one I least expected to see at this time of the night.

Elliot Bryson. Or more famously known as Aric Nithercott.

He is wearing a denim jacket, I can see from the light that the lamppost is casting on us, underneath which lies a plain white polo neck. I dare not look any lower, not wanting to show that I'm interested in knowing what he wears, and how it fits his skin, and why it hurts me to see him in a state far away from the boy who'd go outdoors with his ordinary grey hoodies and sweatpants and not care how his clothing isn't all that appealing to the eye. He looks nice, though, with his attire casual yet elegant, a charming thing to look at, but his intentions, the manner in which he slowly crosses his arms over his chest, the unmoving, daunting spell his eyes hold mine into, tell me not to let myself fall into the pit of fatal deceptions.

When he advances towards me, his stance is brimming with authority, of the type that makes my heart constrict in hurtful ways although I have repeated a million times already to my blood-pumping organ that it shouldn't do this to me, shouldn't make me feel weak in front of Elliot, because he isn't important. Not anymore, at least. But things would've been so much more simple and easy to handle had my heart been under my control, and not out of it.

At the realization, I'm once again reminded of the pain, of the woe, of the affliction of the situation, but what hurts the most is how despite him standing so close right now, he feels so distant, so foreign. I want to please him to do the whole of mankind a favor and vanish from the face of this planet. To just... go. But I know that's next-to-impossible to voice, because that's next-to-undesirable to me.

"Hey," he greets, halting about half-a-meter away from me and bending down to pick my phone which had unfortunately landed by his shoes. He stands back upright, and the motion causes a few strands of his hair to fall over his forehead, almost threatening to enter his eyes. A sudden urge to lean forward and push them away from his eyes overcomes me, and I'm almost on it, before I remind myself how that right of mine was snatched from me nine years ago, when he had decided that I wasn't worth being given the title of his wife, and I push my hands back down, clenching them to make sure they don't go ahead and do anything as such again.

If only...

No, no, no! You did nothing wrong, Celeste! Focus on the so many other things at hand, now. His 'hey', for example. Like, is that all he's got to say after all these years− after yesterday? A fucking hey?

"You? Here? Now?" I ask, wasting no time in getting to the point. My subconscious was right; neither have I done nor am I doing anything wrong, and even if I had done something wrong in the past, running away from marriage like he did, would never be a solution I'd consider.

Thankfully, he reaches up and pushes his hair away himself. Then, "How are you?" he verbally plays around, handing me my phone.

Why is he talking to me as if we are nothing more than two strangers? Like I am his marriage planner− which I am, but that isn't all, right?− and he is nothing more than my client? And above all, why am I bothered by the blatant ignorance on his part?

I let out a titter of disbelief, seizing the phone from his grip. "Since when did you start caring, huh?"

His scrutinizing gaze lingers on my face for longer than necessary, and when he shows no signs of replying even after a considerably pointless minute passes, "What. Are. You. Doing. Here. Elliot?" I grit out, firmness evident in my tone. It surprises me too, how I had found the courage in me to address him by his name, and I instantly regret making such an irreversible, absolute error.

What happens next, though, is quite interesting, and sort of aids in reducing the amount of regret inside my mind. As soon as Elliot's brain grasps the fact that I had addressed him by his old name, the only one I knew about before yesterday happened, his striking blue eyes turn dark. In fact, now they seem a shade darker than the night sky's, but as always, his expression doesn't betray him.

I hate that face of his. I so badly want to fracture every bit of it. Not because it is so damn perfect, and flawless, and heavenly; no, those would be the reasons I'd use to not break it. I want to break it because it doesn't show me what I want to see: crazy longingness, wild love, and fierce want for me. It doesn't let him openly express what he feels. It doesn't let me see what lies beyond those dreamy eyes, those sharp ears, and those thin lips of his.

It conceals everything. Everything I want to see, know, and feel.

He clamps on his jaw, eyes not leaving mine as he starts speaking, "I need your help."

Ah. What sins do you want me to help you commit, huh?

"And how will I, of all people, be able to help you?" I question, crossing my arms over my chest in demand.

"I..." He trails off in order to choose his next words carefully; though I really don't think I can blame him for stalling his inevitable words, because what he says next hits me hard, so hard that it feels as if I am being given a free demo of what a heart attack feels like. "I want your suggestion regarding how I should propose to Olwyn."

Olwyn: his to-be-wife. Is the rest of the world under Satan's sleeping curse that this boy has come to me for such succor? How stupid has he become that he assumed I'd help him? He doesn't deserve anything from anyone. Even the oxygen currently occupying the tiny cavities in the alveolar sacs of his lungs is the complimentary blessing he is being bestowed with because of some rare, virtuous deed his ancestors once did.

I exhale raggedly, licking my lips. For someone with a mind as emotionally weak as mine, this is obviously too overwhelming. "Doesn't marriage mean you've already proposed to her?"

"Well," he says slowly, "It's basically my parents who've proposed for the marriage, but I want to propose too, before the engagement. It'd be something nice and cute, something she'd definitely like, you know."

I stare at him, a frown etched on my face as I remain unable to stop recalling what I definitely like: the softness of his skin beneath my fingertips, that weird feeling I used to get when his tiny stubble hair would prick at my skin, and then when−

Focus, you moron! my subconscious screams at me.

Right, right. And then it strikes me. This isn't a love marriage. It's arranged, dammit. Perhaps he doesn't love her more than he once loved me.

