Page 11 of Broken Desires

“Your brother, Henrick…” Her voice trails off, and I know that behind her diplomatic facade lies a storm of frustration with my younger brother’s antics.

That familiar pang of guilt gnaws at me. I should be there, taking my place, easing her burden. But then, the vision of a life dictated by protocols and expectations looms before me, and I cling to my last shreds of freedom. “He’s young, Mother. Give him time. I’ll be back for Christmas.”

Another sigh. “Your father wants to talk to you.”

“Now?” I glance at my alarm clock. Despite my degree’s future irrelevance, I’m committed to earning it legitimately, and I dislike being late.

“No, not now. But a call now and then would be nice.”

I don’t bother telling her that almost every time I call my father, it’s picked up by his secretary, who informs me that my father is busy. And when, by a stroke of luck, I manage to speak with him, it always ends up being an endless tirade about responsibilities and choices and privileges. “I’ll call him later. I have to go to class.”

“Think about the jubilee,” she insists as I’m about to hang up. “You can make it in less than forty-eight hours with the jet.”

“I’ll see if I can make it,” I reply, a noncommittal promise.

As I disconnect the call, the walls of my room feel closer, the air heavier. For a fleeting moment, I allow myself to imagine a different life—one where choices are mine to make, where duty doesn’t dictate every step. But then reality crashes back, a reminder of the gilded chains that bind me.

Heading to my international politics class, I ponder the irony of it all—studying theories of freedom and governance while being a pawn in a grander scheme. The professor dives into a discussion on the complexities of global diplomacy. His passion for the subject is evident, but I find myself increasingly skeptical of the theories he presents, given my own experiences and knowledge of real-world politics.

Midway through the lecture, the professor poses a pointed question to the class, his gaze landing on me. “Mr. Ashford, would you care to share your thoughts on the effectiveness of economic sanctions as a means of international diplomacy?”

I pause for a moment, formulating my response. “Theoretically, economic sanctions can be effective in compelling a change in a nation’s policies,” I begin, cautious in my wording.

The professor raises an eyebrow, a hint of sarcasm creeping into his tone. “Why use ‘theoretically’? Do you know better, Mr. Ashford?”

I feel a flicker of irritation at his derisive tone. He doesn’t have a clue about my family’s actual influence and my personal experiences, giving me a unique, albeit cynical, insight. I want to retort with the full weight of my personal knowledge, but I hold back, maintaining the public persona I’ve carefully crafted. Still, I can’t resist a biting comeback. “No, I do not, Professor. But do you? Can we claim true understanding without experiencing the consequences firsthand?”

The room falls into a brief, stunned silence. The professor, taken aback by my challenge, quickly regains his composure. “An interesting perspective, Mr. Ashford. Let’s delve deeper into that,” he replies, steering the discussion back to safer, theoretical grounds.

The lecture’s theoretical discussions fade into the background as my thoughts shift to the upcoming varsity ball. There’s a spark of excitement inside me, a sense of anticipation that feels both novel and exhilarating. For once, I’m not attending a social event out of obligation or family duty. This time, it’s different—it’s personal.

I catch myself imagining Nessa in her dress, wondering how she will transform for the ball. It’s a simple curiosity, yet it fills me with an unexpected thrill. I’m about to experience the event, not as a member of the establishment but as Liam, a twenty-one-year-old college student looking forward to a night out. It’s a refreshing change, a chance to embrace the normalcy of young adulthood that I’ve often missed.

This weekend’s ball, previously just another engagement in my calendar, now holds a sense of promise and excitement. It represents a night where I can step out from under the weight of expectations and just be in the moment, especially with Nessa by my side. This newfound anticipation is a vivid reminder of the simple joys of life, joys that I’m eager to experience.

Chapter 5

Nessa

Just days before the ball, I admire myself in the mirror, draped in a luxurious silk dress—a splurge courtesy of Ethan’s promise to Poppy. The fabric, outrageously expensive yet irresistibly smooth, is a testament to his unexpected perfection. It fits me like a glove, a blend of sophistication and daring that somehow feels just right.

Trailing my hand along the silk material, its texture sends shivers up my spine. The dress, a masterful blend of black-and-red silk, clings to my tall, lithe form like a shadow caressing the night. It’s bold, a bit scandalous even, with a slit that runs daringly high up my leg, offering glimpses of skin with each movement.

The bodice, adorned with intricate red lace over black silk, accentuates my curves in a tempting display of both concealment and revelation. The lace crawls up to form a high neckline, a stark contrast to the plunging back, which leaves much of my skin tantalizingly bare.

Sheer black lace sleeves envelop my arms, the delicate fabric contrasting sharply with the bold red cuffs peeking through at my wrists. It feels gothic yet undeniably sexy, a dress designed not just to be seen but to make a statement.

I turn, admiring how the layered skirt flows around my legs, the subtle interplay of red under black creating an illusion of flickering flames. It’s more than just a dress; it’s a declaration of my boldness, a testament to a confidence I’m still learning to embrace.

In this dress, I feel powerful, sexy, and daring. It’s a far cry from my usual style, but now I’m not just any girl. I’m a siren, ready to test the limits of Liam’s promise and challenge the boundaries of my own comfort zone.

I was taken aback when Ethan told me that Liam would be my date for the ball. After our last encounter, I was sure that whatever spark might have been there had fizzled out in the awkwardness of his rejection. But here we are, going to the ball together.

I remember standing at my apartment door, the cool night air mingling with the heat of disappointment when he declined my bold invitation. His polite refusal, the regret in his eyes, was a letdown, yet not unkind. There was an undeniable tension, a connection that neither of us could act upon, leaving us both in a limbo of what-ifs.

And then, out of the blue, he steps in as my date for this ball. The surprise of it left me reeling, a whirl of emotions that I couldn’t quite place. Part of me feels almost giddy, like a thirteen-year-old girl who still believes in fairy tales and happy endings. It is a feeling I haven’t allowed myself to experience in years, always too caught up in the harsh realities of my life.

I try to look unbothered with the girls, not to show them how pathetic my teenage years have been, but this ball, something as trivial as a college dance, suddenly feels monumental—a symbol of the freedom and normalcy I crave.