Famously Anonymous

Your father, as good a man as he is working for the York family, has a gambling problem and Dave took advantage of that. Deciding to offer to pay off your father's debts in exchange for you. It took some convincing, the man pretending to be hesitant in essentially selling his daughter, but he agreed after some persuasion. Now, here you are and Dave is ready to take what is his. "Hello sweetheart." Dave smiles, wanting you to relax a little. No one likes a stiff broad. 

"Mr. York." You almost whisper, certain that you are here because you did something wrong. Working in one of the York casinos was always risky - you never knew who would react badly to a loss - but you don't think you have done anything wrong, at least not to be fired or killed.

Your father looks stiff beside you, never explaining why you need to come with him to his meeting with his boss. You had just been told to get dressed in the outfit he had tossed you and make sure you wore minimal makeup. Apparently Mr. York had strict rules about the women who were allowed in the meetings with him if the modest white dress was anything to judge by. Nervous, you wonder why you are here, wracking your brain to try to think of what you had done that could have drawn the man’s attention.

Dave steps towards you, reaching out to grip your chin so he can look into your pretty eyes. "Did your daddy tell you why you are here, sweetheart?" He asks and you can't shake your head so you whisper, "no." Dave tuts, looking over at the older man who is sheepish. 

"I'm sorry sir, I thought it would be better coming from you." 

Coward, Dave thinks, but he doesn't care. He knows what he wants and he will do what it takes to get it. "Your daddy has allowed me the honor of marrying you. You're going to be my wife."

“What - no.” You want to shake your head again, but you don’t. “I- I don’t know you, not personally. You don't want to marry me, we aren’t - what about love?” Your eyes seek out your father, praying that this is some kind of trick. A joke between the men or perhaps a bet on how you would react. Your father would gamble on anything so you don’t put it past him. “I- I promised myself I would only sleep with the man that I love after we get married.”

Dave wants to scoff. What a juvenile concept: love. As far as he is concerned, it doesn't exist. People marry for convenience. People marry for money. People marry to fuck. He doesn't believe in love. His parents married to bring two mafia families together. An arrangement. He needs you to be on board. He's not a monster, he won't force you. He caresses your cheek, letting go of your chin, "that's why I want you. You are perfect. Pure enough to give birth to my heir. I want a child...children. You are the woman I want." He knows he has to entertain you if you are to agree. "Love...comes later." He nearly spits the word but he forces himself to practically coo it.

You aren’t naive, you know that there is something else going on. Dave York didn’t just decide that you are the woman he wants as his wife one day. Not when women throw themselves at him. “What else is going on?” You demand, looking over at your father who looks guilty. “What did you do?”

Before your father answers, Dave speaks. "Your father is a very lucky man. I have decided to pay off his...extortionate gambling debt in exchange for you. He agreed and I expect you will be resentful of me but I do plan to look after you. You will want for nothing. Whatever you desire, it will be yours. As long as you do as I say, you can have the world."

Jesus, you’ve been sold. Your eyes widen in horror and you almost start to cry. You have no choice in this, you are marrying Dave York whether you like it or not. “Dad….” You whimper and your father winces. 

“He promises he will take care of you.” Your dad assures you. “He is a man of his word.”

Dave sighs softly, stepping away from you to give you a moment to process and he knows this must be a lot to process. He is a monster but not that kind of monster. "The wedding has been scheduled for next month. I organized a wedding planner. You can pick whatever you want, cost is of no consequence. Pick whatever dress you want. It is your day and, despite what you might think, I want you to be happy." Dave offers, not liking the tears in your eyes. He shakes that thought away, knowing that softness is not a good thing. You will be his but he can never be yours. Not truly.

Feeling numb, you merely nod your heat meekly, looking down at the ground. “I don’t want much.” You murmur, knowing that you won’t have a wedding with a man you love. You won’t be an excited, exuberant bride like you had imagined when you were a little girl. “I will make sure that it’s worthy of you.” You add, knowing that he is an important man, and people will expect a certain level of sophistication.

Dave knows this is going to be difficult, trying to get you on side, but he will do it. He has to win you over to ensure you have his child. You’re the perfect candidate to be the mother of his child. “I will have my men go to your home to gather your things. You’re coming home with me now. Say goodbye to your father. You will see him soon.” Dave promises, wanting you to know you’re not his prisoner.

You turn to your father, angry and hurt that he would sell you to pay his debts. He has always been reckless, but this is over the top. However, he’s your father, your only living parent left. “Goodbye, I’ll see you soon.” You offer woodenly, only hugging him when he pulls you into his arms for a hug.

Dave watches the exchange, knowing your father feels guilty but the money...he owed a million dollars. He was gonna be killed if he didn't pay it off. Dave waits until you step back before he offers his hand. "Come on sweetheart, let's take you home." He can't wait for you to see the room he has set up for you. He knows you wouldn't want to sleep in the same bed as him right away until you adjust.

You bite your lip as you take his hand, allowing him to lead you from the hotel room where you had met him. “Why did we meet in a hotel room?” You ask curiously, wondering if he conducted all his business in the hotel or if it had been for some other reason.

Dave sighs again under his breath. The truth is that he had a woman in the hotel room. One of the women he fucks around with on a regular basis. All of them know the arrangement - it’s just sex. Dave York doesn’t do emotions and if they got a new purse out of it, they are happy. However, that’s all over now. He will have to be more discreet if he fucks around. He doesn’t need you hearing about it. “I had a meeting. Wanted privacy.” He answers smoothly, hoping you don’t notice the wrinkled sheets despite him having the room made up after his escapade. “Don’t worry about that now, let’s get you settled.” He insists, guiding you out of the room and away from your waste of space father.

You sigh, knowing that he’s lying and he won’t tell you the truth. You had noticed the bed was mused and he obviously had been fucking someone in the room before you had arrived. Probably the woman who had been waiting for the elevator when you arrived on this floor. Your stomach flips, unhappy with the idea of your husband sleeping with other people, although you know that you won’t have a say in what he does. He owns you. You will just have to continuously get tested to make sure he doesn’t give you something. You don’t want to hurt any potential children you have. Instead of saying anything, you just bite your lip and watch your feet as he leads you down the hall to the elevators, trying to figure out how to handle this.

Dave sees his men trail behind and he gets into the elevator with you, just you. They will take the other one. “I know this is a lot to take in but we will have a fulfilled life together. You can have whatever you want. Jewelry. Purses. Clothes. Shoes. Cars. Whatever your heart desires.” He promises and you let go of his hand, swallowing harshly as tears sting in your eyes. 

“My heart wants love.” You choke, a tear escaping as reality hits. 

Dave steps towards you, reaching up to gently wipe the tear away. “Don’t be a silly girl. Love…it’s just what people say to each other when they want to fuck. Have you ever been in love?” He asks and you shake your head. “Exactly. How do you know it’s what you want?”

You blow out a sigh, knowing that he won't understand. "I want to be with someone because I cannot bear to be away from them, not because they can buy me jewelry and purses. Just like I want them to only want to be in my bed and not have liaisons in hotels with whatever woman they fancy." You murmur, batting his hand away so you can wipe away your own tears. "I want laughter and happiness. Jokes and dancing in the kitchen. I want butterflies when he kisses me. For him to be able to come to me for comfort when he's upset or stressed."

Dave pauses, realizing he has never seen that kind of companionship. His parents were very cold towards each other. Civil but practically lived separate lives. His mother raised him and served on several charity boards while his father ran the family business, being kept away at all hours. “Sounds like a Disney movie. It’s time to grow up. Face reality. This is real life, sweetheart and you’ll realize that sooner or later, all that shit is just a dream.” He’s harsh but you are pissing him off. He’s offered you things that most women would be humping his leg for and you want things he can’t buy you. Things that, quite frankly, don’t exist. The elevator doors open and he wraps his arm around your waist. “Chin up. Don’t want people to see you’ve been crying.” He orders quietly, guiding you through the lobby to his awaiting car.

You realize that this is your life. You can either make the best of it, or you can wallow in misery. Wallowing can be saved for when eyes aren't on you. You lift your head and lean into his side as if you want to be there when the doors open, plastering a brilliant smile on your face. As if you were the luckiest woman on earth for what is happening. Some might think that you were, but you don't.

Dave smiles at a few of the staff who greet their boss, and he guides you towards his awaiting car. The driver opens the door of the town car and he helps you into the backseat before sliding in beside you. The door shuts as his driver and guard get into the front seat and he looks at you. Christ, you're gorgeous, even when you've been crying, and he swears he will do what he can to make you happy. Within reason. Dave doesn't do emotions.

You don't remember most of the car ride, looking out at the world as it passes by. Once in the car you feel his eyes on you, but you don't acknowledge it, knowing that he would talk if he wanted. It wasn't as if Dave York needed permission to do anything. If anything, you needed permission. Since you were technically his property, bought with the sum of your father's gambling debt. Soon enough, you are pausing at a large set of gates and they swing open ominously, the walled estate of his is now your prison.

Once the car comes to a stop outside of the main building, Dave exits the car and holds his hand out. You ignore it, helping yourself out of the car and he swallows down the urge to roll his eyes at your childish move. He plasters a smile on his face, guiding you into the house and his housekeeper. Mrs. Jenkins is waiting for your arrival. "Welcome home sir." She greets Dave. "Sweetheart, this is Mrs. Jenkins, my housekeeper. She is going to show you to your temporary room. I have some work to attend to so I will see you for dinner." He kisses your cheek and walks off, knowing that this transactional engagement doesn't require all of his time.

“Hello.” You offer, nodding politely at the housekeeper, she looks like she is a nice lady. She’s not in charge of Dave and can’t make him change his mind, so there is no reason to be rude to her. “I apologize for any inconvenience I’ve caused.” You offer. “I will try not to be too much trouble.” As much as you hate that this is happening, you wish Dave had stayed so you at least could have a familiar face. 

Mrs. Jenkins tuts, "trouble? None at all. You are going to be the lady of the house. Come on honey, let me show you to your room." She gestures to the hallway. "And you can tell me what foods you like and what time you eat breakfast. I want to prepare something special to celebrate you being here. It's about time we had a woman in the house."

“Oh.” You brighten up and bite your lip. “I like making french toast.” You admit, knowing that it takes awhile for the custard casserole that you make to set up. “Would it be…okay if I used the kitchen sometime?” You ask. “I love to cook and perhaps there can be a night where I cook for the staff instead of them taking care of us.” 

Mrs. Jenkins smiles, already liking you. “You don’t have to do that. We are here to look after you and Mr. York. Please, you can use the kitchen whenever you wish. This is your home now. Whenever you need something, you tell us and we can get it for you. I will have the chef make you French toast for breakfast tomorrow.” She declares as she opens the door to the biggest guest room of them all, already set up with your things since Dave had his men get it all from your home.

“Wow.” You gasp breathlessly, looking around the ornate room. Your things look out of place, as if they don’t belong, but you had not lived in opulence. Your father’s house was modest and you hadn’t been concerned with having the best of everything. “It’s beautiful.” You look over at the housekeeper, knowing she had set everything up. “Thank you so very much for arranging everything.”

She smiles, pleased you are happy. She has missed having someone else in the house. Dave tends to keep to himself and she wants children to run around after and assist with so she’s eager. “I hope you’re happy here.” She pats you on the shoulder. “Dinner will be ready at 6pm.” She announces, “I will leave you to settle in.” She steps back out of the room, leaving you as she shuts the door.

You look around the room and sigh. It’s a beautiful gilded cage, meant to distract you from the fact that you have been bought by a man who doesn’t love you. He bought you because you are a virgin, untouched by anyone else. Sighing, you walk over to the book shelf that was loaded down with your favorite books and pick up one of the sweetest romances you had been reading. Maybe there was some way to find a way out of this. Before you were married. 

Dave walks into the kitchen, his suit jacket and tie abandoned and his sleeves rolled up. His home has a big dining room but he hates eating in there unless he has a party. It’s too big and he feels stupid. When you come into the kitchen after Mrs. Jenkins went off to get you, Dave is once again taken back by how pretty you are, even as you glare at him. “Glass of wine?” He asks, reaching for the bottle of red he had the cook air earlier.

“Why do you want me?” You demand, ignoring his question in favor of one of your own. “Is it just because no man has touched me? That’s the requirement to carry Dave York’s heir?” You ask sarcastically. “Why not use one of the women that fall into your bed?”

He bites his lip, keeping his eyes on yours. “I want you because you…you are gorgeous. I know you’d be a good mother. You aren’t greedy or flashy. You aren’t desperate for wealth and you don’t want to show off. You want to live a simple life and be happy. The fact that you’re a virgin…it’s what I have always wanted. Someone pure since I’m…I’m not. In any way shape or form. I picked you because you’re perfect.” He answers, hoping you will accept his response and he pours you a glass of wine.

You take the glass and nod. “I’m not perfect.” You correct him. “Far from it. But I know that I am what you want because I am pure.” You take a sip of the wine. “Does that mean that you won’t want me once I’m not pure?”

Dave shakes his head. “No. I want the mother of my children to only have my cock inside of her, filling her up, impregnating her.” He says it nonchalantly but his cock twitches at the mere idea of you being the mother of his children, cumming on his cock and no one else’s.

You snort and send him a narrowed eyed look. “While you are trying to impregnate me, you won’t be sleeping with your floozies.” You tell him. “I’m not catching something that I pass to the children.”

Dave clenches his jaw, the retort that threatens to spill over his lips nearly escapes but he stops himself, offering you a soft smile instead. He has to pick and choose his battles and you just said you’d let him knock you up. “Of course sweetheart. Just you. Until you’re pregnant.” He promises, offering a compromise and the guard brings over the large velvet box. “What is that?” You narrow your eyes. “You get to pick your engagement ring.” He declares, opening the box to display the five ornate rings.

Your eyes widen at the size of the rings. “I- they are too big.” You tell him, sure that you would never wear something so big and ornate. “I - is there something simpler to wear? I would never wear these beyond events you want me to attend.”

Dave sighs, knowing that most women would kill to be given one of these rings, let alone be allowed to pick one. He does know of a ring that is simpler, but he didn’t think you’d want it. “I do have one. I- it’s my mother’s ring. Wait here.” He stands up, making his way to his office and the safe, quickly opening it to grab the small velvet box and he returns with it, sitting down then opening the box to show you the simpler ring.

“Oh.” You sigh softly and your eyes go slightly dreamy at the simple ring. The diamond is still bigger than you would like, but it’s a solitaire with a thin band. “It’s beautiful.” You reach for it and hesitate, looking at Dave for permission. “May I try it on?”

Dave nods, taking it out of the box, and he can’t stop himself from staring at your dreamy eyes as he slides the ring onto your finger. It’s a perfect fit. He inhales sharply, admiring how the ring looks on your hand, his hand still holding yours as he cradles your fingers.

Dave realizes that all the money he has could never replace this ring and he hopes you care for it. It looks perfect on your finger and he swallows harshly, knowing his mother would’ve loved you already. “It’s yours now.” He rubs his thumb over the ring before he lets go of your hand, just in time because the cook sets the dinner down in front of you. He snaps the other box shut, he will have someone return those rings tomorrow.

You feel weird with the weight of the ring on your hand. Unable to keep from glancing down at your hand continuously as you pick up your fork and knife. “Dinner looks delicious.” You comment. “I’ve asked if I could perhaps cook sometime.”

Dave is shocked. The kitchen hasn’t been cooked in by anyone other than a chef since his mother died. “Uh yeah. You can. Of course you can. You cook?” He asks, cutting into his food and he is pleasantly surprised. Yet another reason why you are perfect for this position.

“I do.” You nod quickly. “I normally cooked for me and my dad.” You tell him, cutting into your own food. “I love to experiment with new dishes. Love to bake. I routinely bring in cookies or cakes to the others when I work - oh, does that mean that I am not working anymore?”

Dave immediately wants to say no to you working but he can’t take your entire life away from you. He can keep an eye on you at work and he can let you have some freedom. “Until we are married. You can continue working until we are married.” He compromises.

“Good.” You are relieved at that, giving him a genuine smile and you reach over to touch his arm without thinking about it. “I am glad that I can keep working, I want to be able to say goodbye to the friends that I work with.”

“I will have a guard keeping an eye on you though. I’m a powerful man, sweetheart. I have enemies. I don’t want you to get hurt because of me so a guard will always be near you while you work.” He adds, cutting into the chicken before taking a bite.

You grit your teeth, hating the fact that you will have someone watching you at all times. However, he could have just told you that you wouldn’t be able to work at all, so you will take the win where you can get it. “As long as they don’t interfere with me working, we will be okay.”

“They will just be watching you…unless they need to intervene. You’re going to be Mrs. York. You’ll be the wealthiest woman in this cesspool of a town. Those asshole politicians think they run shit but they don’t. I do. And you will be beside me, my beautiful wife. I will have the wedding planner come tomorrow so you can start telling her what you want.”

You nod, wondering what he would want for the wedding. “Is there anything in particular you want?” You ask him, wanting to know more. You just know Dave York, the boss. But he’s going to be your husband and you want to know him as the man.

He thinks about it for a moment, remembering the photos from his parent's wedding. "I want red roses. Lots of them. Everywhere. Money is no object." He tells you, and you nod, "why red roses?" He smiles, setting his knife and fork down since he has finished eating. "They are beautiful but have thorns that can hurt, make you bleed. They are the best of us both. You, sweetheart, are the rose. I am the thorns."

You lift your brows at the surprising sentimental viewpoint. Nodding again, you give a wistful smile. “That will be the flowers for the wedding then.” You decide. “Blood red roses and white baby’s breath.” It would look striking of course, classic. The comment that he had made gave you a small amount of hope that he might be a secret romantic. You smile at Dave again, your eyes softer.

Dave hums with agreement, your soft smile making his stomach twist and he forces himself to ignore it, reminded once more of what connections can do. He has to keep his distance. Mrs. Jenkins gathers your plates once you've finished eating and brings in the dessert. "I thought you might like something special since it's the night of our engagement." He hadn't even asked you but he wants you to think he somewhat cares for you. You won't be open to having him inside of you without him being nice somehow. He hopes you like the delicate cake he had asked the chef to prepare. His favorite...raspberry and vanilla.

“Oh thank you.” You bite your lip and look down at the cake that is brought out. It’s beautiful and it looks delicious. Except…you won’t eat it. It looks like it has raspberries and you are allergic to them. “It looks beautiful. Is this your favorite?”

Dave nods, eagerly digging into the cake and you hesitant, not picking up your fork. "Is something wrong?" He asks and you bite your lip, nervous to say anything. 

"It has raspberries and I'm allergic." You declare and Dave immediately regrets not asking you if you had any allergies. He should know this stuff. 

"I'm sorry sweetheart. I didn't know." He stands up, taking both your plate and his and walks into the kitchen. 

"Dave." You call out and he ignores you, coming back a few moments later with a plate of the chocolate cake the chef had prepared earlier alongside the raspberry one. 

"You're not allergic to chocolate, are you?" He asks hesitantly, cursing himself for not asking you beforehand. There's so much he has to learn.

