Chapter Text
"These 'coincidences' are getting out of hand, Angel," he huffed, taking a sip of his gin. "I've decided to assign you a bit of a...guard...or something of the sort." His gravelly words clawed through her like a cat's nails.
"Father, I'll be fine. Just let me be, please," leaning over the sofa, she snatched his glass from the table. She threw her head back, letting the little bit of liquid left coat her throat, "you know no one will try anything after last year's incident." Her voice was raspy as she smeared the leftover droplets off her chin with the back of her hand.
He glared at her, his dark, sunken eyes exasperated, "Last year's incident makes me think you need this even more."
"I am in need of nothing, you made sure of that the day I was born," she hissed like a starving snake before striking its prey.
"You barrade me for giving you the life all people desire. No matter, you will learn to be grateful in due time, I'm sure." He grunted as he stood from his leather chair, "This is not something that is to be discussed further. For your pride's sake, I will let you choose the bodyguard."
Her head rolled forward, long locks falling over her shoulders hiding her face, "You're paying, right?"
Letting a chuckle rumble from his chest, he replied, "Why, of course, Angel. What kind of parent would I be if I didn't?"
Her breathing slowed as her eyes fluttered shut. The life of a lady of wealth was pretty. It never lasted, though. Like all esteemed blossoms, it is destined to die after its temporary beauty. A rough hand clasped underneath her chin, jerking her face towards her father's.
"When am I ever going to receive a proper thank you?"
"When my blood becomes yours," flinching her chin away, she slipped from his presence. Her fingers trailed the dark, paisley-papered walls of the office. The doorknob was cold as her fingers laced around it firmly, "you should be the one thanking me."
His gaze lingered on his daughter's body as her clicking heels became a distant tap. After closing the door, the tension within her body released like the trigger of a gun. Her body slid down against the shiny oak boards that separated her from her father. A heavy weight, like a beast slithering through her spine, nested deep within her bosom. Her knees shook as hot tears tapped onto the rug and stained her silk dress. "God, why can't I have a normal birthday?"
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"Father Swan, why do you whisper so much? You're making me worried that this church is haunted."
A nervous chuckle sounded from across the thin barrier. Her nose wrinkled uncontrollably as a dank smell emanated from the priest's garments."I'm sorry, I'm still getting used to this, it's only my second week," he cleared his throat after his voice cracked.
"Don't tell me I'm the worst sinner you've had so far," Angelica flashed a smile, but her eyes barely squinted.
"Oh no, no need to worry about comparing sins. You are forgiven," he reassured.
Fiddling with the tissue in her hand, she asked, "Father Swan, can we get out of this closet?"
The stained glass windows rose to the top of the ceilings, painting the steeple and pews with thousands of hues. Angelica lifted her hands, her fingers playing with the dust dancing in the light of the evening. It smelled like Bibles and old carpet, scents that made her lungs full and breath slow. The warm sun embraced her cheeks as she hummed softly.
Father Swan adjusted his collar, "Mrs. Angelica, you've already confessed a great deal...but...I must admit...most of those things weren't your sins."
"But I let them happen."
"You aren't in control," his brows furrowed as his riverbed eyes pierced into her, like the nails on a coffin.
Sighing, she slumped back onto the pew, "Why must you remind me?"
"Hmm," he leaned back as well, folding his hands in his lap, "I am guilty of trying to take control of my situation in life as well. I believe everyone is, to some extent."
"How many of them succeed?" her eyes shut tight, as though she were trying to picture the ideal she was desperately praying for.
"I'm happy to say that none have, as of yet."
Eyeing him, she mumbled, "That's not the answer I was hoping for."
He shrugged, his black cassock becoming a bit wrinkled, "But it's the answer we all need to accept. Everything in life is in the Lord's hands. All we can do is strive to emulate His teachings. I see you have a scapular," he gestured to the necklace pressed against her chest, "let that be a reminder of what you continue to live for."
Without a fight, her eyes fell once more. This necklace was more than a piece of religious clothing. Conceived in sin, Angelica's aunties warned that she would be cursed. For a long time, she brushed it off as hogwash. Yet, after countless years filled with endless stories, a part of her soul longed for her superstitions to manifest. This scapular, rosery, or neckless... it didn't matter what the name was. It had belonged to the one person who genuinely wanted her.
"I live because God hasn't struck me down yet," lazily pushing herself up, she shuffled out of the narrow pew.
"Is, is that going to be all for today, Mrs. Angelica?" Father Swan stuttered in surprise.
Her hand waved him off as she made her way toward the heavy doors of the sanctuary, "Sorry, Father. I've got an appointment."
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Like the constant drip of a leaky pipe, she clicked her pen open and closed. Undeniable. She had prided herself on that, at the very least. Who could afford to reject old money with a young face? More men than she would have liked to admit. Not the gold diggers, wrinkled faces, or haughty jocks she would encounter, but half of the bodyguards from the high-end agency her father had presented to her.
A part of her wanted to skip and jump and laugh; her father's great plan of having her chained to him like an exotic pet was falling apart. Yet, she had a feeling he knew something like this was bound to happen. With wounded pride, she watched those men with their big black leather boots and calloused hands scoffing and stomping out the door. Her elbows hit the table and slid forward, her dark chocolate hair almost hiding her entire face. "Just a few more interviews...freedom is almost within reach."
A sharp knock knock knock sounded from one room over. Without moving an inch, Angelica called out, "Enter."
He was tall and muscular, tattoos peeking out from his rolled-up sleeves. He wasn't too different from the other candidates' appearances, though he was the biggest by far. He seemed unfazed by her shrewd exterior. A black mask covered his mouth and nose, making his expression hard to understand. Veiny, scarred hands wrapped around the top of the chair and tugged it back, an awful scraping noise sounding from the friction against the floor. His eyes grew a little large at the sound. After blinking a few times, he lowered himself down onto it gingerly and cleared his throat.
"Who are you?" she blurted out.
"I go by Ghost," his deep, British accent sliced through the air like a knife to the throat.
Her head tilted to the side ever so slightly, scanning his figure. He sat stiff, his shoulders pulled back and his head held high. It wasn't as though he looked proud, but more...dissatisfied. Her nose wrinkled, scowling, "Stop trying to be mysterious, tell me your full name."
"Miss, I don't have to tell you anything until I sign a contract. Ghost is gonna hav'to do for now."
Slumping back into the chair, she stared him down. His eyes were the only thing she could try to read. Yet, the more she looked into them, the more she felt as though he was the one reading her. "If you aren't going to be honest with me, why should I trust you with my life?"
"Because protecting you has nothing to do with my personal life. Just credentials," he tossed a manilla folder onto the desk.
She set her hand on it before it slid off and onto the floor. He really couldn't handle his own strength. "I already have a folder on you," Angelica pushed the folder back, then crossed her arms.
A short chuckle escaped him. Crossing his legs, he responded, "From the agency, yeah. Not from me."
"And I should take your word over the agency's?"
Leaning forward, he intertwined his fingers. His eyes never broke away from hers as he responded, "The agency is only going to show you what they want you to see. I'm giving you the full picture, Miss."
The butter-yellow folder filled her with curiosity, "Perhaps. What, besides your name, makes you any different from the other men I've interviewed?"
"My name is part of the deal. No one," his head tilted down and his voice grew low, "is even going to touch you if I'm the one by your side."