He pauses, flickering his eyes up to meet mine, pupils narrowed into practical slits. "You are not attending that party."
I narrow my eyes back, fully getting off the ground and awkwardly shifting my weight between feet quickly, working to not apply too much pressure on any given limb. The fabric of my gown is only so thin and doesn't block the harsh chill of the room from hitting my skin, the hair on my arms and back of my neck standing up straight against my battered skin. My father's eyes flicker to the movement but he doesn't question it further. "Watch me." I bite back harshly, aware of my misdirected anger but make no move to right my wrongs as I grab my IV stand and walk out the room, ignoring my father's calls after me.
Several guards are situated outside my door and I turn to face one of them, fixing myself to be intimidating, although it's a struggle with a fucking bag of fluid hanging after me like a dog on a leash. "Bring me Doctor Cleever." I order, watching them all eye each other then move their attention to glance between the room and me.
They continue this for what feels like hours, my foot beginning to tap impatiently. "Any day now." I grit out, glaring at all of them together.
Hesistantly, one of them nods to the next room over, another suite, this one with a closed door. I knock, hearing murmurs on the other end before Doctor Cleever emerges, closing the door soon after he steps out but still giving me a glimpse of a tall man on the bed, the restraints on his wrists showing me it's a subdued Leonardo.
Even from the small sight, I catch Leonardo's now blonde hair, that heinous wig removed, and very pale green eyes, the only resemblance between him and Luca being the strong jawline.
He stares back at me, watching the door obstruct his vision until it shuts with a resounding slam. "You should be resting." Doctor Cleever scolds, but I don't pay much mind to his assertation, not bothering to explain my reasoning as I give him my bland response.
"I need a check up and then I'm leaving." I state, leaving no further room for question.
He hesitates, seeming skeptical but frankly I don't give a fuck, only caring about leaving this sterile, lonely place where I'm left with my own haunting thoughts. He seems to give in to his own internal battle though, as moments later he's leading me back into my room with a dramatic sigh and disappointed "very well then."
Thankfully, my father has left the room by the time we arrive, probably to compalin about my "disobedience" and "lack of selflessness" because my mother is "worried sick" and I "can't take any more chances".
I cautiously step back onto the bed, sitting there as Doctor Cleever pokes and prods at me, asking what hurts, what doesn't, and so on.
Finally, he gives me the green light, not that I would really base my decision on that or not, but it will help on getting my dad off my back. He does say that I need to be on bed rest and probably shouldn't be attending this party, but I keep that specific part out when I call my father with the summary.
~~~
I stick the last bobby pin into the side of my head, my hair loosely hanging around my shoulders, only slightly pinned back, framing my face delicately.
The sparkly white dress is beautiful, tight in all the right places, hanging over my bruised arm and the gashes on my right thigh, concealer covering my injured face. My attention is drawn to my displayed clavicle, the shining metal on it an unpleasant memory that for some reason my body refuses to allow me to let go of.
The jeweled Ivy leaf shines in the warm light.
I glare into the bathroom mirror, squeezing the edges of the sink and looking back at the mirror, deep, empty eyes staring back at me.
Pathetic
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