You smile at the new cakes in his hand. “No, I think I would cry if I was allergic to chocolate.” You joke. Dave nods and sets down the cake in front of you and sits down. “You didn’t have to give up your own cake.” You protest softly, hating that he was giving up eating his favorite cake because of you. “I would have been fine being around it, I just can’t eat it.” 

“Oh.” He flushes slightly, realizing that he should’ve asked that first but he knows people can be allergic just from airborne particles. “It’s okay. I like chocolate too. More indulgent.” He winks at you, trying to make you as comfortable as possible and he finds it’s not as hard as he thought it was going to be. “I can eat that tomorrow. Now, eat your cake.” He orders softly.

Picking up your fork, you feel a bit more relaxed. He had shown more heart than he realized in that small little action and you feel better about this idea. You really wish that you had a choice about marrying a man you love, but maybe Dave is right, maybe love will come with time. 

Dave watches you dig in, happy you are eating the cake, and after you’ve finished, Mrs. Jenkins comes in to clear the plates. “I have emails to respond to. Get some sleep. You have a busy day tomorrow. Night sweetheart.” He says, standing up, and he drops a kiss to your forehead before he strides off, reminding himself that this is an arrangement. Nothing more.

****

Rushing around the craps table at the casino, you drop off the drinks at the blackjack table like you had been ordered to. The last few days have been a whirlwind and honestly the scheduled day of work was a nice break from picking out colors and arrangements, music and all the small details that go into a wedding. Dave hadn’t lied when he said there was no limit to what you could spend, but you were trying to go for elegance and yet have it feel like you were actually in love with your intended. Fulfilling drink orders and caring for the gamblers, even with the security that was shadowing you, was a needed change.

Dave enters the casino, deciding to visit you. He had accepted yesterday that he is looking forward to marrying you. You are smart as a whip, funny, and ridiculously sweet. Far too sweet for his murdering ass. He has learned about your interests during dinner and he plans to get you the cooking things you want but could never afford. Like a pasta maker. Who makes pasta? Apparently you do. The staff are always on edge when he enters one of his establishments and that’s just how he likes it. 

He strides over to the table you’re serving, just about to greet you when he sees the asshole put his hand on your ass. His pace quickens and he grabs his knife from his jacket, opening it and in a flash, he grabs the man’s hand from your ass and slams it on the table, his knife going through his palm within seconds. “Fuck!” The man screams. 

“You never touch her again. Otherwise the knife will be going in your fucking chest. You understand?” Dave growls. The man’s gurgled wail of pain isn’t good enough. “Do you fucking understand?” Dave hisses and the man nods, crying out in pain and he screams when Dave withdraws his knife, turning to you.

Your eyes are wide and you are stunned into silence. It was quick and brutal. You know what kind of man Dave is, you’ve heard the rumors but you’ve never witnessed anything like this. Security always drags off the people who are causing problems, but Dave had not only done this very publicly - since all eyes are on this table - but he also ruined one of his busiest tables. Your mouth drops open in shock and you look back at the man before looking back at Dave. He had just stabbed that man, for touching your ass. Granted, you didn’t want him touching you, but you don’t think the action warranted a knife through his hand. 

Dave looks at you, seeing the horror in your eyes, and part of him feels guilty you had to witness that, the other part feels happy you’re horrified. Reminds him that you could never love a monster like him. “Come on sweetheart. You’re done.” He says, grabbing your waist and guiding you towards the staff area, feeling pent up enough to fuck but he can’t.

“Wait, I have to finish working.” You tug on his hand but he ignores you, continuing on towards the doors that are clearly marked ‘Employees Only’. 

“No, you are finished.” Dave growls. “You are not working here anymore.” 

You huff and tug on his hand again. “You said I could work until we get married. I haven’t said goodbye to everyone! It will leave them short staffed.” 

“I will make sure they hire someone else. You can get your goodbyes now without going back on the floor. You are done here. No one touches what is mine. Tell me, how many fucking times does that happen?” He asks, furious that this could’ve been happening without his knowledge.

You bite your lip, looking up into his dark eyes. He’s livid and you know you shouldn’t lie to him. Right now, you see why everyone is scared of Dave York. “At- at least once a shift.” You admit softly. “Although it happens to other girls more.” You add, as if that makes it better. “We just deflect or joke around with them so that they stop trying to grope us. We have a symbol for marking the ones that are handsy in the system. Put it next to their names to let the other girls know to be on the lookout. Since the manager says that it’s a part of the job serving drinks here.” 

Dave shakes his head. He might be a murderer but he’s never been a perv. He’s pissed, shaking his head. “I am going to tell security that anyone doing that will be thrown out and banned. No one should be pulling that shit. You aren’t gonna be working here anymore sweetheart. If you want a job, I’ll find you something else. The next person that feels you up is a dead man. That fucking manager of yours is a dead man. Get your stuff, you are leaving after you say your goodbyes.”

Gathering up your things, you feel Dave’s impatient gaze on you. He’s irritated and it’s because you opened your mouth. Yes, the servers and drink runners here had continuously gone to the manager about people sexually harrassing them until the man had simply stated that it was a part of the job and if a high roller asked you for sex, to consider it a compliment - but that didn’t mean the man deserved to die. Once you have your things, you turn to him quietly and walk over to where he is standing. 

Dave is practically vibrating with anger as he guides you back into the main hall. Some brave men look around at him, others try to avoid his eye and therefore his wrath. "Say your goodbyes sweetheart." He orders, grabbing your things and handing them to his guard standing nearby. He crosses his arms, knowing that he could easily kill that motherfucking manager, but not today, he wants to take you home first. He won't allow anyone in this sewer of a town to touch what belongs to him.

You quickly say goodbye to the girls that are standing around, word going out on the floor and others rushing over to hug you. You had made a lot of friends here, some of those attending your wedding, but you wanted to say goodbye. You wish you had more time, but Dave is tapping his foot and you rush back over to him. “I’m- I’m ready.” You offer quietly,

Nodding, he reaches for you to pull you close, a protective hand around your waist, and he glares at anyone who looks his way while he guides you out of the casino and to his awaiting car. Once you're inside, he pulls out his cell and dials his right hand man, Resnik. 

"Boss?" Resnik answers immediately. 

"I want Liam Pollock in the building this evening. He's the manager for the casino on Fifth. I want to have a chat with him." Dave declares, "make it 8 o' clock. I want to be on time for dinner with my fiancé." He hangs up the phone, sliding it back into his jacket and he doesn't look at you, not wanting you to see the monster that lures in his eyes.

You bite your lip, wondering if you’ve made a mistake. Wondering if you should have lied to Dave about what was happening in his casino. Instead of dwelling on it, you decide to watch the people passing. “Since I’m off work, why don’t I fix dinner tonight?” You offer, turning to look at his side profile.

Dave is surprised that you want to cook dinner for him. “You’re not gonna poison it, are you?” He jokes, smirking at you. “If you want to work, I can find you another position in the business. Something behind the scenes. I just - I cannot have you out on the floor. I’d kill too many men.” He says without any humor, deadly serious.

Your eyes widen and you almost laugh, thinking he was serious. Until he doesn’t laugh at all. Then you choke slightly and cough. “Oh, uh, I guess whatever you want me to do.” You murmur, feeling a bit uneasy. “Do you want me working? I know that I will be worried about having my own money.”

“You don’t have to worry about money when you’re a York, sweetheart. I am having a pre-nup drawn up that you can review with your own attorney, paid for by me, picked by you, which offers you a very good alimony in case we divorce. As for while we are married? You will have your own credit cards, you could spend a million bucks and it wouldn’t make a dent.” He reveals, knowing he had to have this conversation at some point.

You shake your head. “I don’t want your money.” You insist. “I don’t have to have a lawyer read over anything. Your money is yours, I just- I can’t even imagine you allowing a divorce.” You reveal, knowing that despite what he said, once you’re married, the only way that you are leaving the family is in a casket.

Dave doesn’t argue with that. He won’t divorce, absolutely plans not to, but shit happens and who knows? He wouldn’t leave you in the lurch. Especially since you’d be the mother of his child. “The child would remain in my care, of course if we were to divorce.” He says, like it’s obvious. “You will hire an attorney of your choice and you will review the pre-nup. Then we will get married and you will give me an heir to my empire.” He declares like it’s easily done.

You bite your lip, not willing to say that you would never abandon a child that you had. “Fine.” You huff. “I will hire an attorney to go over any paperwork that you send over.” You don’t feel like he will drop this and you don’t care about money, but he seems obsessed with making sure things are settled. Maybe it was because you’ve never had money.

Dave hums with contentment, pleased that you didn’t argue. The car pulls into the estate and Dave’s door is opened. He turns to look at you before he gets out, “you are to be my wife. I won’t have anyone saying I don’t provide for you. I will give you a credit card and you will go shopping for new clothes. I want you to get whatever you want. It’s the least I can do since you are mine.” He says, getting out and buttoning his jacket as he enters his home, making his way to his office to prepare for beating your moron manager.

You don’t appreciate the way that he simply walks off from you, but you hold your tongue. Instead you walk into the kitchens and smile at the cook. “I want to give you a night off.” You tell him with a smile. “Is that alright with you?” The cook nods with a smile. 

“Of course it is. It’s your kitchen.” He tells you, although you don’t argue that you aren’t married to Dave yet.

****

Dave enters the house, the smell of whatever it is that you’re cooking hits his nose and he inhales deeply. He groans, his stomach rumbling and he walks into the kitchen. Your ex manager, Pollock, will be ensuring that no one touches anyone inappropriately in his casino and that involved teaching Pollock is a lesson. Dave usually has his men take care of such…messy interactions but this time was personal. His knuckles are bruised but he had cleaned up enough to return home to you. He walks into the kitchen after hanging up his jacket and he sees you at the stove, barefoot and wearing an apron. It’s adorable and sexy at the same time. He wants to wrap his arms around you and kiss your neck but he doesn’t. You aren’t open enough to him yet. “Something smells good.”

You turn and notice the specks of blood on his shirt and the bruises on his knuckles. You bite your lip and don’t say anything about his appearance, just turning back to the stove. “I’m making roast chicken and vegetables, mashed potatoes and gravy.” You offer him. “And I made a pudding for dessert. It’s not fancy, but it was a last minute meal.”

Dave is impressed and he walks closer to you, crossing his arms as he leans against the counter. “Sounds delicious, sweetheart. You want any help?” He offers, “maybe I can open a bottle of wine.” His eyes drift down to your ass, those leggings you changed into making his cock twitch.

“That sounds good.” You glance back over at him and your eyes drift down to his knuckles again before you stir the boiling potatoes again. “Whatever you want with the chicken. Did you kill him?” It’s the first that you’ve acknowledged his disheveled appearance and you are trying to seem nonchalant about it.

Dave chuckles, admiring how ballsy you are to ask him. He shakes his head, shifting away from the counter and he walks over to the resting chicken, grabbing the carving knife. “I didn’t kill him. He, however, won’t be allowing any handsy fuckers to touch the staff.” Dave replies just as nonchalantly.

“That’s good, the girls don’t deserve that kind of treatment.” You firmly believe that. “I believe that he would have had us sleep with the men if it meant they spent more money in the casino.” You fork up a potato and check that it’s perfectly tender, flipping off the burner and moving the pot over to the sink to drain the potatoes to mash. Watching carefully as you pour off the seasoned water and move over to the counter to start adding butter and milk and more spices to mash in with it and whip them to a creamy perfect consistency.

Dave clenches his jaw, “knew I should’ve killed the motherfucker.” He hisses under his breath, grip tightening on the knife as he cuts the chicken and puts it on the awaiting tray. He sets the knife down and walks over to you. “No one…you didn’t - no one has touched you before?” He asks, wanting to double check.

“No.” Shaking your head, you stop stirring the potatoes before you turn to him and frown. “I haven’t ever done…anything. I mean, I’ve been kissed, but nothing beyond that.” You grab the bowl to transfer the potatoes into and sigh, “I’m sure you want to have that verified by a doctor?” You ask.

Dave trusts you but he wants you checked out by a doctor for your overall health as well as your virginal status. He walks over to you, stopping you scooping the potatoes so he can grip your chin, making you look at him. “Who kissed you?” He asks, wanting to know.

Your breath catches, staring into his dark eyes and you wonder if he will try to kill the man who had kissed you. “I- it was in high school.” You admit quietly, telling him the name of one of his own men. “It never went beyond that. I swear.”

Dave hums, content that it was a while ago. No doubt that teenager had kissed you poorly. He wants to kiss you now, slide his tongue into your mouth and show you how good it can be. “I want to kiss you.” He declares, his dark eyes focused on yours, never shifting and it’s intense.

“You bought me, didn’t you?” You ask softly, knowing that he could do anything he wanted with you. The fact that he was marrying you was surprising now that you think about it. He could have just taken your innocence instead of making you the wife of the most powerful man in the city.

He shakes his head, his thumb brushing your lower lip. "I won't force you. I may be a bad man but I will never make you do anything you don't want to do. I would hope that I am not repulsive to you, that you would want me to touch you eventually. Let me kiss you, show you how good it can be." His voice lowers, his eyes focusing on your lips.

You bite your lip, watching his nostrils flare slightly in response and you swallow. Nodding, you watch his eyes meet yours again. “I- you can kiss me.” You know that you have no clue what you’re doing and perhaps when he sees how unskilled you are, he won’t want to go through with this.

Dave leans closer, his lips brushing yours until he tilts his head, kissing you properly. His hand cups your cheek, his other hand gripping your waist to pull you closer and he hopes you enjoy the kiss. He wants you to marry him, to have his child. It will make his life easier if you are on board. His tongue slides along your lower lip and you whimper when he pushes his tongue into your mouth. His stomach twists as he realizes this is the first time he has kissed since his college girlfriend. He never liked kissing his dalliances since it was too intimate but you are to be his wife so he needs to offer you some intimacy. He pulls back after a moment, pecking your lips. "Food is getting cold. Let's sit down." He says, trying to ignore his long frozen heart as he turns back to the plate of carved chicken.

You stand there for a few moments in shock. Awed at how your stomach had flipped and dipped when his mouth covered yours and his tongue caressed inside your mouth. “Yes. Dinner.” Shaking yourself out of your stupor, you dish up the gravy into a boat and rush to bring everything to the table while Dave brings the platter of chicken. Now dinner feels intimate, like you were cooking for your fiancé. Which you guess you were, his ring still on your finger.

Dave watches as you sit down after he’s taken his seat and he hates how his lips tingle from the kiss. He hasn’t had that happen before. He clears his throat and starts to serve the food, placing some chicken on your plate. The silence is heavy but not uncomfortable. “Did you get the flowers ordered?” He asks after several moments.

“I did.” You nod and spoon up some of the mashed potatoes and pass the potatoes to him. “I think we have ordered every red rose within two hundred miles.” You laugh quietly and give him a small shrug. “There will be plenty of flowers for the wedding and reception.”

"Good. I want it to be the wedding of your dreams...well almost." He adds, knowing you want the ridiculous addition of love but since when has love ever been good? Great men have failed, some died, because of love. It's insanity. "You have your appointment to go dress shopping?" He asks, "you have no budget. I want you to pick whatever you want."

You open your mouth and then close it, wondering what he would say if he knew what you really wanted. “I made an appointment, but I - I would like to see if they can alter my mother’s wedding dress. I’ve always dreamed of wearing it.” You reveal, biting your lip as you wait for his reaction. “With modifications, of course.”

He’s taken back that you want to use your mother’s gown. It’s sweet and he already knows the best tailor to send you to to have it adjusted. “Of course, sweetheart. Whatever you want. This is your wedding. Perhaps you can buy a dress for the reception?” He suggests.

You nod eagerly, happy that he would allow you to have your mother’s dress. “That would be nice. The wedding dress can just be for the ceremony and I’ll change into a party dress for the reception.” You decide, giving him a sincere smile.

“Sounds like a plan, sweetheart. Do you want to have anyone at the wedding? Your father of course is invited but any other friends or family?” He doesn’t just want it to be all his associates. He doesn’t really have friends. All of his “friends” would step on him the moment he slipped up and they had a chance to get above him.

“There are a few from work.” You admit quietly. “I don’t have a lot of friends. I was busy working and trying to keep my father from gambling too much.” You huff, “I obviously failed on that front.”

“Invite your friends. Whoever you want. As for your father…he is invited but I will not fund any more gambling. He got up to a million bucks in debt. He was gonna be killed by his other lenders.” Dave reveals, wanting you to know that he did something good even if you aren’t happy with the result.

“Oh my god….” You whisper, feeling sick to your stomach at what could have happened. Your father would have been killed. Men had been killed for much smaller sums than that in the gambling world. You sigh and for the first time, you thank him. “I appreciate you saving my father.” You hum quietly. “Even though it was for selfish reasons, you still did something nice.”

Dave finds that he likes you thanking him. He likes your praise and that unnerves him. Usually, he only appeases himself, does what he wants, but he finds himself - for a moment - wondering what you’d expect from him. Shaking it off, he nods and digs into the food, trying to ignore that nagging feeling. “That was delicious, sweetheart. Thank you.” Dave hums, rubbing his belly. He should go for a run tomorrow morning, and try to trim up for the wedding.

“Oh, thank you.” You fluster slightly and bite your lip as you try to suppress the happiness that surges through you at him enjoying your cooking. You love cooking too much to have to never do it because your husband hates your food. “Maybe I can do it again sometime?”

“Anytime you want. God, it was amazing. I haven’t had a meal that good since my Mom died. Shit, don’t tell the cook that.” He pleads, knowing the cook won’t be pleased by that statement but it’s true. The cook is too fancy sometimes. You giggle and wink at him, making his cock twitch and he huffs at himself, reaching to gather the plates to distract himself.

You are in shock that Dave is picking up his own plates and yours to take into the kitchen. It’s the picture of domesticity. The only thing that is missing is music playing and laughter, followed up by the two of you dancing. “I’ll have to make you some of my favorites.” You promise as you bring the rest of the dishes into the kitchen behind him.

Dave watches you as you begin to wash up and he helps, loading the dishes into the dishwasher. He doesn’t remember the last time he did this but he can’t allow you to cook and clean up. “Go get the pudding, I’ll finish this up.” He orders, loading the plates after rinsing them.

Drying your hands off, you turn away to go into the refrigerator to pull out the two dishes of chocolate pudding you had made, along with the homemade whipped cream. “I know it’s almost childish, but-“ You shrug as you bring the bowls over to the counter near the sink. “It reminds me of desserts with my mom. She loved chocolate pudding.”

Dave groans, “I do too.” He follows you to the table and sits down, taking the dish with eager eyes. “Can I- I saw a summary but…what happened to your mom?” He asks, wanting to hear the story from your lips.

You sigh and your spoon drags through the whipped cream. “Mom and dad wanted lots of kids.” You explain, looking up to give him a small smile. “Did you know that?” Dave shakes his head, unaware of that but he knows you are an only child. “They promised me a brother or sister for Christmas but mom went to the doctor when she was late and they both came home crying.” You scoop up some of the pudding and examine it so you don’t have to look at Dave. “She wasn’t pregnant. She had cervical cancer. She- it was quick. Spread throughout her body rapidly and by Christmas, we were visiting her grave and dad was losing himself in the casinos and card games.”

