Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 81589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 408(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 408(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
“Thank you, I chose this dress because I thought you would like it.”
An outright fucking lie since my mother chose the almost indecently short red A-line dress with cap sleeves and a low-cut neckline. I prefer my slacks and silk blouse combo when I need to dress up. Not Marco, he likes his girls leggy, and since my five foot three frame didn’t lean toward leggy, my mother opted to show as much of my legs as possible and hope for the best.
As I sit here awaiting my fate, I feel like a head of cattle at auction. Any minute now, he will pin a tag to my ear and haul me off to the slaughterhouse. The thought makes me laugh, but I hide it behind my hand as I return to my dinner.
Marco clears his throat and continues to draw my parents into conversation. It’s hopeless, but I like to watch him flounder.
“How are the wedding preparations going? Is there anything I can help with?”
An actual conversation at dinner is a battle twenty years in the making for me. My parents don’t speak to each other unless absolutely necessary, and even then, it’s always to the point. There is no joy, no love, or happiness. Everything is stiff and cold. A family that is anything but a family.
Nevertheless, my mother has no problem speaking to Marco. “The planning is complete, my dear. As long as you two show up at the church on time, everything will be perfect.”
My mother plans parties like the CIA plans covert missions. By the end of the thing, someone’s likely eviscerated, and everyone wonders how it got pulled off. I knew my wedding day would be the same. Sadly, I wasn’t asked to pick flowers or even the cake. My mother did everything, even though it was my wedding. I try not to be bitter about it since, technically, this isn’t a marriage, but a business transaction. It’s easier to stomach if I think of it that way.
Marco reaches out and takes my hand from my wine glass, cupping it in his like a parent might hold a child’s. He gives the room a shining smile, and I want to puke. “I’m so glad you ladies have everything in order. I know my mother has been up to her ears in decorating the home we’ll move into once we are married.”
I fight with the urge to rip my hand from his. Each of his clammy fingers digs into mine, applying pressure, and laying claim. Why he feels the need to do so here with only my parents watching, I can’t figure out.
I lift my chin and look up at him again. Oh. The pressure of his claim is for me. I was hoping, once we married, we might be friends. That I could go about my business, and he his, and that we would meet up for dinner on occasion. Sure, he’d have other lovers, something I wouldn’t be allowed, but we’d be on the same page. It would be more of a partnership than a decree.
But I can see by the look in his eyes, he won’t be happy until he has my complete submission—my money, my family name, my life as his own.
A tiny thing inside of me dies because, for the very first time since my sister’s death, I can see a glimmer of why she did it. Why she’d take her own life when she always had so much to live for. It wasn’t Marco they had betrothed her to, but his older brother, Antonio. Who walked away completely unaffected and was now engaged to the only Marino daughter. At this rate, the five families risked more cross-breeding than the royal families of Europe.
Marco stands abruptly and buttons his black suit jacket with a smirk. He saunters to the bar on the far side of the dining room like he already owns the place. I drop my gaze to my food once more. I should eat more, but I can’t stomach it right now. A moment passes, and he returns to his seat, grabbing my hand and pressing my fingers around an old-fashioned. I try not to cringe. I fucking hate rye whiskey.
Something he should know by now, since I declined his offer to make a drink for me when he first arrived. Not to mention I’ve told him at least three times since our marriage contract negotiations began. I’d much rather toss the drink in his face and retreat to my room, but that’s not an option. I don’t want to risk another scolding from my mother or a beating from my father, so I lift the drink to my lips and take a sip. I try to hide the sour face I’m making with a smile, but I can’t imagine it looks good.