You're Invited

by Amanda Jayatissa

We aren’t supposed to even speak to boys, or look them in the eye, or ever talk for ourselves.

Anyone can be independent if they have enough money in the bank. If they are from upper-class Colombo with plenty of connections and a foreign university degree. I’m not being bitter, I promise. I just think it’s not fair that she’s had it so much easier than everyone else.

She loved lording over me like some pure, virginal princess. I had no idea they were even together until Spencer told me. He’d become, well, I guess you can say he’d become a friend of the family by then.

Hell, I was furious. My dad drops all this cash on a wedding for her, and she doesn’t even have the decency to stay? Thankfully, the guests were mostly my father’s friends, and they barely noticed she was gone. I stayed instead, thanking everyone for coming and playing host. I was exhausted at the end of it.

But he’s pretty much run Fonseka Jewellers into the ground. My poor grandad would turn in his grave . . . but here we are—booking out the entire fucking Mount Lavinia Hotel, paying

“If you think you can coerce me into a goddamned marriage by holding my reputation hostage, Spencer, you are far stupider than I thought. This is Colombo, remember; this is my town. Would it cause a scandal? Sure. But a few months and a few large donations to various charities, and maybe a huge party, is all I need to make everyone forget. No. This bullshit ends now. I want you gone by tomorrow.”

“Now you listen.” His voice was evil, but his face was the picture of a pleasant, devoted fiancé. What a fucking sociopath. “You will marry me, like we planned. You will forgive me for hiding a few details of my past. Your father accepted my reasons, and they should be enough for you.”

“This won’t fly, Spencer, you know that, don’t you? This is Colombo, not the US. We have connections here. Hell, we’re fucking royalty here. You think that you, a nobody who’s not even from here, can just waltz in and threaten us? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“I swear! Why the fuck—” She gave me a glare. “Why on earth,” I adjusted, “would I agree to marry someone from a background like that? It’s clear now that he’s using me for my money. For our money. There’s no way he could live a life like this in the US.”

Why was it so wrong that I tried to seek out a trophy husband? The only difference was that my golden trophy turned out to be cheap old brass underneath his glossy exterior, and actually had the audacity to blackmail me.

Seriously, everyone thought this shit was real. My makeup routine is three different types of foundation and fifteen minutes on the Facetune app, bitches. Calm the fuck down.

I’ve committed to flawless hair and pristine skin and an even squeakier-clean reputation. People look at me and wish they were me. If you think, even for a moment, that doesn’t take lifelong commitment, well, why don’t you give it a try and see how it works out for you?

was just window dressing. A decorative element in a society that places far more value on how things look rather than how they make you feel. No one cares if you’re married happily, after all, just that you have a husband.

Everyone loves him. I could see it from half a world away. If I showed up here, screaming that he was some sort of pedophile, I’d have just been the crazy ex‑girlfriend who wanted to ruin this perfect wedding. Don’t tell me you didn’t think that to begin with.