Dave stares at you for a moment, looking into your eyes that are watering, and Dave wants to take all of that pain away. “I’m so sorry sweetheart. That - there’s nothing I can say to make that better but I promise you, when we are married, you can have as many kids as you want. If we have a daughter, you can name her after your mother.” He vows, reaching for your free hand. He squeezes and sighs, now understanding why your father is the way he is. 

“My parents…they were killed. I was, God, around twenty two and my mom wanted me to attend this stupid political gala and I refused to go. I was young, wanting to go out and party. I didn’t want to put on a suit and go make small talk. They went without me and on the way home…their car skidded on black ice. Turned over and went down a hill and hit a tree. Both of them, their driver, and their guard…dead. I still remember getting that call.” He shivers slightly, “and then I had to take over the family business. I didn’t have time to grieve, I had to get to work. So I did and here I am today.”

“I’m so sorry.” You don’t think, reaching out and covering your combined hands with your free one. “That is horrible, you didn’t have time to mourn and you should have.” You don’t like the fact that you are marrying a man you don’t love, but you hate that he has been alone and unable to process that grief. “Were they - was it a good relationship?” You wonder if that is why he doesn’t put any stock in love.

Dave sighs, looking down at your hands. “My parents were arranged. My mother’s father knew my dad’s father and they arranged their marriage. It was a good choice based on political and financial factors. Love? Didn’t apply. They barely spoke. My mother was always busy with charity events and my father was running the family business. They didn’t love each other. It was convenient to them both. I admired my parents but when they died, I realized that admiration couldn’t save them. It didn’t help me run the business at such a young age.”

Understanding now what made Dave York think that love wasn’t necessary, you pat his hand softly. “I’m sorry.” You murmur softly, your heart breaking at the younger Dave not having the loving home you believe all children deserve. Yours hadn’t been perfect, but it wasn’t cold. It sounds like they had little time for the child they created together. “I- I know you speak of heirs, and they are the future of your dynasty, but…” you shake your head. “My children will know love.”

With a sigh, Dave pulls his hand away from yours. He doesn’t want to argue about fucking emotions anymore. If you want to believe in that shit, who is he to stop you? He wants you to be there for his children, to be a good mother and give them what he couldn’t have from his own mother. “The President will be attending our wedding. I gave a lot of money to his re-election campaign so he will be attending with the First Lady. I want to keep the President in my pocket. He knows to leave my…less than legal business alone.”

“Okay.” The moment has passed obviously and your own sigh is much quieter. Looking back down at your pudding and trying to ignore the pang of hurt and sadness at the coming lifetime of loveless interactions. “I will make sure that you are not embarrassed.” Your chair scrapes back from the counter as you stand, suddenly not wanting the sweet dessert. “I am tired.” You announce, dumping the bowl in the sink. “Goodnight.”

Dave watches you go, forcing himself to ignore the way his stomach twists at the sad look on your face before you get up. He stands up, grabbing his own dish and washes everything up, cleaning down the countertop and table so Mrs. Jenkins doesn’t have too much work to do, and he makes his way to his study. He didn’t even get to thank you for dinner. He wanted a business only marriage…so why does he want to go and see you? To make you smile. “Fuck.” He huffs, slapping his cheek softly to make himself see sense. This is an arrangement. Only an arrangement.

****

Taking a deep breath, you try not to cry. Not tears of happiness as you stand in the altered perfection of your mother’s wedding dress and look at your reflection. In a matter of minutes, you will walk down the aisle to marry a man who doesn’t love you, and you don’t love him. Everything is picture perfect and it’s all a farce, an image for him to project to the world. The powerful mafia boss with his virginal bride, pure and innocent, to bear the future generations of his dynasty. You look away from the mirror, blinking quickly so you don’t ruin your makeup and straighten your spine. Today is the result of the last month of careful planning and you will not ruin it for him. You will give him what he’s bought. “I’m ready.” You tell the coordinator, nodding for emphasis.

Dave adjusts his bow tie as he stands at the altar. Waiting for you, he’s anxious, especially since the crowd is large. Pretty much all of D.C are in attendance. The President sitting with his security, and Dave’s own security are scattered throughout the room. He worries for a moment that you have run away, decides to try and escape him. His worries are assuaged when the music begins and the doors open. You didn’t want any bridesmaids and Dave doesn’t have a best man so your father walks you down the aisle and Dave’s stomach twists when he sees how beautiful you look. He can’t look away as you make your way down the aisle to him and he knows he made the right choice. This past month, you’ve been civil towards him, cooking meals now and then but he wouldn’t let you break down his walls. Staying away almost every day to ensure he wouldn’t want to get attached. He shakes your father’s hand when he approaches, taking yours after letting go to escort you the rest of the way to the officiant.

Dave leans in as the officiant begins to ramble. “You look beautiful.” He whispers and you offer him a small smile, “thank you.” He truly means it. Your mother’s dress is gorgeous with the alterations and the red roses in your hand highlight your complexion. You look like an angel and he guesses that that makes him the devil. When it’s finally time for the vows, Dave repeats what he has to say, barely paying attention to them. They don’t matter. He won’t be obedient and loyal. Never has been. He slides his finger into your finger, his dark eyes meeting yours as the officiant turns to you for you to say your vows.

“I.” Your voice is clear, without a waver in your voice to indicate any nerves, is picked up easily by the microphones for the video and the guests in the back of the large church. “Take you, David Anthony York, to be my husband. To have and to hold, in sickness and health, to forsake all others, for as long as I live.” You know your husband will not be faithful, having gone to the hotel where you had been told you were marrying him, several times in the past month. You have already told him what you expected and if Dave didn’t listen, there was nothing you could do about it. There was a ring for Dave, the thick gold band fits perfectly on his hand but you aren’t sure if it will be worn beyond tonight. You slide the ring on his hand and turn towards the officiant again.

Dave doesn’t listen to the rest of the speech, not really interested until the officiant declares you husband and wife. Announcing that Dave can now kiss his bride. He hasn’t kissed you since that night in the kitchen so he steps closer, reaching out to cup your cheeks and presses his lips to yours in a kiss that declares to everyone in the ballroom and the world that you belong to him.

You feel the possession in the way that his lips cover yours. He’s not kissing you in love and joy, it’s to show status. You are now his completely. Your eyes flutter closed, knowing it will look better on camera, as if you are melting into the kiss. Listening to the applause from the guests as Dave breaks off the kiss.

He smiles, grabbing your hand to walk you down the aisle as everyone cheers for the newly wed couple and once you’re beyond the double doors, he drops your hand. He ignores your hurt look and the photographer comes over so he wraps his arm around your waist. “Come on sweetheart, let’s take some photos.” He hates taking photos but it’s necessary for his heir to have photos of his parent’s wedding day.

It’s hard to smile for the photos when it’s obvious that Dave is putting very little effort into making this day enjoyable. You are stiff in his arms and any hope you have for the future dies. You stand how the photographer tells you to and smile when they say smile, plastering the look on your face - one that doesn’t reach your eyes.

Dave is grateful when the photos are over. He fucking hates taking photos and his mind hasn’t been changed. He takes your hand once more, guiding you into the ballroom that is being used for your reception and the crowd cheers as the band announces Mr. and Mrs. York. Dave guides you to the dance floor, not even knowing what song you picked for the first dance but he is a surprisingly good dancer. All those years of fighting made him coordinated.

The guests are already starting to drink, several open bars that are scattered throughout the reception hall are already packed with people to get booze. Waiters are gliding around the room with canapés and champagne to those that don’t want hard liquor. You try to focus on the crowd, instead of the man that is guiding you through the dance. After this, you will go change into the dress you had picked out for the party, packing your mother’s dress away carefully.

Dave smiles as he twirls you around, leaning in to softly kiss you once the song ends. He doesn’t listen to a lot of top 40 music nowadays, but he knows Adele and you picked one of her songs for the dance. He wants to roll his eyes but he doesn’t. 'Easy On Me' isn’t exactly romantic. “Strange song choice sweetheart.” He comments as he pulls back, knowing he has to go mingle while you go change. He wants your wedding dress on for the first dance for photos but now you can go get out of it. He’s hoping you picked some of the lingerie he sent you to wear under it.

You don’t answer him, instead you walk out of the reception hall and hurry with the coordinator back to the room you had used to get ready. The next dress is sexier, more flirty than the wedding dress and it matched the white lingerie you had picked out. You have no doubt that Dave would want to consummate your marriage tonight and you were honestly scared of it. You don’t know what kind of man, lover, he is and you’ve only shared three kisses.

Dave greets people as they approach him, business associates both legal and illegal all gathered in the same room to celebrate his wedding. He waits for you to get changed and when the band announces your return, his cock twitches at the new sexier dress you’re wearing. A perfect virginal white and he immediately wonders what you have underneath it. You approach him and he kisses you again, pressing his lips to yours to show his intentions. “So fucking beautiful and all mine.” He murmurs against your lips, his arms wrapping around your waist to pull you close while the crowd cheers.

Dave grins, turning you around so he can guide you over to the President’s table. “Mr. President, Ma’am.” He greets the couple, “this is my beautiful wife.” He introduces you, wanting you to have the honor of meeting the only man possibly as powerful as Dave in this country. He can easily whisper in the man’s ear to get shit done, he’s just gotta offer a few million towards his campaign.

It’s a bit surreal, the idea that the President is at your wedding and you shake his hand, trying not to grimace when he kisses the back of your hand in a wet, opened mouth kiss. Barely resisting the urge to wipe your hand off, you turn to his wife and greet her warmly, wondering if she accepts what kind of man she is married to.

Dave clenches his jaw at the way the president kisses your hand. He wraps his arm around your waist, dragging you back towards him after you’ve greeted the First Lady and he turns to the President, leaning in to whisper in his ear. “You ever touch my wife again, I’ll make sure no one in D.C even remembers your name.” He threatens, knowing that even the secret service won’t intervene in his threat. Dave pulls back and plasters on a fake grin as he turns to you, “shall we go eat, sweetheart?”

“Yes.” You aren’t hungry but you want to get away from the President before something else happens to cause a scene. The last thing you needed was your wedding to be surrounded by scandal. “Is it what you wanted?” You ask as the two of you are seated at your wedding table.

Dave smiles, nodding. He’s not sure if you mean the wedding or you but he knows he’s happy with both. “I am very happy. The wedding is incredible and so are you. My beautiful bride. I can’t wait for tonight.” He reaches down to squeeze your thigh.

You bite your lip, staring down at your plate as you try to hide how worried you are. You know what to expect, you aren’t naive, but you had always imagined giving yourself to a man you loved.

Dave noticed your hesitancy and sighs. “Don’t worry sweetheart. I’ll look after you.” He promises, leaning closer. “You’re gonna cum on my cock tonight.” He coos, squeezing your thigh before letting go.

Your cheeks heat up and all you can do is nod as you try to eat a little bit of the beautiful meal the caterer has made. It’s easily a dinner that is easily better than any state dinner. However, you are so nervous, you can barely stomach anything.

Dave watches you barely eat and he isn’t happy about that. Wondering if it’s anxiety. He will ensure you eat later. He will get you whatever you want. “It’s time for the cake cutting.” The band singer announces and Dave guides you over to the huge cake, smiling as he cuts it with his hand over yours, the cameras flashing. He kisses you before feeding you a piece of the cake. Wanting you to be fed and comfortable. He feeds you another piece of cake, happy you chose chocolate. “Now it’s time for the garter toss before the bouquet toss.”

Shivering slightly, you allow Dave to guide you over to the chair that had been set in the middle of the dance floor while all the single men are invited on the floor to try to catch your garter. You’ve never had a man touch your bare thigh where Dave is going to be reaching and it embarrasses you that it’s going to be done in front of all these people. Sitting down in the chair, you’re shocked to see Dave kneel down and give you a smug wink before he starts sliding his hands under your dress. 

Dave ducks under your dress, his hands sliding along your thighs - clad in silk stockings - until he finds the garter. He shifts closer once he is between your legs and he inhales deeply the heady scent of your body and it makes his cock twitch. When he looks up and sees the pretty white lace covering your virgin cunt and the matching garter belt he groans, loving how sweet and innocent it looks. He knows he can’t take advantage so he finds the garter on your leg, gripping it with his teeth and slowly, so slowly, drags it down your leg.

Your gasp of shock makes everyone laugh, your new husband’s head under your dress. You hear some vulgar comments, but you are too busy burning in embarrassment from him seeing you under your dress. Cringing and trying not to when you feel the grade of his teeth on your skin.

Dave emerges from your dress, victorious with your garter in his teeth, and he winks at you before he shifts to stand up, his cock semi hard and he discreetly adjusts himself before turning back to the group of single men. “Ready fellas?” He asks and all of them cheer. Part of him doesn’t want to give up your garter but he knows this is good for show. He tosses it, rolling his eyes when Resnik catches it. He turns back towards you, holding his hand out to help you up and he notices your flustered appearance. “Nice panties sweetheart.” He murmurs with a smirk.

“Oh my god.” You huffs, ready to just melt into the floor. This man was your husband by law and had every intention of taking your virginity tonight, but you are so flustered by the fact that he just saw your panties. “Shut up.” The coordinator saves you from saving anything else, bringing over your bouquet while the DJ announces that the single women should come to the dance floor for the tossing of the bouquet. Giving you something else to focus on besides the fact that you hadn’t missed the way that your husband had to adjust himself right in front of your face.

Dave watches you toss the bouquet, one of your coworkers catches it and flushes when she has to dance with Resnik. Dave wraps his arm around your waist and kisses your neck. “They’d make a good couple.” He murmurs. 

You scoff, “pretty sure murderers aren’t her type.” 

Dave snorts, “yet you married one.” He is anxious now to get this reception over with so he can get you back to his home. He can’t wait to see you. All of you.

“It wasn’t as if I had a choice.” You remind him, pulling away and giving the excuse that you wanted your glass of champagne. While you were tossing the bouquet, you noticed a lot of your guests were well on their way to being drunk and it sounds like a perfect way to survive your wedding night. You don’t want to remember it. Tossing back your head, you down the rest of your champagne and motion to a waiter to take this glass and give you another.

Dave frowns, grabbing the glass before you can take it when the waiter returns. "Don't you think you've had enough?" He reprimands, setting the glass down on the nearby table then he grabs your hands. "Why are you trying to get drunk?"

You snort, annoyed that he has taken away the glass from you like a naughty child. “Perhaps I wanted some liquid courage, this is my first time.” You remind him, as if he had forgotten. “Forgive me if I just don’t trust that it will be an amazing experience.”

Dave feels himself get pissed at that. He reaches to grab your chin, making you look into his eyes. “Don’t you ever think that I am a selfish lover. Tonight, you might be losing your virginity but I will be good and make you cum. I want you to enjoy having sex with me. We need to have sex multiple times to make sure you’re pregnant, so why wouldn’t I make it good for you? Don’t ever fucking assume sweetheart. You’re done with the champagne. I want you to remember tonight.” He orders.

Your eyes prick with tears and you know that this - everything - is what Dave wants. If he wants you sober, he will have you sober. “Yes sir.” You hiss spitefully, furious that you have no say in anything in your life. You will be fucked regardless of your own wishes and get pregnant when he wants you to be. Your doctor’s appointment proved to him that you are indeed a virgin and fertile.

Dave caresses your cheek, leaning in to kiss your forehead despite you shoving lightly on his chest. “Go say your goodbyes. We are leaving.” He orders, stepping away from you to bid goodbye to the important people and he tells the wedding coordinator that you are leaving so the guests can see you off.

You stall as long as you can, making sure to make every person feel like they are special. You see Dave coming back over to where you are, going through his goodbyes much quicker and taking you by the elbow to hurry you along. You want to cry, but they will see that and you can’t have that. Instead you plaster a smile on your face as people file out of the hall, ready to shower you in bird seed before you climb into the car to take you back to Dave’s house.

Dave takes your hand and smiles as the bird seed is thrown over you, people clapping as he guides you to the car and helps you in before he slides in beside you. “You ready?” He asks. You don’t even look at him, staring out the window as the car pulls away. Dave sighs when you don’t respond, leaning back into the seat .

Your knees tremble, your nerves getting the best of you. You wonder how he is going to touch you. All the porn that you’ve watched is geared towards women and Dave - despite what he might say - is going to be concerned with his own pleasure. You don’t need to cum in order to get pregnant. “Why are we going home? Wouldn’t the hotel be more appropriate?”

Dave looks at you, a smile on his face, and he reaches out to stop your knee bouncing. “I wanted our baby to be conceived in my home, not my hotel. Plus…I don’t want any interruptions. I want it to be just us.” He removes his hand from your knee, looking back out of the window.

You bite your lip, even more nervous now that you know that you will be alone in the house. Often there are plenty of people roaming around but if Dave wants it empty, it will just be you. “How long are you having the house to ourselves?” You ask, trying to make it seem like you aren’t terrified.

“As long as I want.” He answers without looking over at you. He knows you’re nervous, can feel it in the air, but he won’t allow you to use that as an excuse. You are nervous of the unknown but he knows he can make you relax. He meant what he said. You need to enjoy sex with him and he wants to fuck you to get you pregnant. Once you’re pregnant, he’ll go back to his women. Not wanting even more attachments. The car pulls into his estate and he thanks the driver once the car has stopped, opening his own door and making his way around to open your door. 

For a split second, you consider jumping in the driver's seat and stealing the car. It’s completely ridiculous and it makes you snort, slightly panicked as Dave opens the door and holds out his hand for you to take. Swallowing, you let him guide you out of the car and into the house.

Dave unlocks the unusually quiet house and turns towards you. “I’ll go wait in my room for you. I’m sure you’ll want to get ready, freshen up.” He tells you, “I’m going to get a scotch. You want anything?“

“You don’t want me drunk.” You remind him as you turn towards the stairs without waiting to see what he has to say. You climb the stairs and sigh. You are going to strip out of the dress and put on the robe that you had bought with the lingerie. You know Dave will want to see what you are wearing underneath. Maybe after it’s over he will send you back to your room.

Dave ignores your sass and makes his way to his office, pouring himself a scotch, then he makes his way upstairs to his bedroom, leaving the double doors open so you can come in when you are ready. He didn’t want any staff in the house for this moment, his cock already half hard with the fact that he is going to be taking your innocence tonight.

Taking a deep breath, you step out of your bedroom and make your way down the hallway to Dave’s suite. The master suite was larger than yours and you pause when you see the doors are open in invitation. Making you swallow again before you slink into the doorway. Watching him stare out the window while he sips his scotch, you wonder if you will ever come to love the man you call husband.

Dave turns when he hears you enter his bedroom, feet bare and robe swaying around your ankles. He’s never seen a more angelic sight, especially since you are wearing virginal white. Your face is pinched but he shifts to sit down on the plush seat by the window. “Sit.” He orders, grabbing the chair to drag it in front of him. You frown, confused as you sit down in front of him. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees, the scotch sloshing as he grips the glass. “Take your panties off and spread your legs. I want to see what I paid for.”

