CHAPTER 7: MAKE THINGS OFFICIAL

Emma's POV

The next day passed under strange, suffocating quiet. Emma had never known their house to be this silent. It was like a pending doom hung over everyone's head and everyone seemed to be expecting the worse. 

She tried to forget about it all by drowning herself in small house chores. 

By evening, she had already made peace with the painful truth. She had to collaborate and make this marriage happen. 

So when the now familiar black limousine came to pick them up, she was all ready, dressed beautifully in a soft cream dress, her hair pulled back neatly at the nape of her neck. 

When the chauffeur finally dropped them at the Golden Hawk Private Resort, it was already dark.

After a brief welcome and introduction, everyone sat down at a long dinner table.

Around the table sat several elegantly dressed guests, all part of Montero's family. Far away from the center of the room, servants stood close to the wall with white towels in hand. Under a glittering gold chandelier, silverware clinked, wine poured and laughter filled the air. But Emma didn't share in their joy. She sat between her parents and had barely touched her food. She had always hated the fake politeness and constant struggle by such people to be seen, to be considered classy. To her, certain smiles appeared plastic and that disgusted her.

And now one such a person was sitting directly across her. She was Mr. Rowland's cousin Clara. She was beautiful in a venomous way: perfect red lips, sharp brows, a shimmering dress that screamed 'money' and such a thin frame one would think she doesn't eat.

"So," the woman said as she helped herself to more salad, "I hear our bride to be has dreams...what was it again? Singing?"

"Writing, I think," a man in a white tuxedo said from across the table.

"Oh dear!" Clara's eyebrows twitched and her face turned gloomy, like she had heard Emma had cancer. "Writing? That's even worse."

"No, it's art." Emma said firmly. "I want to be an artist."

Clara's laughter sliced through the air. "An artist? Oh Darling, isn't that adorable? While others build empires and defend fortunes, you want to play with crayons."

The table erupted in laughter. Her father looked down, shame written all over his face. He cleared his throat loudly and cracked a dry smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Emma shifted in her seat. "Well, I don't expect people with no talent to understand." 

This comment seemed to catch everyone off guard. A few exchanged bewildered glances. Someone stopped talking mid-sentence and Clara had such look of shock on her face it felt oddly satisfying for Emma to watch.

"You think you have talent?" The deep voice came unexpected and heads turned towards Mr. Rowland who had barely said anything that evening.

"Yes," Emma answered proudly, "I was accepted by Crestfield Academy. I just received their admission email yesterday."

This new development dropped like a bomb and the room fell into total silence. 

Crestfield?

Even Clara stopped smiling.

"Is this true, Mr.Galavan?" An old woman seated to Rowland's right asked. Her face lit up with a warm smile, "Is my grandson going to marry the next Nolito?" 

"Oh Please!" Clara interjected. "Have some respect for a legendary painter like Nolito."

"Yeah, I think grandma has had enough wine for the night." That comment came from Sabrina, Clara's best friend who always managed to push herself near Mr. Rowland every chance she got.

"Is this true, Mr. Galavan? Crestfield, I mean." It was Mr. Rowland himself who asked this time. His eyes remained pinned on Emma.

Emma's father shifted in his seat.

"Well...she claims so, but I would be lying if I said I saw any acceptance letter."

"Actually..." Emma began.

Her father tapped her under the table.

But Emma didn't back down. "Daddy, you know..."

That was when his hand came down on the table. 

"Enough of this nonsense!" He slammed the table. "You will not embarrass me any further infront of our benefactors. I don't want to hear another word from you on this foolish art subject." 

Clara beamed. "See, even your father thinks your dream is laughable...foolish he says."

The jab landed like a punch to her belly.

But her father's words held her tighter by the throat than Clara's could ever do.

'He thinks of my dreams as foolishness.'

She glanced at the head of the table, Mr. Rowland sat poised, just watching it all play out. He had neither laughed nor defended her. He sat there silently swirling his wine with his yes fixed on her. 

Emma shot up and began hurrying to leave the dinning room.

"How rude!" Clara rolled her eyes.

"If she walks out on this respectable people who have sacrificed their time to dine with us this evening..." Mr. Rowland began to say and Emma stopped.

"Then consider our arrangement null," he stared at Emma's father, eyes cold and grave, "I shall not tolerate this kind of behavior."

A chair dragged against the floor, Emma's mother walked over to her. 

She placed a hand over her shoulder, "Please, come and sit down, dear. Think about all we talked about." 

Other than her whisper, and the clinking of cutlery, the room was quiet and the air thick with tension.

"Come, daughter," she pulled Emma gently by the arm and the two walked back to their seat.

The rest of the evening passed in quiet tension. Rowland Montero's grandmother asked Emma many questions about her life and was a bit kinder than the others. 

Dinner ended and everyone left for private loungue, but Emma remained seated for a while. Clara's laughter still echoed in her ears and she felt picked on, and too ashamed to join them in the lounge. 

When she finally stood, she walked out a door that opened towards the outdoor terrace instead.

As Emma turned a sharp corner, quickly trying to avoid being seen by people inside the lounge, she bumped into someone.

"Oh!" She said and looked up.

"Going somewhere?" It was Rowland Montero.

"I...I just need some fresh air," she whispered.

He stared silently into her eyes for a while and Emma looked down involuntarily.

"We talked." He said. "Your father and I. I understand there is some trouble with Rocko Bank?"

Emma didn't answer, but kept avoiding his eyes though.

"No need to worry. I'll sort that out. But you need to stop giving your father a hard time, or do you want your family on the streets?"

When Emma didn't answer, Rowland said, "That's a question."

Emma hesitated then said, "No."

"Good. So then tomorrow morning we make things official between us," he said.

She nodded. 

It was all she could do.

There was nothing left to say, and no space left to run.