"This is ridiculous," Faridat echoed, pacing up and down my minuscule living room.
"Stop pacing, Dat. You are making me dizzy," I muffled into the throw pillow pressed against my chest.
She stopped pacing, her stylish long earrings dangling as she halted. "So, you are going to just accept this?"
"What choice do I have? He is my guardian, after all."
"He is your guardian, not your god. The worst he can do is curse you over the phone for not adhering to his silly marriage request."
I snapped my head up so fast I thought I heard my neck bones crack. "No. The worst he can do is involve that man and have my head chopped off." My voice cracked, horror washing over me again as I remembered who I was supposed to marry.
Faridat paused, stepping closer to me. "What man?"
I swallowed, biting into my fingernails anxiously.
"Daphne, what man are you talking about?"
My eyes watered. "Sinclair Kavanagh."
Faridat frowned, searching her memory for who that might be; the name probably sounded familiar.
"Wait. Is it that popular investor? The one that invested in the Love & Light project?"
Tears fell. "The thing is, he is not just an investor, Faridat. He is more. Much more."
A few weeks after the massacre at the Adebayo mansion—after they had taken my statements where I told them I was in Sarah's bedroom when the whole thing happened because there was no way I was testifying against that man—I saw in the news that the murder was confirmed to be the work of an unknown assassin. He worked for high-profile people, and intel said he was a government-backed liquidator.
So, he was very much more than just an investor.
"He kills for a living, Faridat."
Faridat froze, studying me, probably waiting for me to burst into a fit of laughter and tell her I was only joking.
"Are you kidding me? A what?!"
I wrapped my arms around myself, more tears spilling, my body trembling.
She sank into the vacant space beside me on the couch, placing a hand on my shoulder. "How do you know this?"
"It's… I watched him, Faridat. I saw him three years ago. He chopped off Mr. Adebayo's head like some skilled butcher. The man I told you about seeing in my nightmares." My lips trembled. "I… I don't want to marry him, Faridat. He kills. He killed Mr. Adebayo and his family. I don't think I can even breathe the same air as him. What do I do?"
I broke into sobs, shaking violently as Faridat drew me in, wrapping her arms around me and patting me softly, her lips parted in disbelief.
She withdrew, wiping away my tears. "So, what do we do? Because you cannot just keep crying on your couch like this. We have to tell Omar and his parents. They'll—"
"No, please." I cut in, my voice hoarse from crying. "You can't… you can't tell Omar. I don't want him in this. I want him to think I chose money over love. If I involve him in this, that man might… he might…"
"Okay, so what do we do?!" Faridat snapped, her voice trembling with frustration. "Are you going to sit there and watch your brother marry you off to a fucking assassin?!"
"If I involve him, that man might harm him. I can't involve him in this."
Faridat was about to respond when the doorbell ringing throughout the apartment interrupted her. I snapped my head toward the entrance.
"Are you expecting anyone?" Faridat asked behind me, her voice tight with anxiety.
"No," I whispered.
When the doorbell rang again, more urgently this time, I slowly got up and made it to the door. I peeped through the hole, seeing a courier who looked like he was in a hurry, his forehead pinched in creases.
As he raised his hand to switch to knocking, I opened the door, frowning at the package he held.
He sighed. "Daphne West?" He asked, drawling my name out like a slur, a frown etched onto his face.
"Yes," I nodded.
He extended the box to me, which I took reluctantly, examining it.
"Please, sign here." He extended a paper and a pen. I signed where he pointed and handed it back to him, still confused.
"Okay. Parcel received. Have a good evening," he said, turning around and stalking down the hallway.
I shut the door behind me and placed the box on the center table. Faridat frowned at it. "What is this?"
"I don't know," I murmured, tearing the package open.
It was a dress and heels in separate bags. My lips parted slightly when I saw the brand. A pair of Jimmy Choo heels and a pink Versace dress. I took it out, hands trembling. It was beautiful, and it matched perfectly with the heels. Then, a card slipped from the small bag.
I reached for it and opened it, reading the note penned with the most beautiful calligraphy I had ever seen.
"Blackwell, 6:30 pm. Don't be late."
"Marcus really does have the nerve to be giving orders. Bastard," Faridat said behind me.
"This… This is not from Marcus," I replied, fingers trembling.
"What?" Faridat whispered.
"It's from him. Sinclair. He sent it."
When I tried the gown on and stood before the mirror in my bedroom, a gasp left me. Not because of its soft blush-pink color, or its fitted, lace-embroidered bodice and thin straps. Not even because of its high thigh slit or the way it flowed into a sheer, layered tulle skirt that gave it a romantic, red-carpet feel. No. It was because…
"It fits," Faridat voiced my thoughts, appearing behind me in the mirror's reflection. "How does it fit so perfectly? Did you tell Marcus your size?"
No, I didn't. And Marcus wasn't smart enough to know my size merely by looking at me. That bastard. How had he…?
I turned to Faridat. "You should leave."
She frowned. "What? Daphne, I'm not leaving until we sort out this issue."
"Just… just go. I'll be fine."
"Daphne…" she began protesting.
I grabbed her shoulders. "Please, trust me, Faridat. Go for now. I'll contact you."
She gave me a look of doubt, a protest still on the tip of her tongue.
"If anything happens, I'll call you," I assured her. I watched her nod once, grab her bag, and leave. The minute she was out, I struggled out of the dress and gathered it in my hands. I threw the bathroom door open, turned on the tap to my bathtub, dress in. I watched it get soaked, my lips quivering.
He knew my size. How? Did he recognize me from three years ago? Perhaps that was why he approached Marcus to get to me. No. No. No.
I started pacing the floor of my bathroom, biting down on my lower lip, not caring that it hurt and was probably creating a scar.
My phone rang with a new message. I walked to the room to grab it. It was from Marcus.
"Sis, I'll be picking you up in two hours. Did you receive the parcel from Kavanagh? Put on some makeup, too."