Your face burns and you close your eyes in utter humiliation. Swallowing again, you turn around, knowing you will have to unclip your stocking to slide your panties down. The fact that this man bought you is never more obvious than right now. Fingers shaking, you unclip the delicate clasps that keep your thigh highs up so you can do as he orders.

Dave watches you as you roll your thigh highs down after unclipping them and you seem to take a while but he doesn’t rush you. When you’re done, you reach up, hands shaking as you hook your fingers in your panties, lifting your hips so you can push them down to your ankles. You kick the lace aside and inhale deeply, face on fire as you open your legs to display your cunt. Dave’s eyes focus on your pussy, untouched and fucking perfect. “Christ.” He hisses, fingers flexing against the glass he’s holding. “Have you ever touched yourself, sweetheart?” He asks, voice raspy.

“Y-Yes.” Your voice is low and you wonder if he will be upset that you’ve touched yourself. Wondering if he wanted you completely innocent. “I’ve just- I’ve never  put more than a tampon inside me.” You admit quietly. You hadn’t ever wanted to stick your fingers inside yourself, but you had the standard doctor’s visits.

Dave’s nostrils flare as you confess you haven’t really touched yourself. “Have you ever made yourself cum?” He asks, sipping his scotch while keeping his eyes between your thighs, loving the thatch of curls above your pretty folds.

“I think so….” You whisper, your cheeks burning. “I- it felt really good.” You try to explain as you think about the times you had touched yourself in the dark. “It’s not like I’ve really…talked about this with anyone else. Not even my friends.”

“You will with me. I’m your husband. I want you to spread your folds for me, use your fingers to show me the pretty pussy that’s now mine.” He orders, shifting to set the glass of scotch down on the table beside his chair.

You bite your lip, shuddering slightly and taking a deep breath before you try to follow his orders. Fumbling for a moment before you pull your lips apart, your index finger pressing against your clit and you gasp and close your eyes so you don’t have to see him watching you.

“Open your eyes, sweetheart.” His voice lowers even more and you reluctantly open your eyes and look across the room. He tuts, shifting closer and he grips your chin to keep your eyes on his. “Keep looking at me.” He orders, licking his finger on his free hand and he brings it down to your clit, slowly rubbing the bundle of nerves.

Moaning quietly, your hips squirm, away from his touch or seeking it - you don’t really know. Not that Dave York would allow you to refuse his touch. Your eyes are watching his darken with desire. “Fuck.” You whimper quietly, shuddering when a burst of pleasure rushes through you.

He watches you as you whimper and he rubs your clit a little harder, wanting you to get wet enough for him to open you up a little. He releases your jaw, leaning in to kiss along it instead. “That feel good, baby?”

You can’t help but breathe out a little sigh of agreement. You bite your lip to try to keep from making too much noise. Even though it’s not like the house isn’t empty.

“Good. Wanna make you feel good. Wanna make this pussy mine in every way.” He rubs your clit, wanting you to cum like this before he starts to open you up for his cock. He doesn’t want you to be in a lot of pain. His cock is hard in his pants but he doesn’t adjust himself, wanting to focus on you.

Keeping your eyes on him, his fingers make your hips start to move again. Rolling against his hand on instinct and your own moans getting louder. Watching the pride bloom across his face and your breathing speeding up.

“Good girl.” He coos, needing you to cum, so he rubs your clit a little harder. Loving how you are already so responsive. “Want you to cum for me. Want that pussy weeping for my cock.” He tells you, pressing his lips to your jaw again.

The feeling of his mouth on your jaw makes you fall over the edge. Crying out loudly, you feel your entire body tense up. You’ve felt that before but not nearly as intense as what you have been able to do. Feeling your cunt start to clench down around nothing.

Dave fucking loves watching you cum. Already addicted to it. He rubs your clit to work you through it for a moment then he slides his finger lower, circling your entrance and he slowly pushes his finger into you.

“D-Dave.” You gasp out his name, feeling his fingers start to push inside you. It feels foreign and fantastic. “I- oh god.” You moan, reaching down and grabbing his wrist. You don’t know if you want him to stop but you need to touch him. Wishing you had something more than just being married between you.

He pauses, watching you to see if you wanted him to stop but you don’t. He continues, pushing his finger into you, groaning at how fucking tight you are. “Jesus. I’m gonna have to work you open. You’ll never take my cock otherwise.” He murmurs, pumping his finger in and out of you.

Cheeks burning, you whimper at the way he talks to you. It’s different than being talked to by men hitting on you, you would never have let them touch you. But this man is touching you. He’s your husband. “Just-“ you bite off the order to tell him to get it over with as you moan again, his fingers curling up and pressing against something wonderful inside you.

"There it is, baby." He murmurs, pleased you are moaning and relaxing. He works his finger into you, curling it into that spot and he adds a second finger, wanting to slowly open you up. "This okay?" He asks, pumping his finger a little deeper on each movement, his dark eyes. watching your face.

“I- don’t stop.” You had meant to tell him that it didn’t matter if it was okay. That he had bought you and this was what he wanted. Instead you beg him not to stop, but it feels so good. Your eyes flutter every time he pushes his fingers deeper and you moan his name quietly.

Dave wants to make this good for you. He scissors his fingers, working you open even more and he curls them. His thumb pressed against your clit. He wants you to cum on his fingers, he wants to see you fall over the edge again. “Cum for me baby. Cum again.”

The way he orders you around should piss you off. But it doesn’t help that his tone is low and raspy, helping that fire in your belly burn brighter. It only takes a few more pumps of his fingers and you are crying out again, this time your walls squeezing his fingers while you try to grind down on them as much as you can with your legs draped over the arms of the chair.

Dave hums in delight, working you through it and he shifts off of his chair, withdrawing his fingers and he kneels in front of you. “My beautiful bride.” He murmurs, kissing your inner thigh, his dark eyes looking up at you as he kisses along the sensitive skin until his tongue slides through your folds, groaning at your tangy taste.

His words makes your traitorous heart leap in your chest. Right before your entire body turns to melted wax at the touch of his tongue to your cunt. You never expected him to do something like this. Your head drops back against the chair and you moan out his name again. “Oh Dave, oh shit.”

Dave caresses your thighs, squeezing the flesh while his tongue flicks your clit. He loves how you taste, knowing that he isn’t the type of man to go down on women but this is your wedding night, your first time. He wants this to be special for you. His tongue delves into your tight pussy, curling and he shifts closer to press his nose to your clit.

Whining is definitely not a sound you thought you would make during this, but you are. Loudly and enthusiastically while you experience something that you’ve only read about or watched. It is as good as everyone says and your hand reaches for the back of his head and your fingers tangle into his hair to hold onto.

Your whine is music to his ears, his tongue delving deeper, and he shakes his head so his nose rubs your clit. One of his hands slide up your body, cupping your lace clad breast, pinching your nipple through the material while his tongue curls deep in your cunt.

You whimper from the pressure against your clit and give a soft cry at the surprise of his tongue piercing into you. Making you shudder and rock your hips. It feels strange, but not unpleasant, but his nose against your clit feels amazing.

He needs you to cum one more time. His hand sliding higher to take over from his nose, his thumb rubbing your clit while his tongue keeps curling deep inside of you. He loves how you taste, mixed with the scotch he’d been drinking, you’re a fucking treat.

Your eyes slip closed again, not to keep from looking at Dave, but because the pleasure is starting to get to be too much. One hand in his hair and the other clawing at the chair, you feel your body start to shake again. Crying out as the rush of heat spreads through your core and you hear Dave groan into you.

He loves hearing you cum. It’s music to his ears, and he works you through it, his tongue lapping up every drop of your cum. He smacks his lips when you push his head away when it becomes too much, and he kisses your thigh while you come back down from your orgasm.

Panting softly, you try not to jump when Dave’s hand squeezes your breast again. “Get up, sweetheart.” He orders. “We are moving to the bed so I can strip you down.” Your stomach flips and you nod, moving so you can stand after Dave rocks back away from you.

He helps you over to the bed, his lips pressing against your jaw as he reaches around you to unclasp your bra. You whimper and he chuckles against your neck as he drags the straps down and steps back to look at your tits. “Fucking perfect. Shit. I can’t wait until those are full of milk.” He groans and reaches out to squeeze your breast.

You shudder and look away, fully aware that his plan for you includes being pregnant just as soon as possible. Swallowing, you stand in only your garter belt, letting him touch you how he wants. Your breathing is shallow, almost panting but it’s mainly from being nervous.

Dave wants you completely naked, so his hands slide down to unclasp the garter belt, tossing it aside so he can see every single inch of you. “Fuck, you’re so perfect.” He groans, cock now throbbing and he reaches up to tug on his bow tie, starting to undress himself

Laying down on the bed, you try to keep your eyes off of him but you are curious as to what your husband looks like. After all, this is the man that you are married to, the man whose children you will bear. Biting your lip, you watch him strip off his shirt after removing the cuff links and unbuttoning it. You wonder if the other women he slept with anticipated sex while watching him undress or if they were merely giddy about the things he could offer them. Right now, you feel like you are going to be sick. 

Dave takes his time to strip off, setting his clothes over the back of the chair you had soaked. He finally gets down to his briefs and pushes them down, allowing you to see his hard cock for the first time. The first cock you’ve ever seen and if he has his way, the last one you’ll ever see.

“God.” Your eyes widen as you take in the sight of Dave’s heavy, thick cock. You’ve only ever seen one in a porn and it looks a lot more intimidating in person. “I- I don-don’t know.” You stammer, sitting up and shaking your head. “It- that is - oh God.”

Dave can’t help but feel a little smug at your reaction but he won’t let you get too anxious. He shifts to kneel on the bed, grabbing your waist to lift you up onto the pillows and he kneels between your thighs. “It’s gonna fit baby. Don’t worry.” He slides his hand along your thigh before pushing two thick digits into you. “It’s gonna hurt for a moment but then it’s gonna be good.” He promises, curling his fingers until he withdraws them, shifting to position his cock at your entrance. He slowly pushes in, just the head, and gives you a moment.

You gasp and your eyes close, turning your head away. “Look at me.” Dave huffs, gripping your chin lightly and turning you back towards him. You want to refuse him, but you shouldn’t. His lips slide over yours softly and you whimper again, opening your eyes to look up into his dark ones. It feels different, but he doesn’t hurt you and your walls clench around him experimentally.

He pushes deeper into you. You’re so fucking tight and the fact that you are completely his has his ready to cum but he doesn’t, wanting to savor this moment. He pushes deeper, rocking his hips to work you open. “Relax.” He orders, feeling how tense you are beneath him.

You try, gripping the sheets under you as you try to force your body to relax. It’s impossible though. It’s pinching slightly and it’s nothing like you had imagined. No soft, loving words or whispers of adoration. You get the feeling that he’s being more gentle than he normally is, but there no love in this. You choke back a sob and try to remind yourself that he promised you that it would be okay.

Dave caresses your side as he pushes into you, wincing when you gasp at the final push to seat him fully inside of your tight, wet cunt. “Oh fuck.” He groans, trying to control himself while he presses his forehead to yours. “You’re so perfect. So fucking perfect and all mine.” He rasps, slowly rocking his hips now that you seem to relax beneath him.

You take deep breaths, trying to focus on the way that he feels inside you. His body is hovering over yours and you feel the slow grind of his hips. Your body seems to know what to do, your walls fluttering around him and squeezing down on him every time he pushes deeper when he pulls his hips back. “Yours.” You gasp out, knowing that you are his.

He fucking loves hearing you say it. He grabs your hand, lifting it above your head so he can admire the beautiful rings on your finger that display the fact that you are his. He grinds deep, rocking his hips, and when he thinks about getting you knocked up on this first time, he loses it. With a low groan, he cums. Painting your walls with his seed.

You feel the heat, hearing him groan and stiffen over you. He’s cum. Closing your eyes, the tears squeeze out and you turn your head away while his face is buried in your neck while he continues to rock into you. It’s over. He’s taken your virginity and possibly filled you with his baby. Making your heart ache knowing that there is no way you can ever tell your future child that you created them with love.

Dave grunts as he finishes rocking inside of you, kissing your neck. "God that was good. Sorry you didn't cum. Next time." He promises, shifting to pull out of you. "I'll clean you up then I gotta go to my office and do some work. You should get some sleep." He says, shifting off of the bed to walk into his bathroom, wetting a rag and carrying it back in.

You cringe and try not to flinch when he wipes you clean with efficient swipes of his rag over your cunt. Disappearing back into his bathroom while you lay there for a moment before you bolt off the bed. If his room is like yours, the closet is inside the bathroom and you hurriedly gather your lingerie and the robe before you rush out of the room for the safety of your own room, trying to hold back the tears.

****

Dave never came into your room. You had cried and then soaked in a bath after you had calmed down. You were stuck in this, it was too late to regret it and there was nothing that you could do change it. You just have to make the best of it, but it hurts to know that he hadn’t even cared enough to come to you after he had finished his work. He was probably glad you left his room, his dismissal clear from his attitude. Dressing quickly, you slip out of your room, eager to eat something and hopefully make it back before Dave ever woke up.

**** 

Dave looks up as you enter his office, tears in your eyes as you avoid looking at him, and he frowns. You look relieved. "What's wrong?" He huffs, not having time for dramatics. "I got my period." Dave sighs, knowing that it would take more than one fuck to knock you up. Since hearing you cry, he left you alone, but he needs to fuck you again. "When your period ends, we will have sex until you are pregnant. I want you to track your fertility. I will have the doctor help you to ensure you are pregnant before your next period." He says before turning back to his computer. The discussion is over.

You stare at him for a moment and huff. “Maybe you should get checked by a doctor.” You hate the way that he is just dismissing you. It’s obvious that you are nothing more than his little pet. The virgin (not anymore) bride to keep to breed his spawn. “You should get tested, that way if you are sterile, I don’t have to endure being in your bed.” You hiss before you turn around and stalk out of his office, angry at the bastard now.

Dave rolls his eyes. He had already been tested. He knows he is fertile. He’s a man who lives for the details. He tries to keep away from you, knowing you hate him. He doesn’t need you to love him, he just needs you to have his child. 

****

“Don’t forget we have the charity dinner tonight. I am having Manuel come over to do your hair and makeup. Theres a new dress hanging up in your closet.” He says while he eats his breakfast opposite you.

“Whatever you need.” You answer, poking at your own breakfast. You aren’t very hungry, it’s been days since the scene in his office and he has barely spoken to you. The house stays quiet and you hate it. “I will be ready when you need me to be.” You finished your menstrual cycle last night and you are hoping to get a few more days before he makes you come to his room.

“Tonight. I want to fuck you so be ready for it.” He says like he’s discussing the weather. “We will need to have sex every night until you are pregnant.” He declares, not willing to negotiate. This isn’t a negotiation and he wants to show you off tonight. His beautiful wife.

“Of course.” Your jaw clenches slightly but you don’t say anything else. You are just his brood mare and the sooner he gets you pregnant, the sooner he will leave you alone. There’s nothing between the two of you beyond the fact that you are married. “Anything else?”

“Make sure you don’t have this attitude tonight. I need to make sure no one questions this marriage. I need my associates to believe you at least like me.” He can’t say he isn’t bothered by how much you hate him but he can understand. “I didn’t pay for you to hate me.” He quips as he sets his coffee cup down, looking at you.

“Hard to like someone I don’t know.” You mutter under your breath and narrow your eyes at him before you change into a bright sunny smile and look adoringly at him. “Is this better, honey?” You coo mockingly, knowing he he could care less about how you actually feel about him. He’s made that clear.

Dave shakes his head, grabbing your hand. “Don’t mock me sweetheart. You might not want to be married to me but you don’t want to know what I’m capable of. I can break you down. I can destroy you. Destroy your father. Don’t ever fucking forget that.” He squeezes your hand before he lets go and stands up. “Be ready for six.” He orders then strides out of the room.

“I fucking hate you.” You hiss quietly, tears forming again and you feel completely alone even though you know that there are people around. 

****

At six, you are ready. His stylist had come to fix your hair and makeup. It was flawless and the dress that had been picked out was stunning. You would be the Belle of any ball, although you would not be on Prince Charming’s arm. After breakfast, you had walked outside for hours, talking to yourself before you had gone into the kitchen and started baking. Muffins, cookies, and cakes were all piled up on the counters as you thought about your dilemma. You decided that while you would never love Dave, you wouldn’t fight him anymore. It wasn’t doing you any good. So tonight, you were going to be the perfect dress up doll. Give him exactly what he paid for.

Dave adjusts his bow tie, making his way to the foyer to wait for you. The car is ready and he is anxious to see what you look like in the dress he had picked out. When you appear, walking down the stairs, his cock twitches and he holds his hand out. “You look gorgeous sweetheart. Perfect.” He kisses your cheek and is surprised when you don’t wince. “Come on, let’s get in the car. The sooner we arrive, the sooner we can leave.” He’s excited to strip the dress off of you.

You hum in agreement and let Dave escort you out to the waiting car. Thanking him as he helps you in and closes the door behind you before he climbs in on the other side. “I asked the stylist to do my makeup in a way that you preferred.” You offer by way of conversation. “Which charity event is this tonight?”

“Who the fuck knows? Probably something to do with orphan children. Or animals. I don’t know. I just show up, write a check, smile for some photos and leave. I get sick and tired of these events. My parents used to drag me to them constantly. We will go, give the check, have a dance, and come home so I can fuck you. Your period is over?” He asks for confirmation.

“Yes.” Apparently charity work isn’t his favorite thing. But you remember that his parents died while attending an event such as this. “It ended last night. They don’t last long.” You aren’t going to lie to him, knowing it’s useless to do so. “So don’t plan on making small talk, good to know.”

Dave looks out of the window, watching D.C pass by until the car pulls up to one of the hotels. Not one of his. He sighs as the door is opened and Dave helps you out, wrapping his arm around your waist as he guides you into the hotel and to the ballroom. “You do look beautiful tonight. I’m the luckiest man in this entire place.” He tells you as he notices the stares of other men.

You flash Dave a smile, one meant to show everyone that he was the best man in the room in your eyes. “Thank you, honey.” You reach up and smooth the lapels of his tuxedo. “I have to make sure that I am suitable for the most powerful man here.” You coo, knowing others will hear and spread gossip about how Dave York’s wife simpers over him.

He grins, loving how you coo over him and he leans forward to press his lips to yours, claiming you in front of every men and woman who dares to desire what belongs to him. His hands slide down to almost grab your ass, his tongue dipping into your mouth before he pulls back and kisses your lips once more. “Let’s get a drink and drop off the damn check.”

You are going to have to get used to the way Dave operates. He can just turn off the charm like a switch, blowing hot and cold so much that you are reeling from that kiss. Instead of protesting, you tuck your hand around his arm and lean into his side like the dutiful wife, determined to make sure he has nothing to complain about tonight.