Not knowing whether or not I'm supposed to feel overjoyed or unmoved about it, I don't allow Elliot to read into whatever it is that is going on inside my head. He didn't deserve to witness the complex mechanism that takes place in my mind for the completion of my thought formation. Not after what he did to me.

"Of course, a business deal in the form of marriage," I snicker with confidence. Elliot's life seems so, so cliché right now; I wonder how he manages not to vomit at the mere thought of it. I mean, Elliot used to hate anything and everything that could be described as cliché, and for a cliché-hater to lead a clichéd life, it must be really hard. "Why don't you businessmen understand that a marriage isn't a deal to be bought with wads of dollars and huge business mergers?"

Marriage is a connection shared between two hearts that cannot, in any way, be bought or sold, Elliot. But how would you know that, right? You turned away from your own marriage.

For mere seconds, his expression falters, and I catch glimpse of a tiny crack in his cold demeanor, a thin ray of hope rushing my way that he hasn't become as diabolical as he lets on, but he camouflages the breach before I can comprehend whatever lies beneath the mask. Of course, he'd do such a thing; he never appreciated anyone who made an effort into reading his features− anyone but me. But what good does recollection of memories that have zero to a negative one chances of occurring once again do? Right, no good. None at all.

"She's a nice person. I feel we can make this work," he tells me, nodding as if to convince himself.

Oxygen refuses to reach the surface of my lungs at his words, burning every part of my conscience worse than a blindly raging fire would. Where did I go wrong? What about me made you feel we couldn't make a marriage work? Was I not nice enough? The desire to shoot question after question courses through me, an untamed feeling rushing through my veins at his words, but I compress the urge to do so as the voice at the back of my mind speaks: Don't let him see how much this bothers you, Celeste. So I deliberately laugh, attempting to bruise his egoistic conscience with a mocking chortle. "You feel a lot, don't you?"

"Yeah," he nods, ignoring my vituperative mockery. "And what you gotta do is help me put all of these feelings into the proposal," says he, casting me the typical businessman-like look.

So he actually has the audacity to come to me with such an appeal, and then hope I'd help him. Fuck you, Elliot. Fuck you.

I cock a vexed eyebrow at him. "What made you think I'd agree?"

His eyebrows rise as he starts, "Just too many things, honestly," he says, and I notice how his lips slowly curl from the corners. "But perhaps the fact that the roof under which you sleep is under my custody is a good starter?"

An anxious shudder runs down my spine, and I take in the amount of spunk he has in himself to put his deceitful deeds out verbally. It is only a matter of time until he comes to me, holding Zephrine's hand and smirking triumphantly that he has reached her too. I can't let him get to Zephrine. NO. I will do anything and everything it takes to keep her out of his reach- to keep her out of trouble's reach.

I gulp the large clod in my throat and tear my gaze away from his, "I'll think about it."

Evidently, I have no option apart from accepting his proposal, but I don't want him to know that. I also don't want to show how easily I can sway under that scrutinizing watch of his, who I am certain will try and get me to do bend and break under his leadership if I show him what a weakness, as well as strength Zephrine, is to me.

"You know you have no option here, sweetheart." Even though his smile is taunting, and his gaze dark, the way he calls me sweetheart, reminding me of one of the many nicknames he'd given to me really gets to me.

I lean in close, unhealed fury evident on my face. "Are you threatening me?"

Elliot's lips turn up in a maddening grin, an expression that is half sardonic and half secretive, and on his face, he employs a look so crypted, yet so challenging, as if my fate depends on the answer to a quiz only he knows but would never tell me. "Where your train of thoughts ends, Ms. Wilson, mine starts there. Can't believe you've still got doubts on that," he says in a macho tone.

I say nothing for a while, trying my best to study his mysterious eyes with the help of the dim light cast by the streetlamp, secretly hoping to discover the untold reason as to why he left me.

But soon enough, I give up.

There is no point in trying to comprehend something that doesn't have anything put up for a show in the first place; that particular something being Elliot's eyes. "You're gonna regret all of this." I snap and turn away from him, wanting to get back home as fast as possible; wanting to get back to Zephrine.

"Oh, yeah?" his warm hand coils around my wrist, yanking me back to him. His tight grip keeps me in place as he secures my hand behind my back. "What'll you do? What can you do?" he asks, his face mere inches away from mine.

Oh, God. This position is so favorable...and so captivating...and so tempting.

Unable to hold myself back for any longer, I jerk my hand out of his grasp and wind my arms around his neck, mashing my lips to his. My actions catch him off-guard, no doubt, but he doesn't let it show beyond the sudden intake of breath and tensing of bodily muscles. His arms encircle my waist soon after, and he pulls my body against his, closer and closer, until there remains nothing audible to my ear apart from the songs of our heartbeat. The act of intimacy, however, is far from those sweet, passionate, toe-curling, and loving kinds that one would generally expect from two people romantically involved (or at least have been in the past). Instead, it is the perfect depiction of anger, pain, and ruthlessness from my side, my teeth digging deep into his lips, emanating a sigh from him.

It is only when Elliot's teeth pull mine in a painfully tantalizing manner, in response to my actions that realization stabs me, and my-my, it feels as if a dagger of ice frozen from a poisoned well is being pushed into my gut. I jerk my body away from his almost immediately, feeling a little too breathless for my liking, and grasping what just happened.

Oh, fricking nuggets of fudge. I just kissed my ex-fiancée whose marriage I am assigned to plan.

I don't look at him as I turn around and run, tears I'd somehow suppressed from the past thirty hours spilling uncontrollably from my eyes.

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