Trapped by The Mouse
See that girl, eighth row back, on the left?
Yeah, the blonde in couture with Chanel boots…
Oh wait, you can’t see the boots…
Because I’m squooshed in coach.
Surely Satan has made ice water.
But I digress.
That’s me, Sabrina Trapp… in coach, in case I failed to mention.
And I’m running away from home.
Give that a minute. Let it really sink in.
Here I sit, in coach, waiting for these people to get boarded so we can take off. And I need this flight to take off. Mostly so I don’t change my mind.
No. I’m not fifteen.
I’m forty-three… But I don’t look it!
And yes, forty-three-year-olds can run away from home, too!
Why don’t we start at the beginning…Well no, we don’t need to go that far back.
We could go twenty years back because that’s when I signed my indentured servitude agreement. Although you all would probably call it a marriage certificate, but tomato-tomahto.
Let’s just go back about sex hours... six!
To the moment I found my husband…No, on second thought, let’s go back the twenty years first.
I really want to set the scene for you.
Twenty years ago next month, I married one Charles Xavier Trapp. It was the most glamorous wedding Manhattan had ever seen. They still talk about it to this day. I’ll be online scrolling the feed and there I am in my gown, a gown designed by the Emanuel Salon.
I was a gorgeous bride.
Maybe not happy, but I was beautiful!
If I’m entirely honest with you…And I feel that I can be totally honest with you.
I’m not running away from that marriage, or Charles. Although, I don’t think I’d miss either. But truthfully, it’s my mother.
Okay, it’s a little the marriage, too, but mostly, it’s my mother.
My mother is Felicity DuPont, and she practically rules New York society. Twenty years ago her daughter was marrying the catch of the decade. Charles comes from old money and he was already making headlines in his own right at the time.
He still had all his own hair back then, too.
He wasn’t bad looking.
But I digress, again.
My mother would never allow her daughter’s wedding to be anything less than the wedding of the decade, possibly the century.
Charles was thirty-seven. I was twenty-three. I wasn’t really given a choice in the matter. When you’re the only daughter of Felicity DuPont, you do as you're told, mostly. So for the past nearly twenty years, I’ve followed in Felicity’s dainty little shoe prints and lived the life of a perfect New York socialite.
And you probably think you know what that means, but you have no idea.
And stop judging me.
I get that enough.
This here needs to be a judgment free zone.
I’ve run charities, chaired auctions, ran the social media for my family’s foundation, hosted benefits, and of course, most of all, I took care of Charles.
I threw his dinner parties, I talked to the wives, I kept the secrets, I also ran eight homes.
Sure, I’m spoiled, but I worked my ass off to do everything right.
By the book.
I almost have an art history degree from Cambridge, but I don’t work. I support him.I know everyone’s secrets, but I don’t tell a damn one of them. I look the other way.
I raise more money for assorted charities in a season than most people make in a decade.
Oh, and the best part?
I let men that Charles did business with touch my ass, occasionally a breast, and I giggle in return rather than slap their jaws crooked.
You may ask why, but don’t waste your time, I’ll tell you.
You see, Charles thought it kept his prey off balance. He wanted them to be so jealous of him, that they’d give him anything he wanted, just to be in his world for a moment.
Sure, that meant he’d wine and dine them, have them out on the yacht, have them out to the Hamptons for the weekends. But the coup de grâce, to be crass, was he wanted them to think of fucking me, of what it would be like.
He wanted them so hard with thoughts of me, that they’d make mistakes.
That was our deal, or his deal with my mother. I was young, stupid, and I did what I always do… as I’m told.
So for nearly twenty years, I’ve been everything he wanted me to be.
No matter what it took.
I’ve had surgeries, altered my body for him. My boobs, my nose…
Oh wait…The nose job was for my mother.
Still, I’ve had my eyes tweaked, botox, lipo, hair extensions, lip injections. I spend more time in the gym than a professional athlete. All so I don’t look a day over 25.
Don’t feel sorry for me.
I don’t deserve it, or need it.
I made my choices.
And I’ve gotten a lot in return. I’m gorgeous. I did mention that I don’t look a day over twenty five, right? That’s a currency in a way. Plus, between Charles and Felicity, I have a lot of power. I’ve traveled the world, been in the company of the richest most powerful people on the planet. That has to be worth anything I traded for it.
Sure, I’ve felt trapped in my life for a million different reasons, but I’ve also had a very privileged existence, and I won’t have anyone feeling sorry for me … just in case you were.
I’ve just got to figure some things out, and for that, I need space.
Mostly space from my mother.
It won’t be Charles that comes looking for me, it’ll be her. And when she does, I intend to be ready with some demands of my own.
I just have to figure out what they are.
Sure, I could cry, but I won’t.
My mother taught me from the time I was four years old to hide my feelings.
You can’t get emotional over stuff, Sabrina.
She used to say it all the time.
She’d say life is harder for people than you’ll ever know, so you have nothing to cry over.
So I don’t cry and I don’t take pity.
I’ll just sit here staring over the tarmac, pretending to be braver than I feel right now. Because despite everything I’ve said so far, I am scared.
I’m scared because in the deepest recesses of my heart, I already know I don’t want to go back.
And I know I don’t have a choice.I have nowhere else to go. I don’t know any other life than this. So even as I’m making my dramatic statement in running away, I know I’ll have to go back. It’s only a matter of time.
Plus, Charles froze all my accounts, and you can’t get too far without money.
Honestly, Charles and I don’t have the kind of marriage you walk away from, and I know that. I just needed to get out of the city. Thank God I’d been to the bank this morning before… For now, maybe I can breathe a little and maybe that will be enough.
Can I tell you something though?
I mean tell you something crazy?
What makes me the most miserable in my existence, is that all my life… I mean all my life, something inside me believed that fairytales were real. Maybe even that true love exists.
I remember my dad ... he was awesome. At Christmas, we used to take these walks past all the shop windows, all lit up and he’d say to me, Christmas has its own kind of magic. Anything can happen. And I believed him.
Sure, it’s October right now, but come on, Christmas starts in July these days. Maybe I can find some Christmas magic, and maybe it’ll give me what I’ve always wanted.
A happily ever after.
I know. It’s dumb. Who gets happily ever after?
No one. That’s who.
Still… just once, I want to be kissed by someone who loves me.
Hell, I want to be fucked by someone who loves me, but I’ll settle for the kiss.
Trapped by the Mouse is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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