Dave guides you over to the host of this evening. Some old politicians wife who loves to throw a party and call it a fundraiser. Dave knows they pocket a large chunk of money but doesn’t dispute it as long as they vote the way he wants them to when it comes time. “Janice. How are you?” Dave charms the old woman who kisses his cheek, leaving her old fashioned lip color on his skin. “Wonderful Dave. How are you? Is this your new bride? Our invite to the wedding must’ve gotten lost.” Janice offers you a fake smile. Dave chuckles, just as insincere. “It was an intimate wedding.” Janice snorts, “with most of D.C in attendance.” Dave wants to roll his eyes but he offers her a charming smile and hands her the check. “Here’s my donation. Now, I am going to take my wife on the dance floor.”

Dave guides you away before you can do more than smile and nod to the older woman. “Should they have been invited?” You ask, knowing Dave had produced the list of people attending beyond those you wanted to come.

“No.” Dave scoffs as he strides out to the middle of the floor with you on his arm. “Her husband won’t be re-elected next year.” He tells you confidently before he pulls you against him.

“Oh.” Your hand slides up to wipe away the woman’s lipstick off his cheek. “Then I won’t worry about it.”

“You shouldn’t worry about it. These people think they run the show but they don’t. The man who has the money runs the show…me. I won’t let these sneaky fuckers ruin my business, my country. I control their asses with my money so she can bitch all she wants but her and her husband are of no use to me.” He loves the way you wiped the lipstick from his cheek. “I hate that shade. Like your lipstick more.” He murmurs, his eyes dipping down to your lips.

“It goes with the dress you picked.” You fluster slightly, even with your feelings towards your husband not the best, he was very handsome and it is disconcerting to have his attention on your mouth. “I assume it was you. And thank you, it’s gorgeous.” He does provide many expensive things and you know he could make you pay for them if he wanted to.

Dave smiles, starting to move you around the dance floor. “You’re gorgeous. Every man in here wishes he was me. I am so proud to have you as my wife. When you’re pregnant…Christ, you’re gonna be the most incredible woman in this town.” He promises. “I know…I know you hate me but I do want you to be happy with me. I don’t want you to be unhappy.”

“I don’t….hate you.” You turn your head and look across the dance floor, noticing a lot of eyes on the two of you. Photographers are snapping photos and you know it will end up in the society section of the newspaper. “I don’t know you.” You turn back towards your husband. “I just - I wish that it wouldn’t seem like a business deal.” You confess. “Why do you want me pregnant so badly?”

Dave sighs, his hand caressing your back as he turns you away from the photographers. “I-” Before he can answer you, his name is called and he turns his head to see old Oliver Platt. One of his father’s associates who has since retired to allow his son to take over. Dave continues dancing with you as Oliver guides his wife over, swaying her to the music.

“How are you, son? This is your beautiful bride we have heard so much about from everyone.” Oliver beams and Dave nods, offering the old man a smile before introducing you. “She’s gorgeous. Your old man would’ve been proud of you, ya know. Always said he couldn’t wait to see you married with kids of your own, running the show. Look at you now.”

Dave’s smile falters but remains in his face. “It’s good to see you sir.” Dave offers him with respect, his heart aching, and Oliver winks at you.

“You got a good man there. Look after him.” He orders then dances his wife to another associate.

Dave stares at a blank spot across the room for a moment until his dark eyes come back to you. “To answer your question….I want a child because I don’t have a family. My parents are dead. I have no siblings. No aunts and uncles or cousins. My grandparents are dead. It’s been just me for long and I want a family to protect and who loves me for who I really am. Not just what I can give them. I don’t want to be alone anymore.” He knows he sounds vulnerable and he avoids that at all cost but right now, you’re his wife and he trusts you. Even if you do hate him.

Your heart aches for Dave, knowing that admitting that must have been very hard for him. He’s not a man who likes to expose weaknesses. He’s lonely, a feeling you can understand and relate to. Your own life was lonely and filled with worry about your father for so long. Maybe this could be a fresh start for the two of you. Taking a deep breath and deciding that you will make the first move, you lean in and press your lips to his. It’s a gentle kiss, more comforting than passionate but you know it catches him off guard. “Take me home, Dave.” You ask him softly, accepting that you are going to willingly go to his bed until you are carrying the beginning of the family he wants.

Dave is shocked by the soft kiss and your words, certain that you loathe him, but here you are, looking at him like that and asking him to take you home. He nods, reaching for your hand, and he doesn't bid goodbye to anyone as he guides you through the ballroom and out to his awaiting car. He wants to touch you, to kiss you, to make you moan his name. He wants you to want him. When you're in the car and driving home, he shifts closer to you, kissing your neck, the scent of your perfume driving him crazy. "I want to fuck you." He groans, his hand on your thigh where the dress slits to expose your skin.

“That’s why we are going home.” You remind him breathlessly. His lips on your skin makes your pulse jump and you know that your attraction to Dave isn’t linked to your heart. It makes you sad, but you push away the thought. “Or we can fuck right here.” You offer, taking his hand and sliding it up further. “I’m not wearing anything under this dress.” You reveal.

Dave groans at the feel of your bare pussy. Wet but not wet enough for him to fuck you. He kisses your neck again, biting down on the sensitive skin, and he slides his fingers through your folds until he finds your clit. "Want you to cum on my fingers first." He murmurs, rubbing your clit slowly.

You are biting back a soft moan, closing your eyes as his fingers work over your sensitive skin. Whatever else can be said about Dave, he doesn’t mind touching you. You know enough about men that most would have already been pulling their cock out and getting ready to slide inside you. “Dave.” You whimper, knowing that he won’t stop until you are cumming for him. 

Your whimper has him hard as a fucking rock and eager to make you whimper his name again. He rubs your clit a little harder, remembering what you liked before, and he groans when your hips buck into his hand. "Stay still." He orders, kissing along your jaw. "You looked so beautiful tonight. Every man in there wanted to fuck you but they can't because you're mine. Only I get to touch this pussy. Only I get to make you cum."

He loves to remind himself and you that you are his. But instead of rolling your eyes or making some kind of snarky comment, you give another soft moan. “Yes you do.” You agree breathlessly. “Make me cum. I want to feel good, Dave.” You reach up to stroke his cheek and turn your lips to his. 

He groans into your mouth, tongue immediately plunging in to caress yours, and he slides his fingers lower to push two thick digits into your tight cunt, his thumb pressing against your clit. "So wet for me." He murmurs, loving how wet you've become, and he begins to pump his digits in and out of you.

In a move that is shocking to even you, you push your dress up to your hips and move to straddle your husband. Your neck is bent down so you don’t hit the top of the car but you don’t care. For the first time since you had married Dave, you want this. Maybe it’s pity, or acceptance, you aren’t sure - but you want to have sex with Dave, and you grind down on his fingers shamelessly. 

Dave is shocked at your sudden move and he is fucking hard as a rock, his fingers pushing deep into you as he kisses you, his tongue tangling with yours. He curls his fingers, his covered cock pressing against your thigh.

The kiss becomes heated, frantic and your hands move from his shoulders where you were holding them for stability, to his hair. Tangling into his locks and tearing apart the carefully styled look that portrayed his power and status. You tug on it, moaning into his mouth when his other hand grips your hip even harder and his fingers push a bit harder into your cunt. “Dave.” You pull away from his lips and your teeth nip down his jaw. “Can I- can I touch you?” 

"Yes. Yes. You can touch me." Dave permits and you reach down to work on unbuckling his belt. "Eager, are we sweetheart?" He teases, making you huff until he curls his fingers just right to make you moan and grind down onto his digits. "That's it baby. Want you to cum for me."

You squeeze his cock, not too rough, but you grin when you are rewarded with a quiet moan from your husband. “I want to-“ you break off, embarrassed by the thought you had of kneeling down and sucking his cock in the back of the car. “You know.”

"Jesus. You never have to ask if you want to do that, sweetheart." He promises, "but you need to let me cum inside of you. Not down that pretty little throat." He orders, withdrawing his fingers to help you release his cock from his pants.

“Okay.” Nervous, you slide off his lap and kneel between his spread thighs. Looking up at his dark eyes and then back down at his cock. Your fingers wrap around him again and you give him and experimental pump. “I’ve never done this before.” You confess, aware that he knows this. “I don’t know if I’ll be as good as the other women you have.” You don’t say more, not wanting to anger him so you lean forward and take the tip in your mouth.

Dave's retort that you are his wife so this will automatically be better dies on his lips and he groans at the way your lips look wrapped around the head of his cock. "Jesus baby. You look so pretty." He hisses when you experimentally take him deeper. "Do what you want. I can guide you but I want you to do what feels right."

Surprised that you aren’t being urged to take him deeper, you do just that. Realizing that Dave has done nothing but make sure that you aren’t hurt during sex or that you are ready for him has you dripping. He might not love you, but he cares about you in his own way. You know that other women aren’t given the same courtesy instinctively. Moaning around him, you squeeze the base and give him a gentle suck. 

"Shit. You are a natural." Dave hisses, watching you as you experiment with his cock. "Such a good girl. Such a perfect wife. You are doing a good job. Taking my cock in that pretty little mouth. You gonna do what you want to me?" He rambles, glad the driver is paid to keep quiet.

You hum, feeling powerful as you feel your husband’s control slipping. Right now you are in control and you feel like you could tell him to do anything and he would. Instead of testing that theory, you think about all of the things you had read and watched, pulling off of him again to kiss the tip and kitten lick it before you take him deeper again. Pushing him to the back of your throat, right before you gag and you slide a hand down to gently explore his balls. 

"Careful. Don't - shit - don't hurt yourself." Dave orders, reaching down to cup your cheek despite the urge to thrust down your throat. He won't hurt you, won't add that sin to the neverending list of reasons why you hate him. "Shit. You are a dirty girl, aren't you? Where - fuck - did you learn this?" He pants.

Satisfied that you are pleasing him, you pull off his cock with a smirk. “I might have been a virgin, but I still read and watched porn.” You admit, rolling his balls around in your palm and your other hand slowly jerks off the base of his cock. “Plus, I love eating bananas.” You tease before you lower your head again and take him back into your mouth.

Dave's cock twitches inside of your mouth and he lets you bob your head a few more times until he grabs the back of your neck to drag you off of his cock. Reaching for you, he pulls you up into his lap. "You're gonna tell me what you read and watched while you ride my cock." He says, reaching between you to grip his cock and he checks you're wet enough before notching the head at your entrance, groaning at how hot and wet you are as he thrusts up into you while pulling you down.

“Dave!” You cry out as he stretches you. There isn’t the pain that there had been the last time, but you feel him just as vividly. Instead of trying to squirm away, you grind down on him, your head falling forward onto his shoulder while he grabs your hips. “I- I don’t know all the porns.” You admit breathlessly. “A website. Bellesa House.” You whimper when you pull your hips up by bracing your knees on the seat and then quickly sink back down on him. “B-books are in my- my room.” 

“What do you want? What have you seen in the porn or read in the books that you want done to you? Or to do?” He asks, his voice low and raspy as he tries to control himself. You are so tight. He grabs your ass, helping to guide you as you rock on his cock.

“I want- I want you to cum down my throat.” You know he won’t, not this time. But you want to taste more than the salty spurt of his pre-cum. Dave groans, and you think he’s going to say no, but you keep talking. “I- I want to be- to be taken from behind.” You admit, cheeks burning as you try to voice what you had seen. It had turned you on and you imagined being fucked like that but you couldn’t imagine it realistically. 

He loves hearing you talk like this. “Not so innocent. That sweet little virgin rubbing her clit while thinking of swallowing cum and getting fucked from behind. What a little whore.” He teases, kissing your neck. “We can do that. Just want you pregnant. You can swallow my cum after you’re pregnant. I can fuck you from behind when we get home. I want you to ride me now. Cum before we get home.” He smacks your ass.

Squealing, you move a little faster on his lap. Bouncing on his cock unsteadily before you start finding that natural rhythm that makes it feel so good. “Dave.” You moan softly, ducking your head down and biting his bottom lip. “Slap my ass again.” You demand, enjoying the sting so much more than you thought you would have. 

He obliges you, slapping your ass again, and he hisses when your walls clamp down on him. "So beautiful." He murmurs, kissing your chest and he reaches up to tug on the gown, breaking the strap so he can pull it down and wrap his lips around your nipple, biting down on it.

You whine, having played with your nipples before, but Dave hadn’t sucked on the first for long. It makes you clench down around him again and roll your hips fast. “Oh god.” You whimper, making him chuckle. “Not God baby, your husband.” He corrects you and you tug on his hair harder. Pulling him towards your breasts more. “Fuck.” You gasp out, not even worried about the driver up front, too engrossed in the way that he is making you feel. 

To see his previously virginal wife ride his cock like a pro and moan like a whore, it has him ready to cum. You are a fucking angel and devil combined in one beautiful package and he knows in this moment that he has made the right choice. It would be easy to love you but he won't allow himself. Love gets people killed and he won't do it. He switches to your other breast, ripping the other strap of the expensive gown and he groans when your walls flutter around his length.

“Fill me up.” You gasp out, feeling your cunt start to clench down around it. It’s dirty sounding, filthy - but right now it sounds like the sexiest thing ever. “P-please Dave.” You beg, grinding down on him as your hips stutter. “Fill me up, want to feel it.” 

Dave wants you to cum first, you haven't cum from penetration. He clenches his jaw, willing himself to hold off from cumming, and he reaches between you to rub your clit. "Cum first baby. Need to feel you soak my cock."

It only takes a few more rolls of your hips before you are crying out. You stiffen in his arms, your walls shaking around his length and you feel the hot rush of pleasure flood your core and hear the squelch the next time you slide up on his cock. 

Dave loves seeing you cum, the way your mouth opens and your brow furrows, it's fucking art. He lets himself go, grabbing your hips to pull you down onto his cock, pushing into your tight walls before painting them with his hot seed, a low groan escaping his lips while he buries his face in your neck.

This time, you don’t cry. Instead, you drop your cheek onto his shoulder and sigh, trying to catch your breath. “Oh wow.” Giggling, you can’t believe that you just fucked your husband in the back of the car. Feeling free and slightly thrilled about that. Feeling him throb and your walls randomly flutter around him as you both relax. 

Dave kisses you softly, praying that you just got pregnant, but he knows it’s unlikely since you aren’t ovulating. He sighs and shifts you off of him, grabbing his handkerchief to clean you up and he just straightens himself up as the car pulls up to the house. He can’t allow himself to be fully invested in this marriage. Love causes distractions which cause mistakes which ultimately lead to death. He refuses to be his parents. Getting out of the car, Dave helps you out and you lean against him until you’re inside. “I have work to do.” He declares, gently pushing you away.

You stare at him for a moment, unable to believe after that he is pushing you away. “Okay.” You watch him walk away as you hold onto the straps of your gown. He obviously wants a family that he can pay attention to at his leisure. When he decides that he wants to give you more attention, you will have a headache.

Dave sighs, shutting down his computer, and he knows you hate him but what can he do? It’s better this way. The less attachment the better. Especially when you demand a divorce. You wouldn’t want to stay married to a man like him. Dave bites his lip and remembers the way you felt around him and his cock twitches. “Fuck.” He groans, rubbing his thighs, and he stands up, malign his way to your room. “Sweetheart. Can I come in?”

You had been reading when your door knob turned before the lock stopped him from opening it. Huffing, you set aside your book and stand. After he had left you, you had taken a bath and changed into your sleep clothes. Walking over to the door, you fling it open. “No.” You state firmly. “You cannot. I- I don’t understand you. You blow so hot and cold and I’m not putting up with it.” You tell him. “We have a fantastic time in the limo and then you just push me aside. I’m your wife, not some whore you fuck in that hotel room.” Tears gather in your eyes but you ignore them. “You want to treat me this way? Fine. Your sex for the day is already accomplished. There’s no need for you to come inside or touch me again tonight.”

Dave wants to push past you and enter your room but something inside of him tells him that it will do damage to your somewhat reasonable relationship. Dave slams his hand on the door frame, leaning in slightly. “Fine. I’ll go to the hotel and find one of those whores if my wife won’t let me fuck her.” He growls, pissed off at you for thinking he’s cold when you are like the damn arctic. “I won’t touch you tonight. I’ll touch someone else. Enjoy your evening…sweetheart.” He adds sarcastically and stalks downstairs, calling for his driver to take him to the hotel.

You swallow, heart plummeting as you hear him slam the front door of the large house and you are left with the ringing silence. You have lost this round. He doesn’t care enough about you to even hide the fact that he wouldn’t be faithful to you. Tears in your eyes, you start walking down the hall towards the kitchen. It’s not like you will be able to read your book tonight while you listen for him to come back. You might as well do some baking. Maybe you would drop off treats for some of the local food banks or soup kitchens around the city. Something to make you feel better than you do right now.

Dave enters his home, pissed because he couldn’t bring himself to fuck another woman. He tells himself it’s because he doesn’t want to risk catching something and passing it onto you and therefore a baby, but in reality he couldn’t do it. He stalks into the house and he frowns when he walks in to the kitchen to find you baking. “What’s all this?” He gestures to the cupcakes and muffins and cookies covering the countertops.

“Baking.” You answer as you turn around to slide another tray of muffins into the oven. “I knew that I wouldn’t be able to go to sleep, so I decided to be productive.” You turn around and take the oven mitt off before you look over at him standing in the kitchen doorway. “I’m planning on taking them to the soup kitchens and orphanages tomorrow. Give them a treat and credit the York family.” You are surprised he’s home, having anticipated him to be gone all night rather than a few hours. “Was your night to your satisfaction?” You ask politely.

Dave is taken back by how kind you truly are. He knew that before he married you but for you to bake cookies for orphans? Jesus Christ, you’re a fucking angel. You deserve to be treated as such. “No. I am not satisfied because my wife wouldn’t let me touch her. I spent the entire night imagining spreading her legs and burying my tongue in her cunt but I couldn’t do that because she barred me from her room.” He steps closer to you.

“You didn’t find someone else’s pussy to lick?” You ask with an attitude and Dave chuckles.

“No one else’s pussy seems to do it for me now. Tell me to stop.” He orders, his fingers trailing along your arms and he spins you around. “Tell me to stop and I won’t put you on the counter and bury my tongue in your sweet cunt.”

“Stop pushing me away the second you finish with me.” Your demand, looking into his eyes and then at his lips. His tongue is good, even as inexperienced as you are, you know that. “I just want to feel like I’m more than a trophy and brood mare for you.”

“What do you want from me? I can’t give you love. I know you want it but I can’t - I can’t love you. I can give you anything else in this world. I am a killer, a cold bastard who doesn’t even know how to cuddle. Can’t you accept me as I am?” He pleads, looking into your eyes.

Your heart breaks, hearing that he will never love you. At least it’s honest, and that’s a start. “I want faithfulness.” You admit. “I- you won’t love me, I’ll- I’ll accept that.” Your voice wavers slightly but you continue on. “Just- when we are done, talk to me. Even if it’s about your work. Share it with me. A marriage is supposed to be a partnership, so share your burdens with me.”

He nods, reaching for your hands. “I can do that.” He promises, squeezing your hands. He knows he should work on his aftercare. “I can be faithful to you, I don’t - your pussy has honestly ruined any other for me.” He admits, blushing a little.

