Nanda

Current Days

I woke up to the uncomfortable heat of the sun hitting my face, but I couldn't open my eyes. I was incredibly thirsty and had that typical bitter taste in my mouth, along with an unwanted migraine.

I pulled the pillow over my head and tried to turn to the other side of the bed, trying to shield myself from the light coming through the open window. I had no idea how much I drank the night before, but I knew it had been a lot.

Still half-blind, I reached for his side of the bed and realized the sheets were untouched. Of course, he hadn’t come home to sleep again. Why did I even care?

Actually, why did I still bother believing something between us could be fixed? There was no love, no companionship, no trust, no friendship… nothing at all. It was all just an obligation I fulfilled—the image of a good wife posing for a world of lies.

Inside the gates of the house that didn’t even feel like mine, I was the typical unhappy wife, stripped of dreams, required to be present at all social events, whether for my husband’s work or high society gatherings. Among my duties was being impeccable when hosting couples from the corporate aristocracy in our home—people who would bring great business to the company.

"Success is built on good relationships and friendships with the right people, Fernanda," my husband used to say.

Four years ago, after giving up on happiness, I also accepted abandoning architecture—the only thing I still enjoyed. I knew it wasn't the best idea, especially since the firm was finally taking off, but my husband thought my time would be better spent supporting him and attending the company’s social events. It was like a job—just missing the paycheck.

The marriage proposal had come at a great time—for my family. They had been trying to hide from São Paulo’s high society the financial struggles we’d been facing for at least five years. But it was not a great time for me, because the life I had always dreamed of died the day Roberto appeared.

"We are the Cervino Abrantes family—we have a name and a reputation to uphold!" my father said. "This marriage is a gift. Roberto can reopen doors to new clients. He’s willing to invest in our business—unlike that inappropriate boy you insist on seeing." What did my father know about happiness, anyway? "Once you're part of high society, daughter, learn this: the worst mistake is lowering yourself. Roberto will elevate us."

Everything had been arranged by my father through his connections. An arranged marriage with an executive looking for a beautiful, cultured young woman with good manners and curves, someone who wouldn’t give him any trouble. A society doll.

But that wasn’t me—and I never thought my life would end up like this.

In this social class, the rich didn’t mix with the poor, and powerful men needed a trophy. It shamed me to know that, no matter how much I had fought it, to my husband, that’s exactly what I was.

Controlling and manipulative, how could I have known I’d spend the last few years imprisoned in a living hell? When had I ever dreamed of a married life like this?

I was his toy—the perfect wife to show off as a prize in his corporate world. I hated him. But more than anything, I hated myself—for letting him, and my father, manipulate and control me.

At the time, I didn’t have much of a choice. But now… now, this had to end.

My father had restructured his business with Roberto’s help and was financially stable again. That meant I could finally take control of my life. This hell I lived in, with my bigamist husband, was going to end. Last night’s drunkenness was my way of celebrating the changes to come.

Very soon, I would be a free woman—free to chase my dreams and try to heal my heart, if that was even possible. They say scars are forever, but I had to believe they weren’t.

I took a deep breath and tried to get my bearings, with no idea what time it was and barely any memory of what had happened. I remembered spending the afternoon with a bottle of Dom Perignon and starting the evening with a fine vintage Pinot Grigio. Whatever came after that, I had no clue.

With my head pounding, I sat up in bed, eyes still closed, adjusting to the light. I spotted my phone on the nightstand and reached for it to check the time—but it was dead. I sighed and plugged it in to charge.

I needed a shower. Desperately.

As I tried to stand and placed my left leg on the floor, I rested my right hand on the bed and felt a sharp pain. It was a cut—not deep, but long. I closed my eyes, trying to remember how it happened, but my memory was a total blur. I had drunk too much. Looking at the satin sheets, I saw bloodstains—probably from the wound.

Without worrying about my nakedness—I always slept that way—I slipped on my red velvet slippers and threw on a silk robe, leaving it open. I slowly walked to the living room, looking for clues to help me understand what had happened.

