a proposal, of sorts. ✔️

seven

"Are you ready?" Trystan asks, leaning against my open doorway. He is dressed in purple tonight, a color with an uncanny resemblance to the color of my hair.

"Almost." I clip my second earring into place as I find his eyes in the mirror in front of me. "We can leave around eleven tonight."

"Three whole hours? Someone might believe you're becoming a socialite." I roll my eyes at him before reaching for a dark red lipstick. Rylan's favorite, I realize, turning it over in my fingers. The reminder of my heartbreak five nights ago crawls over my skin as spiders. Forcing my hands to stay steady, I drop it in my drawer and reach instead for a muted coral.

Trystan is still waiting for an answer. "It can't be helped. I'm told it's the social event of the season."

"So you do talk to someone other than the people who are paid to be around you," he taunts, a crooked smile forming on his face. His happiness annoys me.

"I do know people I actually like. You just don't happen to be one of them." With lipstick applied, I'm ready to leave.

He laughs. "We're years ahead of every other married couple."

"I like to excel in all matters of life," I tell him as I get up from my vanity. I brush off the silk of my skirt and adjust my necklace to fall above the neckline of my corseted bodice. "Ready?"

"Always." His eyes catch on my pendant but he doesn't say anything. "Our carriage awaits us."

He offers me an arm and I take it, an early beginning to our theatrics for the night. I can't help but imagine Rylan's arm threaded through mine instead, a masochistic thought to keep me company as we journey to the party.

I enter with a sigh. It looks like every other ballroom and every other soirée, complete with matching candles and plum liquor glasses. Trystan fits my arm through his own again, and I arrange a smile on my face as I glance up at him.

"Where shall we visit first, dear wife? The food or the dance floor?" His grin is wide as he notices my discomfort.

I glance around again, before nodding towards the food. Trystan follows my instruction and leads us to the line of plates. I take one of the polished ceramic plates and reach for a brightly colored green pudding to decorate my plate. I hope for mint and not green apple.

"A purple one?" I question as I glance down at Trystan's plate. "Those are tricky."

"I'm willing to risk the grape for raspberry," he explains. "Raspberry is by far the most superior flavor."

"Not worth biting into grape," I dissent, shaking my head. A risky wager, and one that I was not willing to make. Trystan leads me to an unoccupied section of the wall, near a gilded dresser and a tall porcelain lamp, stained red. I let it occupy my attention, a welcome distraction.

But then, only moments later— "Ah! Mr. and Mrs. Davenport!" spoken by a familiar voice. It takes all of me to refrain from flinching at my new name. Instead, I turn towards the noise and the familiar voice is paired with a familiar face.

"Mr. Dennings!" I force my face to brighten. It seems to be the trend as of late, feigning happiness. Reminds me of the years after my parents' deaths.

I put my plate down on the nearby dresser, it's weight in my hands an annoyance as we continue our conversation.

"How are you two? Is marriage treating you well?" His face is red — he must've just departed from the dance floor.

"We're enjoying it. Immensely." Trystan adds the last part for my benefit. Mr. Dennings's silver hair glimmers as he bobs his head.

"That's wonderful. Marriage is one of the greatest joys in life, if I say so myself." I'm sure he believes it, married to a man whom he loves and loves him. He glances behind him before continuing. "I don't believe the pair of you have met my niece. She just returned from a long trip. A sailor."

My blood runs cold and I still. Trystan seems to notice because he places a hand on my forearm. As a comfort, I suppose? Or perhaps restraint?

Mr. Dennings turns back once more, allowing me the brief respite of drawing in a shaky breath. I can see him holding out a hand, a smaller tanned one laying atop it in response. "Here she is. Miss. Rylan Richtman." She walks into view, donned in a black leather dress molded to her skin. "Rylan, darling, this is Mrs. Seryn Davenport and Mr. Trystan Davenport."

My name sounds foreign in his mouth.

She smiles politely, the expression is a simple turn of her lips— emotionless. Her uncle squeezes her hand, urging for a verbal greeting: "Hello." Her voice rings through my mind and I can't stop my eyes from falling to her mouth, painted in the color of my hair. Her hair is twisted away from her face, pulling her emerald eyes into view.

"Hello, Miss. Richtman," Trystan answers for the both of us.

She presses her lips together in a thin line. "Please call me Rylan. I'm not one for formalities." Her response is to Trystan but her eyes remain on my own.

Trystan strokes my wrist gently with the tip of his thumb, coaxing me back to our conversation. "Perfect. We despise formalities as well." He offers a diplomatic smile to conceal my social ineptitude.

"Indeed," I echo. That's all I can manage as I look at Rylan. Trystan's fingers move up, caressing the side of my elbow, and it takes everything in me to keep the bile in my throat.

"How was your voyage? Your uncle says that you just returned," Trystan questions as I try to slow my breathing. I'm sure they can all see my chest rising and falling sharply, even in the haze of candlelight.

Rylan doesn't remove her gaze from my own. Her eyes are a prison. "Quick. My new captain is more competent and therefore more efficient."

"Captain Reed? I've heard good things about her," Trystan prompts, with a poise that I resent.

Rylan nods and looks as surprised as me that Trystan has any knowledge of the city's sailing happenings. "Apparently she's more famous than I realized."

Her eyes finally move, to Trystan's hand clasped around my arm, making me regret my lack of appreciation for her previous avoidance of it. I shake off his grip in haphazardous thought, the confinement of the room weighing on my airways.

I fumble for an explanation. "I'm terribly sorry, I'm not feeling too well. I must bid you both goodbye." My excuse rushes out and I don't wait for reciprocation before fleeing to the balcony door. Seconds later the wintry air presses against me, a welcome respite from the heat of inside.

I make my way to the edge, where a short marble fence closes me in. The balcony overlooks the expansive backyard, the only distraction from the escaped noise from the party inside. A pond stretches across the middle, lined with expensive white roses, all glowing with perfection under the moonlight.

I grip the top of the fence hard, my knuckles whitening to match the marble below me. My heart still thunders through my body painfully and slowing my breathing isn't seeming to alleviate my closing throat. My hold on the railing is the only thing that keeps me from clawing at my throat.

The door rattles open and I don't turn. The pit in my heart hopes for the relief of Rylan but I can tell it's Trystan from the footsteps. Loud and confident; the opposite of hers.

"How are you doing?" he greets, coming to lean against the fence on my right.

I answer honestly: "terrible." I loosen my grasp on the railing, my fingers stinging with exertion.

"An old heart break?" he guesses. There's no malice in his voice.

"A new one, actually." I drag a hand through my hair. I couldn't care less that pieces fall out of place.

He doesn't reply right away, letting the silence settle over us. "I won't tell you that the pain will go away. That's a lie even I can't believe."

More silence.

"Cope however you can. Eventually you'll just be numb. Being numb is better than that pain festering in your chest right now," he finishes, placing a hand on my shoulder. After a quick squeeze, he returns to the door of the balcony, the thud of it closing telling me that he returned to the party.

I can't find the truth in his words because forgetting the pain would be forgetting our love. Rylan's love was one of the few things that kept me human these past years. Instead, I just let the pain wash over me, hoping the frosty night air counteracts the fire coursing through my veins.