You snort and lift a brow, not quite believing him. “It’s because it’s a new toy.” You remind him. “I’m sure you won’t feel the same way when I’m fat and unattractive carrying that child you want.” You reach up and poke him in the chest. “Speaking of - you may not be able to love me - but our children will never know that their father doesn’t believe they hung the moon.” You tell him fiercely. “They will brag to their friends that they have the best dad in the world.”

Dave chuckles at your ferocity, it’s sexy and admirable. “I’m sure they will tell everyone their mama is the best in the world more than me. You’ll be an amazing mother. I can’t wait to witness it.” His hand slides down to your stomach, wishing you were already pregnant. “Besides, I think you’ll be the most beautiful pregnant woman. I think I’ll want to worship you.” He murmurs, his cold heart thumping when you offer him a bashful smile. “Now, are you gonna let me lick that pretty pussy?” He hums, kissing the side of your head.

“You really didn’t touch someone else?” You ask quietly, looking at him solemnly and Dave shakes his head.

“I didn’t.” He promises you, making you lunge forward and press your lips to his. Your marriage is tumultuous and there have been some hard feelings, but you want this to work, because you are his. Yes, it will hurt that he will never love you, but you will worry about that later.

Dave groans at how eager you are, his hands squeezing your ass until he grabs your thighs, managing to lift you onto the countertop that is covered in flour. He reaches for your shorts, dragging them down your legs along with your panties until he pushes them apart. “Best fucking pussy in D.C.” He growls before he dives in, sliding his tongue through your folds.

You giggle at his actions, plopping you down into flour without a care. “I- you only have ten more minutes Dave.” You tease, looking over at the timer on the counter top. “Think you can make me cum that quickly?”

Dave pulls back to smirk at you, “please baby. I’ll have you cumming in seven.” He dives back in, sucking your clit into his mouth and he has never been a man to give oral unless he’s going to receive too but fuck, you’re so sweet. Just like you, sweet and a little sour. He loves it. His tongue flicks over your clit and his finger circles your entrance before he pushes it inside of you.

“Cheater!” You gasp, tangling your fingers into his hair and sliding down the counter, pushing some of the flour onto the floor. “N-not f-fair to use your fin-gers.” You pant out, smirking the entire time. You love the smirk he had given you and the playfulness in his tone. That is what you want from him.

Dave chuckles at your protest but suck’s your clit into his mouth. He never said he plays fair. He always gets what he wants and that will be him making you cum in less than seven minutes. He pushes another finger into your cunt, curling them before he resumes sucking your clit.

You whimper, whine and moan your way closer to an orgasm. Every suck if his mouth is paired with a curling of his fingers and you are just barreling closer to falling apart every second he is touching you. Rocking your hips again this face, you lean against the cabinets and moan out his name, hoping the housekeeper doesn’t come into the kitchen.

You cry out, pulling at his hair while your entire body bows up and you start to cum. Flooding his fingers with your release and your thighs close around his head. “Dave!” You cry out in pleasure.

He hums, making your thighs shake, and he works you through it, loving the way you cry out his name. He pumps his fingers a few times until he withdraws them, sticking them into his mouth to clean them up while your chest heaves as you relax from your orgasm.

“Jesus.” You sigh, blissed out. “That is so much better than what I could do.” You admit softly. Taking a few breathes, you open your eyes and look at Dave. “How do you want me after I pulled the muffins out?”

Dave waggles his eyebrows, making you giggle, and he loves the sound. He winks at you and reaches for your shirt, glad you didn’t put a bra back on. “I want you to bend over the kitchen table, I want to fuck you from behind.”

You pull the muffins out of the oven completely nude, with Dave behind you trying to pull his cock out of his pants like he had in the limo. You set the tray down on a cooling rack and bend over the counter, laughing when your breasts are dragging through the impression of your ass from earlier. You look over your shoulder and shake your ass at him playfully. “Hurry up.”

He chuckles at your impatience, slapping your ass then he grips his cock, positioning himself at your entrance and pushing in without premise. “Fuck.” He hisses at how tight you are, his forehead resting against your back as he looms over you.

“Oh fuck.” You feel him from the sex in the car on the way home, but he feels amazing right now. Even larger from this position. “Dave.” You whimper quietly. “I- I want you to fuck me.”

He kisses your spine and he starts to move, a quick, hard pace that has your hips slamming against the edge of the counter. He groans your name at the way your cunt grips him and he can’t believe he ever thought any other pussy could compare. This is his cunt. He owns it. He just wonders if you are starting to own his cock. “Shit.” He hisses to himself as he realizes he is starting to care.

“Fuck.” You reach back and grab onto his hip, urging him on. You love the way he feels shredding up into you. Wondering if tonight in the kitchen is the night you get pregnant. “Fuck Dave.” You whimper, collapsing forward and your breasts press into the flour.

He grunts, sweat beading on his brow from the force of his thrusts. “So fucking good. So good baby. Jesus, such a good pussy. The best. And mine. God, gonna knock you up right now. Just - just need you to cum again.” He pants, squeezing his hand underneath you to rub your clit.

“Fuuuuuuuck.” You whine, pushing back against him and gasping when he finds your clit with precise accuracy. “I- oh god, I’m gonna cum again.” You slap your hand down in the flour and wail his name again, clenching down around him.

“Good girl. Good girl. Fuck. Gonna make me - you’re so - oh fuck.” He growls, burying his cock deep inside of you and painting your walls for the second time that night.

You pant, feeling him continuing to grind into you as he rides out his high. As you catch your breath, you wonder if he will push you away again or actually try to open up slightly. If he doesn’t, you will just try to get pregnant as quickly as possible.

Dave sighs, kissing along your neck. His instinct is to pull out of you and rush off to his room but he can’t. Even if he wanted to, he can’t leave you right now. He grabs a clean dishcloth from the nearby drawer and he pulls out, gently cleaning you up. “Gotta shower with all the flour that’s on you. Or do you want a bath? I can go run it once you’re done baking.” He offers, wanting you to be happy and not sad with him.

“Shower.” You decide, biting your lip and looking around at all the food. “Will you take one with me? Then I’ll put this stuff away.” You will let him escape after the shower, knowing he doesn’t want to spend too much time with you.

Dave nods, knowing it's getting into dangerous territory but he can't refuse you when you look at him like that. "Okay baby. Let's go shower." He takes your hand and decides to let you guide him. "Yours or mine?" He asks, not caring about the flour that's all over his suit and the house.

“We can use mine.” You offer softly. “It will give you a reason to have to leave.” You squeeze his hand in yours to let him know that you aren’t upset about it. You asked for time after sex and he’s giving it to you. You wouldn’t be bitchy because he didn’t live up to romance novels.

Dave appreciates your acceptance that he won't be your prince charming. He lets you guide him to your bedroom and he watches you lean in to turn on the shower. "You've got flour all over your ass." He chuckles, slapping your ass playfully and he works on undressing himself.

You giggle and turn around to watch him undress. “Flour on my tits as well.” You remind him, watching him reveal inch by inch with every article he takes off. You step into the shower and adjust the spray, watching the flour start to stream down your body in white rivulets. “Maybe you did it this time.” You murmur, mostly to yourself as you run your hands over your body.

Dave hears you and he is torn. Part of him wants you to be pregnant, anxious to see you grow with his child. The other part of him wants to keep trying to get you pregnant. He kicks his boxers aside and steps in behind you, groaning at the hot water hitting his chest. "Are you ready to be pregnant?" He asks.

“I- I don’t know.” You confess. “Our relationship is very…precarious, but then again - it is what you married me for.” You step to the side and reach for your body wash. “I think I’m- I’m afraid.” You sigh softly. “Who knows what will happen while I’m pregnant. Most women are hormonal and you aren’t known for your patience.”

He watches you, knowing that your fears are valid, but he would never reprimand you for your hormones. He reaches for your cheeks, bringing your eyes to his. "Sweetheart, if you are - or get - pregnant, I will worship the fucking ground you walk on. I have wanted this, a family, for my entire life and for you to give it to me...I could never thank you enough. Please don't be scared. I'll be there for you." He promises.

You swallow and nod, hoping that he’s telling the truth. “You say that now, but wait until I’m crying because the pickle and chocolate chip muffins don’t taste like I imagined.” You joke, wanting to lift the atmosphere a bit.

He chuckles, rubbing your cheeks with his thumbs, and he leans forward to kiss your forehead. "Ice cream and pickles was what my mom craved. Anything you want...it is yours. I can give you whatever you want." He promises.

You sigh, handing him the body wash, "except you." Dave doesn't respond, working on cleaning himself off.

The rest of your shower is quiet, not uncomfortable, but it’s clear that the two of you are lost in your own thoughts. Once both of you are clean, you turn off the water and brush past Dave to reach for a towel for him as you step out. “Have a good night Dave.” You offer softly. “I’m going to go clean up the kitchen and then go to bed.” You lean in and press your lips to his. “Sweet dreams.”

He wraps the towel around his waist, watching you go and he wants to drag you back into his arms. Shit, he’s already in deep and he doesn’t know how to pull himself away from you. He needs to stop feeling like this. He grabs his clothes and makes his way back to his room, determined to not go back and crawl into your bed.

It doesn’t surprise you that Dave is gone when you come back to your room. The baked goods stored and the kitchen cleaned, it’s been at least two hours. Climbing into bed, you sigh softly. You’re probably never going to know what it’s like to sleep in the same bed as him. 

****

“Are you sure you don’t want to wait for Mr. York?” Mrs. Jones asks as she frets. “He should be awake soon and you can have breakfast together.”

You smile at the older woman and continue to put the boxes of goods into the car that the driver had pulled around to the kitchen door. “No, I want them to have them while they are still fresh.” You explain. “Mr. York knows I am delivering them. He won’t even notice that I’m not at the table.” You promise with another smile. “He’ll be reading his paper or answering emails on his phone.” Turning to the driver you nod. “I’m ready to go. You have the list of addresses.” You had woken up early and written cards to go along with the treats, explaining who they were from and why. It was a gesture that you hoped makes Dave’s family name shine.

Dave comes downstairs dressed in a crisp suit, ready for his day of meetings, and he frowns when he doesn’t find you sitting at the kitchen table. He looks at his housekeeper. “Where is my beautiful wife this morning?” He asks and she tells him that you’ve gone out to deliver the baked goods you made last night. With a sigh, he resigns himself to breakfast alone until he makes his way to his office, driving himself since you have taken the driver.

You come back home, feeling better and happier than you have in quite awhile. You had delivered the muffins, cookies and cakes to surprised and grateful directors on behalf of the York family. Early enough for breakfast to be able to watch the kids in the orphanage enjoy the rare breakfast treats that made them all think it was a special occasion. You had cried when you had gotten back to the car, vowing that you were going to get Dave to either donate to them or arrange a charity event to bolster their stretched budget. Feeling a little disappointed that you had completely missed Dave, you decide that you will take lunch to him at his office to make up for it and surprise him.

Dave is surprised when his secretary pages in to tell him that you are here. He tells her to send you in and stands up, his jacket already removed and tie loosened. “Hey sweetheart. What are you doing here?” He asks, kissing your cheek. He thought he wouldn’t see you today, knowing that it’s going to be a long day.

You hold up the large bag you had packed from the kitchen with a sweet smile. “Since I didn’t make it back in time to see you before you left, I decided to do the wifely thing and bring you lunch.” You bite your lip and look at him playfully. “Is that okay? Or do you have a lunch routine I shouldn’t interrupt?”

Dave thinks about his schedule and remembers he has a phone call with a CEO of some new tech company who wants his investment. Dave picks up his phone to dial his secretary. “Hey Sally, can you reschedule that tech kid for another time. I am going to have lunch with my wife instead of speaking with that little Zuckerberg wannabe.” He orders and when she says “no problem sir,” he hangs up and turns back to you. “What has my beautiful wife brought me for lunch? Herself?” He teases, wanting to be a little less formal around you now.

That thought had crossed your mind, so you send him a smirk. “That’s for dessert.” You tease, happy that he hasn’t sent you away. “I packed up some sandwiches and some soup that I had made last night between baking batches.” You know it’s not the most formal lunch, he probably at five star restaurants for lunch, but there had been something very sweetly domestic about fixing the lunch yourself. “A fruit salad, some tea. Just something to power you through the day.”

Dave is taken back. He doesn’t remember the last time someone cooked for him that he hasn’t paid as a cook or a restaurant. “I- Wow. You made all of this?” He asks when you start to unpack it. You nod, biting your lip and he is in awe of you. “Thank you.” He kisses your cheek and guides you over to the table in his office so you can eat together.

You set out all the food, happy that he is impressed with the simple fare. You had made the sandwiches thick, fresh vegetables and avocado on them along with meat and cheese. “So this morning, I dropped off the treats to the orphanage that is close to our house.” You tell him after taking a sip of your tea. “Dave, their budget is so stretched that can barely make the necessities.” You tut. “The kids thought it was Christmas morning to have the muffins and be told that there would be cookies for dessert tonight.” You look over at him. “I was thinking about either setting up a charity event to raise extra funds or seeing if you would make a donation.”

He can’t help the impressed noise that escapes his mouth. Your charity is unusual. Sure, he donates to charities but that’s mostly for tax credits and for political gains, not for actually caring about the cause. He decides then and there you can give to whatever charity you want. “Whatever you prefer. If you wish to throw an event and plan it, the money is yours. If you want to just donate, the money is yours.” He promises, sitting down and admiring the sandwich you made. He groans and picks it up, taking a bite and moaning at the simple but delicious food.

“Why not both?” You ask with an excited smile. “Set a budget for me to use or donate and whatever doesn’t go into the event, will be the first donation check for them.” You immediately start thinking of ideas that would both draw in some of the wealthy politicians and perhaps allow the kids at the orphanage to come and enjoy themselves. “Would that be okay? And would you allow me to open up our house? I am thinking of a fair, or carnival type of atmosphere? Family friendly and good PR for a lot of politicians.”

Dave ponders it. He’s always been a private man and doesn’t like strangers in his home, especially considering it’s not common knowledge about his less than legal dealings. He considers it and the hope in your eyes has him saying yes. “You can do whatever you want sweetheart. You can have whatever you want.”

You can’t help it, jumping up out of your seat, you press a kiss to his cheek. “I will make sure the event stays to the grounds. The house will be off limits.” You promise, understanding he might be wary for strangers to be milling around his house. “We just have a lot of green space that would be perfect.”

Dave pulls you into his lap, cupping your cheek so he can press his lips to yours. “I will hire an event coordinator to help you. I don’t want you to stress about it.” He murmurs against your lips. It’s far too easy to be intimate with you, you seem to bring it out in him.

You smile and kiss him again, pecking his lips happily. You are the wife of a wealthy and influential man, you want to make changes where you can and his approval means at lot more to you that you had first anticipated. “Thank you.” You whisper softly. “Eat your lunch so you can either go back to work or have dessert.” You tease.

Dave keeps you on his lap, not wanting you to move as you eat your sandwiches and he kisses your neck after you’ve finished eating. “I do believe I was promised dessert.” He coos, sliding his hand along your thigh.

“You want a quickie in your office?” You ask as you twist around in your seat and press your lips to his. “A nooner before you have to go back to boring business? Or do you…” you bite your lip and grin at him. “Do you want to take a call while I’m sitting on your cock?”

Dave groans, "shit. I want both. Next time...next time you can sit on my cock." He reaches for your dress - thank fuck you're wearing a dress. "Want you to ride my cock here."

You are thrilled that he’s already talking about a next time, meaning he enjoyed you coming to bring him lunch. You moan softly when he hooks his fingers under your panties and starts pushing them down. You’re already wet, having anticipated this happening, your slick is already coating your lips and his fingers slide through your folds easily.

He groans at how slick you already are, quickly finding your clit to rub the bundle of nerves while he fumbles with his belt, wanting you to cum on his cock. He is so happy you want him, are eager for him. He manages to unzip his pants, "take my cock out." He orders with a pant, his fingers pushing into you.

Moaning quietly, you reach into his pants, and pull his thick cock out. “Fuck, someone is eager to get inside me.” You tease, rolling your hips on his fingers while you spit in your hand and reach down to start stroking his cock. “You want me to ride this cock?” You purr softly in his ear before you nip his lobe. 

Dave hisses when you bite his ear and he groans when you twist your wrist. "Please baby. Need - need you to fuck me. Please ride my cock." He doesn't beg but right now, he feels like he's gonna die if he doesn't get inside of you. 

The begging catches you off guard and there is nothing you wouldn’t do for him when he use that tone with you. It’s sexier than his demanding tone and you’ve come to find that you enjoy it. Batting his fingers away from your cunt, you scramble to get into position and you don’t even wait, sinking down on him quickly with a moan loud enough that his secretary hears you.

“Oh fuck.” Dave groans, his head going back as he closes his eyes. Your pussy is so wet and tight around him. He doesn’t know if anyone else would compare. He grabs your hands, securing them behind your back to arch your figure so he can bury his face in your tits, kissing along the flesh. “Want you to ride my cock.” He orders. “Please.” He begs a little more.

Planting your feet on the floor, you push up off his cock almost completely before you sink back down. Moaning and leaning back to give him more access to your breasts while you start to ride him. It makes your thighs burn, but you love the sounds that he makes, that your cunt makes as you take him again and again. Starting to become addicted to the way that Dave feels inside you. You know that you will want to do this again and again. 

Dave watches you, enraptured by your very being, and he grabs your dress, shoving it up so he can watch his cock disappear inside of you over and over again. Fuck you look gorgeous. "That's it baby. Shit, look at you riding my cock. My sweet little wife is actually a dirty little whore." He teases, looking into your beautiful eyes.

“Your dirty little w-whore.” You pant out breathlessly, trying to keep the pace steady. You know he will like that. “O-only yours.” It’s true, and you know it makes his cock even harder to know that he’s the only one that has seen you this way. “Oh fuck, Dave.” 

"Jesus." Dave lets go of your dress, reaching to grab your ass and he spreads your cheeks, pressing his finger to your puckered hole, loving how it flutters under his touch. "So good. All mine." He groans, cock twitching inside of you and he kisses along your neck.

“Only- only cock to be inside me.” You moan when his cock twitches. “When- when I’m pregnant,” you pant. “I - I want you to fuck my ass.” You admit, cheeks burning with excitement and embarrassment. He wanted to know what you want, so you don’t feel bad about telling him that.

“Oh fuck. Oh fuck.” The very thought sends Dave over the edge and his cock throbs while he paints your walls with his hot seed. He buries his face in your chest as he slowly thrusts up into you until he relaxes beneath you. You are a little disappointed, realizing that it’s gonna be a repeat of your wedding night. That is until Dave shifts his hand to rub your clit. “Want you to cum on my cock.” He orders, kissing along your chest.

“Dave.” You whimper and your walls clench around his spent cock, making him hiss. You had expected him to be done and this has you eagerly rolling your hips, careful to keep him inside you, “fuck, I’m gonna cum all over you.” You pant, leaning in push his face into your breasts harder. “Fuck baby, rub it faster.”

