TIED TO A CONTRACT

"Imperfection is beauty, madness is genius, and it's better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring."

                     -Marilyn Monroe.

-----------------

The dinning was aglow with enough candles to guide a ship to shore, because nothing says 'classy' like a room full of stuff that can be used as a weapon. But I wasn't admiring the decor - I was too busy having a heart attack, courtesy of being trapped in a wasteful mansion with a bunch of family and strangers alike, and too much glassware.

The hum of conversation and clinking cutlery were just background noise to the sound of my own mortality.

I was stuck at a depressing angle of the table, wearing a gown so sparkly, I'm pretty sure I blinded everyone within a 5-foot radius. Aunt Rosa and my mother's mission accomplished.

The classic 'you're a star, now go make him worship you' advice from both of them had been a real treat. Should I be honest with you? My mom and her sister, Aunt Rosa, were a dynamic duo of toxic encouragement. Their push for me to rub my 'Benedetti bestness' in everyone's face was a dead giveaway that humility was clearly underrated in my family.

The irony was rich-why dazzle when I could just crumble? My bestness had been reduced to a flaking layer of my makeup and a whole lot of desperation. Desperation to survive this glittering nightmare without losing my dinner or my mind.

Guest of honor-my ass.

Don Vincenzo, the self-proclaimed king of the table, basked in the spotlight like it was his birthright – and honestly, with that ego and chiseled jawline, he probably thought he was the sun itself. His mini-me, his first son-my portentous brother-in-law-to-be, sat across from me, a carbon copy of his father's cold, detached, and self-absorbed demeanor. The apple didn't fall far from the tree, and in this case, it just rolled onto the same ego-fueled path.

Marrying into this, I wasn't just in for a long ride; I was in for a never-ending cycle of narcissistic hell, with the whole family as my personal chauffeurs.

"Smile, Sessie," my mother's voice cooed in my ear as she leaned in, her perfume-a mix of rosewater and authority-wrapping around me like a noose. "You're too beautiful to wear such a frown tonight. You're a-"

"Save the celestial flattery, mother," I spoke back discreetly, not moving a muscle as I stared ahead to the men in black. I was far from being a star. "I'm more like a fallen meteorite - crashed, burned, and utterly done with this night."

"Sessie!" She barked in a way only I could hear, fork abandoned, eyes blazing with the thrill of another opportunity to drill our family motto into my skull. "Enough. Now chin up, shoulders back, and for the love of all things Benedetti, pretend you're not dying inside."

I managed a smile, or rather, a grotesque parody of one, like a skull grinning from beneath a tattered mask of flesh.

I was twenty-three for crying out loud; my life didn't have to be filled with so much depressing details.

My mother's words were still heavily settled on my shoulders, much like the engagement ring glittering on my finger-a symbol of everything I was being forced into. She adjusted a loose strand of my hair, her fingers cool and precise, as if she were preparing a doll for display.

In many ways, she was.

In many ways, she'd raised a social doll - not merely a puppet dancing to the tune of societal expectations, but a marionette whose strings were pulled by the whims of etiquette and politeness. But like all dolls, there was a limit to how far I could be bent and molded before I cracked. And deep inside, the cracks were beginning to form.

The guests-family, a few business associates of the Family, and those who wanted to be on my father and Don Vincenzo's good side-were all here to celebrate what should have been the happiest night of my life. But I couldn't stop the knot tightening in my stomach. This circus, though it was in my name, was not for me, it was not for my happiness; it was for their own entertainment-witnessing the union of two powerful families in one. Witnessing how Vincenzo and Benedetti expertly played matchmaker – as long as the match was between two pawns who'd keep the Family's secrets and secure its future.

Haha, the classic Vindetti move: take one volatile Tiziano, add a dash of 'Sessie's' supposed obedience, and hope for a recipe of stability – or at least a decent PR spin. Because what every unhinged Don's son needed was a 'me' – a.k.a. a doormat with a pulse – to manage his temper and smile pretty.

Across the table, my younger sister, Vi, was giggling at something Ariele, the underboss's son, had whispered in her ear. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement, her eyes sparkling in a way mine hadn't in years. At least one of us had a shot at happiness – Vi's contagious laugh told me she'd found her escape in the colorful guy, and maybe, just maybe, the matchmakers would grant her a reprieve from the Tiziano treatment.

My father sat at the other end of the table, his phone in hand - fork out - scrolling through what I could only assume were urgent business matters. As usual. The only time I merited a glance from him was when he needed to confirm I was still a marketable asset.

This dinner and the guests were just formalities for him; it was a necessary inconvenience to solidify the alliance this engagement promised.

And then, there was Tiziano.

Dressed in his trademark all-round black, he was seated to my right, his presence brewing like a dark cloud. His eyes, too sharp, too focused, roved over the room with a hunger that made my skin crawl. Oh great, they finally landed on me, and I got to enjoy a lovely frisson of discomfort because, you know, being looked at by him was just what I needed to make my night complete. His hand reached out to cover mine, and I had to fight the urge to pull away.