Page 92 of The Damaged Billionaire's Obsession
I’ve spoken to no one except Twiggy, and the longest conversation we had was a week ago when he’d returned home from Nan’s house and told me they’d set the date for the funeral.
It was hard, but I decided to wait because I knew that if I went back to New York, I’d never return to Ireland. As soon as Twiggy told me the time of the funeral, I booked my flight back for the same day.
Still reeling from Nan’s sudden death, my parents’ cold reception was another heartbreak I hadn't anticipated. So, when Ethan sent me a text on the third day and again on the fifth, asking if everything was okay, I didn’t respond.
I’m falling in love with him and everything he represents. Ethan makes me feel giddy with desire and looks at me like I’m the most wonderful thing he’s ever seen.
But I’m not. I’m so not. My parents’ cold reception is all too tangible proof. I can't bear another heartbreak.
And Ethanwillbreak my heart.It's too good to be true.
I also got a text from Sabrina asking me to call her. I can’t call her. No one knows about my life in Ireland. I’d have to lie about what’s happening right now, and I can’t be bothered to pretend like I’ve got it together.
“Bonnie?”
A soft knock on the door brings me back. Twiggy is waiting. He’s been so supportive this past week, although I can tell he’s struggling to accept my parents' treatment of me and was shocked to hear about the cult. He’s been wanting to talk, but I’ve not felt up to it, not in a condition to be anyone’s sounding board.
“Yes. I’m ready.”
I check my outfit for the last time. It's a plain black, long-sleeved dress. I put my veiled hat on and join Twiggy outside.
The moment Twiggy pulls into the parking lot and we approach the hall, I know something is very wrong. Apart from the beat-up van, there’s no other car in the parking lot. There are a few bicycles, though.
In the cult, they don’t really own cars.
“Twiggy, do you remember if my father mentioned anything about a Sect or a Harmonial service for the funeral?” I ask.
“No, I don’t. Why?”
“Um, nothing. Let’s go.”
The moment we reach the door of the hall, my fears are confirmed. It’s a Harmonial Sect funeral service.
With a mix of dread and overwhelming guilt, I hesitate at the doorway, peering into the darkness beyond and the soft, flickering lights of the hundreds of candles and the elongated shadows cast across the walls.
Twiggy, sensing my trepidation, puts his hand on the small of my back and encourages me on. As we make our way into the hall, I notice the quiet murmur of congregants, their attire marked by ugly, loose-fitting garments.
I feel eyes on us and hear whispers. I’m not dressed like them, so, of course, I stand out, and not to mention Twiggy with his waist-length blond hair, expensive tailored black shirt and blazer, with several buttons open to reveal the upper part of his muscular chest. I wonder if some people have recognized the Siobhán who sinned and ran away and are promptly updating the others.
I see none of Nan’s bingo or book club friends, and I realize with shock that everyone outside of the Sect was shut out. I would have been, too, if not for Twiggy. A fresh pang of hurt hits my heart.
My father sits on a raised dais, looking somber and regal.
Revulsion and rage well inside me for his audacity to desecrate her memory and her wishes. Nan had no will, but she resisted everything the Sect stood for while she was alive.
I want to scream at my mother, calling her out for being too weak to stand up to her bully of a husband.
But most of all, I blame myself for letting it happen. I was too wrapped up in my own grief and pain to speak up for the one person who believed in me against all odds and raised me as hers. While I was huddled away, selfishly licking my wounds, these crazy people had overridden Nan’s final wishes.
Beyond her wishes to be cremated, which they had at least carried out, according to Twiggy, everything else was done the way Father wanted it.
Finally locating a bench near the back, I ignore the way my skin crawls and grab Twiggy’s hand for support.
Being the Sect master, my father, of course, officiates. He goes to the podium, staring straight at me, and starts with the major tenet of the Harmonial Creed. Those words I seem to have forgotten come surging back to me now.“The path to purity is narrow…”
The congregants answer,“...and the allure of wealth nurtures the seeds of sin.”
I feel the walls close in on me then, with the whispered entreaties. Each strained breath I take is like a battle against the awful memories. The anguish of the past is a haunting reminder of a time when I dared to defy the rules that governed our Sect and the scars of how I paid dearly for that defiance.