He bites down on your nipple through the thin material of your dress and your lace bra. He groans when your walls squeeze him and he rubs your clit a little harder. “Cum for me.” He pleads, wanting to hear and feel it.

You throw your head back, following his order and soaking his softening cock with your juices as you cry out his name. Gasping and trembling in his arms as he’s the only thing keeping you upright.

He loves it. Wrapping his arms around you after working you through your orgasm to pull you close. He knows he shouldn’t be doing this, it’s too dangerous, but you seem to make him want it all with you. It’s both scary and exhilarating. “So good.” He murmurs, kissing you softly.

You hum against his lips, smiling in pleasure and kissing him back multiple times before you pull away. “We should clean up, and then I need to let you get back to work.” You murmur softly, aware that he would want space after this. Cupping his cheeks, you kiss him one last time before you start to stand, groaning softly as he falls out of you.

He grabs the napkins you’d brought with you to clean himself up, tucking himself away and he reaches for you, gently wiping you clean. “I hope you’re pregnant. I can’t wait to see it. See you full of my baby.” He caresses your stomach after pulling your dress down and replacing your panties.

You smile again and lean in to kiss him. “We’ll keep trying until I am.” You promise, knowing that is his greatest wish. Quickly packing up the remnants of lunch, you shoulder the bag. “I’ll see you when you get home, honey.” You tell him. “Have a good afternoon, okay?”

Dave nods, kissing your cheek, and thanks you for lunch. It’s weirdly domestic but he doesn’t hate it. In fact, he can’t wait to get home and see you. Shit, what is happening to him? He wants to be inside of you again, and he realizes it’s not just to get you pregnant.

****

You close your eyes and take a deep breath, reminding yourself that the timer hasn’t gone off yet. You need to wait until the full three minutes is up and not get your hopes up too much. Only a day late for your period, you are already freaking out about the possibility of being pregnant. Not that it would be a bad thing. You’ve been trying. The once a day edict that Dave had set down after your last period had quickly turned into several times a day. You going to his office for lunch more often than not, sex when he gets home and sometimes, even before he goes into the office. The timer scares you, making you jump and you brace yourself, turning the test over and gasping when you see the word ‘pregnant’ clearly on the digital readout. Laughing happily, you race out of your private bathroom to get ready to tell Dave when he gets home. 

Dave walks into the house, setting his briefcase down and he shrugs off his jacket, placing it over the chair in the hallway. “Honey, I’m home.” He calls out. It had originally been to annoy you but now he loves saying it and you love hearing it. The marriage he had forced for an heir is slowly becoming real and it terrifies him but he can’t seem to stop. He walks into the kitchen to find you icing a cake. “Baking again?” He teases, loving how you love to cook.

“Your home!” Your smile is brilliant and you rush over to hug him, piping bag still in your hand. Your lips easily land on his happily, loving how he immediately wraps his arms around you and kisses you back. “I sent everyone home tonight.”

He smirks, his hands sliding down to squeeze your ass. “Why? You want me to eat you out on the kitchen counter again?” He coos, kissing your neck. You fluster, unable to believe that the poor housekeeper walked in on you both before she was due to clean up the kitchen.

“No.” You huff, burying your face against his neck and inhaling the muted scent of his cologne. He always smells good and you wish that at least one night you could sleep in his arms, but that isn’t the deal. “I- I have a surprise for you.” You admit softly, pulling away and walking over to a beautifully wrapped gift. “I was going to wait for dessert tonight, but I can’t.”

Dave frowns, “you didn’t have to get me anything sweetheart. I don’t - have I missed a half anniversary or something?” He tries to figure out what he has missed. When you hand him the gift without an explanation, he frowns even more. He carefully opens it, eyes on you until he looks down.

You had gone out and bought a cute little onesie, proudly proclaiming ‘Daddy’s My Favorite’. You had placed the positive pregnancy test on top of the onesie right below the words. Your grin is wide as his brow furrows for a second, obviously not understanding right away.

“You- you’re - you’re pregnant?” He chokes out and you nod, still grinning. Dave stares at the test again, caressing it and there’s a lump in his throat which he chokes on. For the first time since his parents died, Dave cries. He sets the gift down and reaches for you, pulling you into his arms as he cries with joy because you’re pregnant with his child. It’s his dream come true.

Surprised that your husband is crying, you wrap your arms around him and stroke his back and neck. You don’t doubt that he is happy, you know they are tears of joy but it still takes you off guard. Your own tears spill over and you cling to him. “I’m pregnant. It’s happening. We’re having a baby.”

Dave pulls back, grinning at you and he cups your cheeks, leaning in to kiss you. “You’re incredible. I- I am so happy.” He murmurs, looking at you in awe. His lips pressing against yours again.

You lean into the kiss, happy that you can give him what he wanted. He’s wanted this from the beginning, it’s why he married you. “I made a doctor’s appointment for tomorrow. Just to get the ball rolling.” You tell him after you pull back. “I know you can’t take off to come, but I will let you know what they say.”

“You can FaceTime me so I can be there even if I can’t physically be there. You’re going to relax. I don’t want you stressing or doing too much. Feet up all day. You’re gonna be a queen during this pregnancy.” He orders, wanting you to be looked after and cared for beyond anything else. “God.” He reaches for the test again, tears stinging his eyes again. “I can’t believe it.”

You want to roll your eyes at how bossy he’s already being, but you understand him enough that you know it out of concern for the pregnancy. “You can’t believe it?” You ask playfully. “So you weren’t trying to knock me up multiple times a day?”

Dave chuckles, kissing your forehead. "Thought we were just having fun." He teases, stepping back to place his hand on your lower stomach. "I want you to have everything you want." He tells you and your eyes meet his, showing him what you truly want, and he doesn't want to ruin the moment. "Almost everything." He murmurs, avoiding your eyes, no doubt full of pain. "What have you been baking?" He asks, changing the subject.

You sigh and move back over to the cake. “I was making a double white chocolate cream cake.” You explain. You had noticed that he did love your chocolate cakes and you wanted it to be good. “One layer is pink, one layer blue since we don’t know the sex.”

"I don't care if it's a boy or a girl. As long as it's healthy." He promises, watching you continue working on the cake. "What do you want?" He asks you, knowing you must think he wants a boy. He honestly doesn't mind.

“A healthy baby.” You don’t care if you have a boy or girl either. You are sure that you will be having another, Dave won’t want there to be just one child and you want your child to have playmates and siblings.

The words would be too easy to say, they'd slip off of the tongue like honey, and it would be right for the moment, but Dave cant' say them. Love is...it's not what he's feeling. Or is it? He doesn't really know how love feels. He's never been in love before. He can't love you though. Love destroys, love causes mistakes. He can't handle mistakes. Therefore, he clears his throat and steps away from you. "I'll, uh, leave you to your baking. I gotta - I have work to do. Let me know when dinner is ready." He rushes out, making his way to his office.

Your heart drops, although you know it’s Dave pulling back. He had promised you that he wouldn’t love you. He was intent on keeping that promise, for whatever reasons were his own. Instead of crying and feeling heartbroken, you go back to decorating your cake. You figured out that you would have to love enough for both of you, because you had fallen in love with your husband over the past month.

****

Dave holds your hand, watching the doctor move the wand around your stomach, and he’s nervous. You’re finding out the gender today and he is anxious. He isn’t one for reveal parties and he wanted to find out with just you, looking at the screen. “Congratulations. It’s a boy.” The doctor announces and Dave swears his entire life has been leading up to this moment.

“Oh my god.” Your eyes water instantly and you can’t wait for the doctor to clean the jelly off your stomach to be able to caress it again. Looking over at Dave, you love the look of awe on his face as he watches the monitor. Squeezing his hand gently, your heart swells - falling deeper in love with Dave. “We’re having a boy.” You whisper, smiling at him when he looks at you.

Dave leans down to kiss you softly.“Thank you. Thank you.” He murmurs, wanting to tell you what he can’t say but how can he? He promised himself he wouldn’t. “You’re incredible.” He whispers, kissing your lips again. “A boy. Our baby.”

“Our baby.” No matter what, you had created a life with Dave. Your child would be a new life in the world. To love unconditionally. The doctor cleans up the gel and prints off picture while you look down at your belly. “I love you baby boy.” You murmur softly. “Your daddy and I love you so much.”

Dave swallows the lump in his throat, his eyes stinging with unshed tears and he covers your belly with his free hand. He kisses your forehead, wanting to silently tell you how he feels without actually saying anything. Dave won’t even admit it to himself, he can’t. He won’t.

****

You can do this. You take a deep breath and push the door open to his office, knowing that he might tell you no. Dave looks up and gives you a smile, his eyes immediately drifting down to your swollen belly with pride. “I - I was wondering if I could ask you something. I request of sorts?”

Dave tilts his head and sets his pen down. “What do you want sweetheart? You want that ice cream again? I can send out for it.” He says and frowns when you shake your head, moving closer to his desk.

“I want…I want you to sleep in the bed with me. At night…I get cold and I want - I want you to hold me.” You bite your lip and Dave sighs, standing up.

“Sweetheart. I can’t do that. I’m sorry. I’ll get you some blankets but - but I can’t do it.” He wishes you could understand.

You shake your head, tears filling your eyes, once again wishing that you didn’t have these feelings for Dave. “I’m just asking you to sleep with me.” You protest. “You- you told me I could have anything I wanted when I was pregnant and you- you barely touch me now.”

“You can have anything. I can buy you an entire fucking McDonalds if you want a burger and fries. I can buy you a spa if you want a massage. You can have anything you want.” He counters, annoyed that you’re upset with him when you know the deal. It’s true he hasn’t touched you since you got pregnant but honestly, it’s because he is terrified of hurting you. He doesn’t want to harm the baby and he definitely doesn’t want to delve into ‘making love.’

“I don’t want a fucking burger.” You growl, tears streaming down your face. “I want my husband! I want you to touch me, to make me believe that you didn’t lie to me.” You choke back a sob. “You- you’re going to the hotel aren’t you? You decided that I’m not what you want and you’ve started sleeping with those women again.”

Dave shakes his head, placing his hands on his desk. “Goddamnit woman. What I do, who I do, is none of your fucking concern. You don’t own me. I own you. You’re mine. I don’t belong to you so if I decide to go fuck some whore in a hotel room, that’s my choice. You need to calm down for the baby.” He reminds you with a hiss. Hating himself for what he said but he can’t tell you what he really feels, how he wants to grab you and worship you, make you feel every fucking emotion he feels for you.

Your heart shatters, making your shoulders drop and your sob springs from your throat. “I- I was wrong.” You choke out. “I- I thought me loving you was enough. That- that- that I could love you enough for both of us.” You shake your head. “I was wrong.” You turn and rush out of the room as fast as you can manage with your pregnant waddle. The confirmation of him sleeping with other women has crushed you and you need to get away from him.

Dave slumps down into his plush chair, his heart aching for you. All he wants to do is run after you, pull you into his arms and tell you how he feels. He knows that most people would think he's being crazy but it's better this way. If something happens, he can protect you. You hating him is better than you loving him, it will protect you both. His mind runs over the words "I thought me loving you was enough." You love him. His heart aches even more he's certain it's shattering to pieces in his chest.

Rushing out of the house with your purse, you brush off the driver’s offer to take you somewhere. You can drive yourself and you need to get away, clear your mind. Driving through the streets of D.C., you find yourself in front of the orphanage. The charity event had been a great success and you were proud of the improvements that had been made. Making your way to the door after making sure you don’t look too upset, you knock, knowing that you can check up on some of your favorite children to take your mind off the fact your husband doesn’t love you.

“Mrs. York. What a pleasure to see you. Please, come in.” The orphanage manager greets you, ushering you inside. “Gosh, look at you. When are you due?” She asks, a soft smile on her face as she guides you towards the staff room so you can sit down for a moment.

“It seems like any day, but I have another month.” You tell her with a small laugh. You already feel better, the atmosphere had become very homey with the upgrades. The sounds of feet pounding upstairs makes you smile and you look around. “Things seem to be going well. How is everyone?”

“Oh wonderful, Mrs. York. We- we cannot thank you and Mr. York for your generous donations. We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for your kindness. Would you like a cup of tea? We have pastries too. Strawberry danish.” The older woman offers, grabbing the teapot she was drinking from and a new cup to pour you some then she gets the tray of baked goods. “Please, help yourself. I’m sure you’re starving.”

You give a small laugh, selecting a delicious looking danish and setting it on a napkin. The tea is a very welcome thing, taking a sip of it before you speak again. “It’s fate that this all started with me bringing you baked goods.” You offer, smiling as you reach for the danish and take a bite.

“Yes. You are an excellent baker. Our pastries simply don’t compare.” She replies with a soft smile, watching you chew on the danish until you choke. “Mrs. York? Is everything okay?” She asks and your eyes widen, dropping the danish onto the table. “Mrs. York?”

The tingle in the back of your throat had instantly turned into your throat starting to close. Gasping for air, you manage to croak out, “all-er-gic. Rasp-ber-ies.” Your reaction is terrifying you, not sure what would happen with the baby. Your purse is in the car and you feel like your drowning, unable to pull in a breath. “D-D-Daaave.”

“Oh my God. Do you- do you have any epipen? I think - I think we do. Oh God. I’m so sorry. I thought- I need to call an ambulance.” She fusses, unsure of what to do first so she calls out, telling another woman who immediately rushes to get the epipen and demands the manager calls an ambulance. She pushes the epipen into your thigh, “it’s okay dear. We are gonna get you help.”

You feel the roaring in your ears getting louder, your vision starting to narrow and get fuzzy around the edges. A clear indicator you’re going to loose consciousness. You grip the table and feel your body become even heavier, praying that no matter what happens, the baby will be okay. Dave can lose you, but he wants his son. Maybe it will be better if it works out that way. That is your last thought before your eyes roll back and you slump back in the chair, unconscious.

****

Dave is typing an email when his cell rings. It’s an unknown number which usually he ignores but something tells him to answer it. “Mr. York?” The voice says. “Yes.” Dave answers hesitantly. “This is Sibley Memorial. I’m calling because your wife was brought in with an allergic reaction-” Dave doesn’t even listen to the rest of what she says. He hangs up and sprints to his car, speeding out of his estate like a madman and not giving a fuck about any speed limits as he drives to the hospital. He leaves his car outside and rushes in, slamming his hands on the desk and demanding to know where you are.

You can’t open your eyes. They’re too heavy, but you feel people moving around you. The wild beeps on a monitor makes your lashes flutter. Your chest feels heavy, aching even, but you still can’t seem to force yourself to respond to anything.

Dave listens to the doctor, wondering what the hell happened, and when the doctor says "emergency c section due to lack of oxygen" and he chokes on his own breath when the doctor says "I need you to give me permission and...decide which one to save if the situation calls for it." Dave frowns, not quite understanding since his heart is hammering a mile a minute. "Do you want us to save the child or the mother?" The doctor asks, "if needed."

Dave feels sick. He knows that if he was asked this before you got married, he would've picked the baby without question. Now, he can't imagine his life without you. "Both. I want you to save both." He demands, starting to panic.

"Mr. York...if we can't save both..." The doctor trails off and Dave pinches his nose, trying to stop himself from crying.

"My wife. I want you to save my wife." He whispers, knowing that he couldn't live without you, he wants you more than he wants a baby. Something he never imagined he'd say. The doctor nods and calls for a nurse to prep for the emergency c-section, telling Dave to wait in the family room until they come to get him.

Your lashes flutter, hearing doctors and nurses moving around you. Talking and yet not able to make out what they are saying. You try to reach out, lift a hand but all you can do is move a finger. Your head lulls and you feel a mask come down over your mouth. More time, more mumbled talking until suddenly you hear a loud voice.

You hear Dave’s voice, making your brow furrow. What is he doing here? Where are you? Your blood pressure spikes, panicked and upset. You don’t know what is going on and all you can do is try to move but you can't. Breathing fast and your heart rate climbs.

"Sir. We need you to wait outside." The nurse pushes on Dave's chest. "Code blue! Code blue!" The doctor shouts and everyone starts to rush around you.

"What is going on? What the fuck is going on?" Dave shouts, trying to remain in the room but he is pushed by a few nurses outside of the room. "What's going on? What the fuck is happening with my wife?" He shouts, slumping when the doors shut behind the nurses as they go back into the room. He tries to get back in until he finds the door is secure and he chokes, tears in his eyes and he is scared. Terrified for the first time in his life. He's going to lose you. He's going to lose you before he ever truly had you.

Alarms beep, loud and intrusive. You hear shouted orders before the black consumes you again. The last thing that you manage to think of before you slip under is that Dave won’t have to worry about you. Your needing him to love you will be over and he can keep himself closed off.

Dave paces, his heart pounding in his ears, and he wants to demand the very best doctors for you, demand that they do something. Anything. When the nurse comes to find Dave, she says that you are stable but they are monitoring you and he can't see you yet. Dave wants to stomp but he doesn't. The nurse asks if he wants to see the baby and he nods, nearly crying. He follows her to the nursery and the nurse shows him how to hold the newborn baby that is placed in his arms. "He's healthy?" He asks and the nurse nods.

"Perfect. He's absolutely fine."

Dave chokes, tears streaming down his cheeks as he looks down at his child. The very thing he has wanted for so long but it's not enough. He wants this moment with you. "Hey buddy. I'm your daddy. Mama is - Mama will be here soon to see you. She is gonna be such a good mom. You're gonna be so spoiled and loved. I already love you so much." He murmurs, kissing the baby's forehead.

It’s hours later that Dave is allowed in your room. You’ve been cleaned up and moved to a private room, wires and IVs running all around you. The nurse brings the baby down from the nursery to stay in the room, telling him that the baby being here will be good for you. Perhaps wake you up sooner when you hear him cry. Your breathing is steady and the beep of your heart monitor is the only sound in the room when she closes the door behind her.

Dave just watches your chest rise and fall. He can't believe he nearly lost you. You're here and he grips your hand while his eyes flick over to the baby who is asleep. He wishes you were awake to hold the baby, he wants to see it. "Sweetheart." His voice is raspy from his tears. "I need you to wake up. Please. Our son needs you to wake up. You are- I love you. I love you so much." He finally admits, resting his head on your joined hands. "Please wake up."

You’re dreaming. You have to be. You are in a place where Dave is murmuring for you to wake up, that he loves you. Wrapped around you in bed, his hands caressing your swollen stomach and promising that he loves you. Tears leak out of your eyes because you know that it’s not true, he won’t love you. Not because he’s not capable, you know he is. He won’t just because he doesn’t want to.

Dave squeezes your hand, looking up and gasping when he sees tears rolling down your cheeks. "Hey hey sweetheart. It's okay. It' s okay. Please, open those beautiful eyes. Show me those pretty eyes and wake up." He pleads, kissing your forehead and cheeks, tasting the salt of your tears.

It takes you a long time to open your eyes, fighting not to leave the dream where Dave loves you and wants you like you want him. You groan quietly, your entire body sore and blink against the light that overwhelms your eyes before your vision starts to clear. “D-Dave.” You whimper, wishing that he was with you.