The house was quiet, as always—empty, pale, and cold. Just another mansion decorated by renowned architects, completely impersonal. A fortune wasted, when I could’ve done it better myself, even after leaving the field.

The polished marble floors reflected a perfectly clean and sophisticated space.

A few more steps and I reached the back patio. I knew exactly where to look—my favorite spot in the mansion: a cushioned beach chair in front of the pool. And there were the clues I was searching for—the empty bottle of Dom Perignon, the empty Pinot Grigio, and a nearly full Chardonnay, with a glass still containing oxidized wine.

On the floor, shards of a broken crystal glass—and one of them was bloodstained. My blood, most likely. The cut on my palm throbbed again.

I wasn’t in the mood to clean up my own drunken mess—at least not yet. I’d leave it to the housekeeper who lived in the guest house. She’d come to tidy up eventually. So I retraced my steps and went straight to the bathroom. Who knew what else I’d find around the house? But I didn’t really care.

I walked into the master suite, which looked more like a room in a five-star American hotel. I didn’t need to turn on the light—white tiles with subtle blue accents reflected the sunbeams pouring in through the window, lighting the bathroom even more.

There was a long red smear across the mirror, like I had punched it and slid my bloody hand across the side.

Roberto hated messes—but I didn’t give a damn about him. He had probably spent the night with one of his regular whores anyway, since sex with me never seemed to satisfy him. Not that it satisfied me either, but I never cheated. I wasn’t that kind of woman. I never would be.

To the right, I saw the car key on the floor, and my purse—open and fallen to the left side.

"You really think I’m going to leave my boyfriend to marry some old man I don’t even know?" I screamed at my father, furious about his proposal. "Are you insane?"

"We’re in a financial crisis, Nanda. We need a cash injection that doesn’t involve bank loans. You’re our best bargaining chip."

"How dare you treat me like a commodity? Is that what I studied my whole life for? What about all the years I spent learning languages, getting a degree? I’m just now starting to take off in my career."

"Don’t be ridiculous, my dear," my father said with that sarcastic laugh he sometimes gave Mom. "Do you really think, crisis or not, that I’d let you be with some nobody?"

"Don’t talk about him like that!"

"I let you have your little fling because I hadn’t found your perfect match yet. But now I have. Roberto wants you. He agreed to the marriage because he knows you won’t cause trouble. He’s willing to invest in our company in exchange for a well-behaved woman. That’s exactly how I raised you—to behave and represent high society."

"This is insane!"

"It’s either this or financial ruin. I’m not going to argue with you. You’re going to do what I say."

"No!" I cried, anguished. He couldn’t be serious. "A man like him could have any woman willing to marry him."

"He wants someone classy, with no baggage. We need this marriage. We depend on this alliance. Or would you rather see your mother and me in poverty? Who’s going to pay for all your luxuries?"

"No!" Did I even need all this luxury to live? My current life proved I didn’t.

"Nanda, your wedding is in six months. That’s enough time to work the media and start posting happy couple photos."

"Never!"

"Save your energy. You will marry Roberto."

I picked up the key from the floor and noticed a bit of blood on the keychain, but still put it in my bag. How I hated that Audi he gave me as a gift. My soon-to-be ex-husband may have bought my father, but he would never buy me.

"Damn it. What was I trying to do?"

Now, more than a shower, I needed to pull myself together. There was a lot to process from here on out. There was no way I’d keep being Roberto’s wife, and I felt I had every right to pursue happiness—even if it meant leaving high society and diving into the hard work I had always planned for after graduation. I just needed to keep this between me and my husband, without dragging my father into it.

I had endured enough. If I couldn’t argue with my father back then, now, no longer indebted to anyone, I had already served Roberto the divorce papers—and he would have to leave my father out of it.

I washed my hands, trying to cleanse the blood, though it felt like I was cleansing my soul.

"Mrs. Fernanda!" I heard someone yelling through the house. "Mrs. Fernanda!"

Just what I needed—Cícera and her dramatic screaming. I liked her, but not when she panicked. Last time, it was because the neighbor’s cat had snuck into the kitchen. What would it be this time?