Red Roses and Bleeding Hearts

She stared at the reflection of a beautiful woman. Dark hair, black eyes, red fabric, and tears.

She was used to staring at the arabesque design on the border of her mirror, finding it more stare-worthy than herself.

Not today.

Today she stared at herself. Not contemptuous, not sad. Just numb. She knew this was to happen any day now and it had. She had prepared herself enough to not shed any tears now. As much as her eyes brimmed full, she trapped her emotions inside, holding herself together.

She half expected her marriage to be fixed with some other Russian bastard. At least then she wouldn't have had to leave her country, but yesterday when she heard the Italians' forthcoming, she had nothing to say. The mere idea of settling in a new place with strangers haunted her and it would have haunted anyone if they knew whose hand she was promised to.

Her father hadn't told her a word about whom she was to marry. It was as if she was just a good to be transported in exchange for relations.

Not that she ever expected him to convey the whereabouts of what decisions he took for her, but she still felt betrayed. Her heart had sunk at the news. Of all she had at least wished to be in the same country she brought up in, the culture she had gotten used to.

Yesterday her father had entered her room, knocking the breath out of her as she felt herself taken aback. He hadn't shown himself for months, and even on the rare occasions she saw him was far away from the window, or balcony, never from up this close.

"Do not ruin my reputation" was all he had said before leaving, giving no context whatsoever. Before confusion could sweep over her being, maids had intruded on her privacy, informing her of the preparations for her wedding. A woman appraised of arranged marriage by her servant and her father telling her to behave, that was all that happened. And now she was ready to do a customary meeting with her fiancé before marriage, a tradition that was supposed to help them understand each other.

She wanted to scoff at it. It was far from a tradition rather than a meeting to confirm that a woman indeed had the assets the man was promised. She felt disgusting at the thought of a stranger measuring her value by her body and it was even more saddening that she could do nothing about it.

It was the moments like these when she remembered her mother. The same mother who had died too soon, unable to become part of the suffering that Sheila had endured alone.

She slowly stood up from the wooden stool and adjusted the elegant green attire she was given to wear. She blinked back her tears uncertain of her future, reminiscing the ghostly open eyes of her mother when she had died in a gruesome murder. Even in her lifelessness, she had watched her little daughter with warmth, smiling as she took her last breath, leaving the fifteen-year-old girl screaming and weeping.

She sharply inhaled, forcing the memories out of her system. Looking at herself for the last time, before leaving the sight of a mirror.

With her head held high, she walked out of the room. Two maids waiting for her outside ushered their mistress to the stellar living room of their mansion.

As she heard the murmur of voices from the hallway her confidence crumbled, melting at the men's powerful voice booming across the walls.

With each step nearer to the hall, her hands started shaking, she tightly fisted her sweaty palms to constrain her visible shiver. And just like that she stood at the frame of their majestic living room. The conversations in the room immediately ceased. She could feel dozens of stares looking her way, shifting up and down. She didn't dare look up to meet the eyes of the men in the room.

"Aah come here darling" her father's voice penetrated the silence.

She hesitantly took steps in his direction, slightly adjusting her dress to make sure she walked acceptably right.

With a quick motion to his left, he gestured for her to sit next to him.

"Meet my daughter, the only one I have" her father mused delightfully. She hated how he mentioned her as his property. He was looking forward to using her to gain alliance.

"Name" a powerful voice reverberated in the tense silence.

She felt as if someone had poured a bucket of ice on her head. It was different when someone interrupted your verbal argument, but when they disrupt your thoughts, you know they are incomparably dominant.

His single word had managed to shake her to the core. She knew she had to speak before the voice asked again. She already wished for him to be mute, realizing his voice alone could swirl her whole body like a cow in the tornado. She tried to speak, attempting to hide the obvious stutter of her tone.

"Sheila"