“I’m here baby. I’m here.” Dave cups your cheeks as your eyelashes flutter until he can see your beautiful eyes. “Oh thank God.” He exhales deeply, kissing your forehead. He knows he should call for the nurse but he can’t believe you’re awake. “I’m here.” He repeats, his thumbs caressing your cheekbones.

“Wh-what happened?” Your groggy and unable to remember much. “I- I had a- it was raspberry.” You remember the danish and the worry on the director’s face when she injected you with the epi pen. Looking over, you see Dave, relief and worry mixed on his face and it confuses you. “I- the baby?” Your eyes widen and you look down, your stomach flatter than it had been.

"He's fine. You - they had to do an emergency c-section and - and he is healthy but they asked - they asked me who to save." He chokes, unable to imagine a world without you or his son. Especially you. "He's healthy. You - fuck - you were into code blue and they - just - you're okay." He chokes, kissing your forehead again, just breathing you in.

Your heart aches, hating that you didn’t know that you had given birth. That you didn’t get to hold your son the moment he came into the world. “It’s okay.” You assure him, knowing that he would choose his son. You were replaceable. “You don’t have to explain. I know how you feel. Of course you would choose him.”

Dave frowns, looking at you with pain in his eyes. He could’ve lost you and it would’ve killed him. “I didn’t choose him. I chose you. I wanted them to save you. I’m - he’s here and he’s healthy thank God but losing you? I wouldn’t have survived it because - because I love you.” He admits, knowing that he can’t stop it anymore. Love is weakness, love destroys, but love also makes him stronger and he has created a son with you so how can he possibly believe it’s wrong? “I love you.” He declares, looking at you, begging you to believe him.

You shake your head, frowning at him because you don’t want to get your hopes up. “Don’t- don’t say that because I had an allergic reaction.” You beg him, “I can’t - it would kill me if you changed your mind.” You rasp out. “I love you, and I just- please don’t say it unless you mean it.”

Dave shakes his head, "no. No. It's because I love you. I'm sorry I didn't say it - I was terrified because you are - I love you so much it's scary. I have never felt like this before and our son...he's so beautiful and you gave him to me and I nearly lost you." Dave chokes on a sob, tears spilling down his cheeks. "I love you. Please, you gotta believe me. I love you."

You are so very tired and your body aches, but you pull your hand out of his and reach up, cupping Dave’s cheek. Trying to wipe away his tears. “I believe you.” You whisper, crying yourself because you never thought you would hear those words. “I love you so much.”

Dave grins, turning his head to kiss your palm. “Do you want to meet our son?” He asks, lowering his hand from yours. You nod and he walks over to carefully pick the baby up. He places him on your chest, wanting you to be as close as possible.

“Oh my god.” You gasp out, cradling hun close and running your hands over his little body. Checking fingers and toes and stroking his cheek. His eyes are closed, and you look up at Dave in complete wonder. “He’s okay?” You ask, needing to make sure. “My - it didn’t hurt him?”

Dave shakes his head, tears in his eyes as he thinks about how you didn’t get to see your son be born. “He’s absolutely fine. He’s early but healthy. No issues. It didn’t hurt him.” Dave confirms, leaning down to kiss your forehead before kissing the baby. “Thank you. I love him so much. I love you so much.” Dave murmurs in awe.

“I’m sorry.” You murmur, both to Dave and to your son. Leaning down, you press a kiss to your son’s forehead. “I- She thought they were strawberry danish and I was upset. I just wanted to feel okay for a few minutes.” You look back over at Dave guiltily. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put him in jeopardy.” You had been so cautious about dealing with your allergy so you didn’t accidentally hurt the baby. And now this happens.

“Don’t. It’s not your fault. How were you to know? You’re both okay. That’s all that matters. I - I nearly lost you.” He chokes again, resting his forehead against yours and looking down at the baby. “I was so scared.” He admits in a quiet voice.

“I’m sorry I scared you.” You close your eyes and stroke his hair as you hold the baby close. “I’m not going to leave you. Not when I know you want me here.” You promise softly. “Besides, we have to give our son a sibling.”

Dave smiles, knowing that you need to discuss you having another child after such a traumatic experience. He isn’t fussed about another one if it means keeping you healthy and safe. “I don’t want to just be married in name anymore. I want to be your husband. I want to sleep in bed beside you and kiss you properly and tell you I love you.” He reveals, leaning in to kiss your forehead again.

****

"I want to drag you off and take advantage of you." Dave growls as he presses a kiss to your jaw, wrapping his arms around your waist.

“You always say that.” Leaning into his embrace, you sigh happily as he scatters kisses down your skin. Despite the years, and five kids changing your body, Dave still found you irresistible. The kids are growing up with their parents constantly flirting, kissing and sneaking off for some alone time when you can manage it. “What has captured your attention this time?” You ask playfully, swaying with him as he continues to grope you.

“This dress. I want to just duck under it and suck on your clit.” He slides his hand down to your stomach, “and then I want to put our sixth baby inside of you.” He kisses your bare shoulder. “Kids are busy and there’s enough adults here including their nanny. Let’s sneak into the house so I can touch you sweetheart.” He pleads, pushing his hardening cock against you.

“Dave York.” You sound scandalized as you turn around in his arms and wrap your own around his neck. “Are you proposing we sneak away from your eldest’s birthday party so we can have a quickie?” His grin is unrepentant and even after seven years and five kids, your cunt clenches. Leaning in, you kiss his lips. “Meet me inside in two minutes.” You order him breathlessly. “I’ll go first.”

His grin is wicked and he playfully smacks your ass as you walk off. He searches for the kids and finds their nanny racing after them along with the housekeeper and he is reassured they will be safe. He practically counts the seconds and rushes into the house, finding you in the guest bathroom downstairs. “Fuck, you look so sexy today. Must be some kind of glow from the kids.” He groans, immediately pulling you into his arms so he can slide his tongue into your mouth.

You giggle into the kiss, your own hand sliding down and cupping his already hard cock. “Someone is excited about the quickie.” You tease, already tugging at his belt so you can touch him. “I fucking love you.”

His hands side under your dress, groaning at your lack of panties since it’s a maxi dress, and his fingers immediately find your clit, rubbing soft circles while he kisses you. “I fucking love you too.” He declares against your lips.

After DJ’s birth, the two of you had learned that sex could be even better when your true feelings were involved. The sex before had been great, but now it is amazing. “Dave.” You moan quietly, even though the house is empty except for the two of you. Your hips push forward to his hand and you hold onto his shoulders as your knees start to tremble.

“Good girl. My beautiful girl.” He murmurs, kissing your jaw and he slides his hand back to push two fingers inside of you, his thumb pressed against your clit. “So goddamn tight even after five kids.” He whispers in awe.

You chuckle and squeeze your muscles around him. “All those Kegel’s I do.” You tease. “I have to have a strong pelvic floor for all the kids we have.” You don’t regret a single one of them and love teasing about how many more you would give him. “Ready to give me number six?”

“You ready?” Dave asks, knowing you have talked about it and you had the IUD removed last week. You’ve both been so busy you haven’t had a chance to touch each other. “You want me to fill you up with another child? Want me to get you knocked up again so I can worship you?” He asks, pumping his fingers a little faster.

“Fuck.” You and Dave had discovered that once he allowed himself, he had a very large breeding kink. And that transitioned to a pregnancy kink. “Yes baby.” You pant, body racing towards your first orgasm. “I want you to put another baby in me.” Your eyes slip closer and you let out a soft cry when you cum around his fingers when he presses them against that spongy spot.

Hearing you consent to putting another baby in you has Dave ready to fuck you and when you soak his fingers, he fucking loves it. “Jesus.” He growls, working you through it until he removes his fingers, rapidly working to pull his hard cock out of his pants. “Pull your dress up and bend over the bathroom counter. Want to look at you in the mirror while I fuck you.” He orders, pumping his cock a few times.

Whirling around, you stick your ass out enticingly and shake it at Dave. Giggling when he slaps your ass and then grabs your hip with one hand as he shuffles closer. Your eyes meet in the mirror and your mouth opens when he starts to push into you. Moaning loudly. “Daaaaave.”

He loves your face when he pushes inside of you. The way your brow furrows and the little pout you have when you moan his name. It’s gorgeous. He pushes deep, already on the edge at the thought of getting you pregnant, and he loves how you clench around him. “So fucking perfect. Mine. My beautiful wife. All mine.” He declares, kissing your neck as he leans over you. “Watch me fuck you.” He orders, gripping your chin to make you look in the mirror and he starts to move inside of you.

You watch, loving the way that his jaw sets, his eyes darken every time he pushes deep inside you. He still loves that he is the only one that has ever gotten to touch you. That everything you have done has been with him. “Fuck.” You lean back against him and watch your body bounce forward as he thrusts into you.

Your whimpers spur him on and he keeps his eyes on you. “I love you sweetheart.” He pants while his other hand squeezes your hips, sliding up to cup your breast. “Want to see these full of milk again.”

You chuckle, considering you had just weaned your youngest off your breast less than eight months ago. “You just want fresh milk again.” You tease.

Dave grins against your skin, “maybe I do. Love fucking you and tasting it.” He admits like you didn’t already know. “Want to see you round with my baby again. Let everyone know you’re mine.” His hand caresses your stomach and he slides it lower so he can rub your clit.

“Ev- oh shit - everyone knows I’m yours.” You pant, walls clenching around him as he pushes you towards the edge. You feel it building and it’s going to be a rush of pleasure. A few more thrusts of his cock and swipes of his fingers and stars burst behind your eyes. “L-love you!” You cry out, soaking his cock with your juices.

When you cry out, squeezing him tight, he knows he won’t last long. Never does when he’s trying to knock you up. With a groan, he thrusts a half dozen more times until he is burying his cock deep inside of you. “Fucking love you too sweetheart.” He chokes out, biting down on the back of your neck to smother his loud growl.

You whine in pleasure at the feeling of him filling you up, shuddering because you know that it’s possible that he just got you pregnant again. You love the thought of it. When he stops biting your neck, you turn your head and kiss along his jaw while he shallowly thrusts into you. “God, I love when you do that.” You giggle against his skin. “It’s so sexy how much you love getting me pregnant.”

“Love seeing you round with my child. Love seeing you be a mother.” He admits, pulling into of you after softly kissing you. “I thank God every day that I picked you to be my wife. You’re my greatest blessing sweetheart.” He declares, kissing you once more before he reaches for a hand towel to clean you up. “Now we gotta slip in these quickies while the kids are distracted until you’re knocked up.” He grins and you giggle, “you’re insatiable.” He pulls you into his arms after tucking himself away. “For you. My beautiful wife. I love you Mrs. York.” He declares.

The train ride down through Europe affords you time to think, time to adjust. No doubt much has changed on the island in your long absence…and yet, you know the sea will be that rich mosaic of blues and azures, the infinity pool of the world crashing up on the pale beaches of your childhood home.

How many more colors will you see now with your vagabond artists’ eye? Not just the pure blues anymore, but the blacks and greens and greys…. No longer the pure riot of your youth, but a shifting palette of hues…

The cliff that your family’s compound sits on–the east coast of Mallorca–were the stones grey or ivory? It’s so hard to remember something so simple and so taken for granted then. And the gleaming stone of the house possibly darkened with age while your parents are greyer, your alpha brothers broader, the island more populated on the road west to Palma, to–

Javi.

What must he be like now? Most likely mated and spawned alphas of his own. You can only hope he found a true bond. 

His absence in your life still hurts these many years later, much less than it did before, but you still wonder at the life you might have had with him. 

Not that you would trade what you do now–how you travel the world and take commissions for a living, that you render beautiful sculpture in glass and lead, you’ve worked for royalty and movie stars, done commissions for cathedrals in Russia and village churches in Botswana. You can live one year on Phuket and another in Rio, soak up culture and food and beauty before trying somewhere new.

None of them are truly home, however. And the longer you wander, the wearier you become.

It’s your heats that bring back the longing. Your numbed heats wherein you seek out the local outcast house and find a beta that can service you without getting all wound up in the scents and the fluids and the submission. As a marked omega, any alpha that is not your own makes you ill to couple with, their scent isn’t right and the bond is off.

And yet, you cannot stand the thought of going back to your alpha.

So you’ve avoided Mallorca for years.

But it’s Lucida, your favorite niece, that brings you back. Your eldest brother and his omega wife had settled in Madrid and if you still had a family home, that’s where it centered now. Without voicing the reason why, your parents and brothers always met at this home in Madrid for you, so the family could have its gatherings without you stepping foot on the island. And because nobody spoke of it, there was no reason for Lucida to have known that holding her bonding ceremony at your family compound would be painful for you.

“Would you rather we try to convince her to do it somewhere else?” You could hear the low rumble of concern behind your brother’s voice, one of the best alphas you’ve ever known, a sworn protector.

“No,” you answered, holding the phone in your suddenly shaking hand, your body reacting more violently to the news than your heart. “I want her to be happy. As long as none of the Gutierrez pack is invited, there won’t be any issues.”

“Of course not, lil’pup. We’ve got you.”

“Thanks, brother.”

Lucida is a bright and bubby omega, beautifully cherubic and a talented musician. She grew so fast and so free, so very determined to find her own alpha and make a true bond. And Marcel is everything you could have hoped for for her, as steady an alpha as your brothers, and twice as smitten with Lucida as all of you. She is your light and joy and in no way do you want to dim her special day or have to explain to her why the island hurts your heart so much. You’d just rather she not have to feel that secondhand sorrow.

After all. Lucida is getting everything you never had. She’s life-bonding to her childhood sweetheart.

____

--YEARS AGO--

There was never a time before Javi. He was born first and you came along the next year, and by that time your family was on good terms with the Gutierrez pack and spent regular weekends together. 

As the two reigning clans of the island, the only two families to have the noble breed, your packs needed the understanding of each other, the kinship and the good graces. After all, the Gutierrez clan held political rule over the West and North Mallorca and your father over the East. While they had control of the goods and bounties, your father had sway over the ports. It was a civil balance, one that required maintenance and loyalty in order to keep the clans from snapping and snarling over their territories.

So there was hardly a Sunday as a child you didn’t spend on the beach in Palma or running through the olive groves of the Gutierrez complex while your brothers and the Gutierrez boys wrestled and played their dominance games.

Well. Just the one Gutierrez boy. Lucas. The toughest of the lot and the heir to the kingdom as it were, Lucas Sr. heading up the Gutierrez clan.

The only other boy was Lucas’ cousin, Javi. And Javi didn’t rumble and posture with the others.

Javi was a beta.

But his father was proud of him, encouraged him to find and foster his skills, even if he couldn’t join in all their alpha games. And it never seemed odd to you, since your parents never treated you as if you were an inferior child either, even though many families found reason to value their omegas less than their alpha offspring.

Thankfully, omega mothers are kind and nurturing and often scented their beta and omega children no less than their alpha ones, causing their alpha fathers to love them just the same.

Being raised by loving omegas and proud alphas wasn’t the only thing you had in common with Javi. You both had a pull toward quieter play, of being observant and creative. Together you built your imaginary kingdoms and found fossils on the beaches and nests of blue eggs in the olive trees. There was never a time without Javi. And there was never a time that he wasn’t your best friend.

“Do you think we’ll get married someday? When we’re grown up?” 

It was a rainy day and you were stuck inside, staring out at the waves through the window. Fully invested in watching a gull and its mate fight the wind in order to stay aloft together, you didn’t give much thought to something that seemed so obvious. “Probably.”

After a minute you realized Javi had lost interest in the birds and was picking at a spot on the windowsill. His honey curls hung down long enough to shield his eyes, but still left his chubby cheeks and little pout visible to you.

“What’s wrong, Javi? Don’t you want to marry me when we’re older?”

Even at eight years old, the boy could seemingly carry so much weight on his little heart. “Mother says you’re an omega and you’ll want to marry an alpha.”

You shrugged, unbothered. “I can marry who I want.”

“I’m not an alpha. You won’t want me when you grow up.”

You weren’t sure what to say then, as a child nothing seemed so complicated that there couldn’t be an easy solution. “Maybe you’ll become an alpha when you’re older.”

He shook his head mournfully, the rain on the windows sending shadow tear trails down his face. “I don’t want to. I don’t want to be so mean and dominance-driven. Father says even if I was a late presenter, it would have happened by now.”

“My brothers are all alphas and they’re not mean.”

“But they’re your brothers. Of course they’re going to take care of their little omega sister.” It came out hurt and bitter, with a bit more bite than he probably meant.

Something in that stung, but you were too young to understand why and so swept it aside, following the urge to make your favorite friend feel better. “Well, I don’t care if you’re not an alpha, Javi.You smell like one to me and that’s what’s important, right?”

Finally leaving the window, he returned to the project at hand, setting up a complicated fall-trail of dominoes in the shape of a massive heart on the floor of his uncle’s study.

“You’re probably just smelling Lucas. He likes to push me down and scent all over me. He says I stink like a beta.”

“That’s so mean! What a butthole!” Coming to settle by his side, you took a long whiff of his hair. “No. You don’t smell like him. Lucas smells like he pees himself. You smell like you. And it’s a good smell. My favorite of all smells!”

There was just the twitch of a smile before it slid away again. “I heard my uncle talking to your father. They think you should bond with Lucas and unite the clans.”

It was like the windows had snapped open and let the icy rain shower you. “NO!” It came out much louder and angrier than you’d intended, but at seven years old, you hadn’t mastered your emotional control just yet. “I would never ever EVER marry Lucas! That’s so gross! He picks his nose and eats it and he doesn’t wash his hands after he uses the toilet! My brothers say he plays dirty and kicks their balls when they wrestle and my mother thinks he’s a little weasel!”

Javi’s eyes snapped to yours and you clapped your hands over your mouth, knowing full well that you should never disparage an alpha, even if they were the worst little boy in the world. But even worse, you betrayed your mother with those words who should have never said them, since Lucas technically ranked above her and she should know better.

Javi though, only stared at first, his plump little lips a perfect O of shock before widening in a conspiratorial laugh, and you joined him, the two of you giggling yourselves silly in the midst of the storm.

And somehow that was all that was needed. That and the peck you gave to his blushing cheek when he accidentally hit the nearest domino with his toe and sent the fallover racing along in the shape of a perfect heart.

______

--PRESENT DAY--

–You still wear the same size as me?

As you debark at the evening train station in Barcelona and walk the few blocks to the pier, your mother’s text comes in over the phone.

–Yes. Why?

Another ping comes as you pass the Columbus monument and a horn blares at you even though you have the walk sign.

–Something’s come up last minute. Business. Formal. 

–I brought a dress for the bonding.

–Different business.

–What business?

Half an hour later, you’re boarding your family’s transport ship for the overnight to the island and she still hasn’t answered.

–About to leave port. Reception will be spotty. What business?

There’s still no answer as you watch the lights of Barcelona recede over the water and the bars on your phone fade to grey.

_____

--YEARS AGO--

“I hate to say it, but thank the Great Alphas for that mercy.”

Your father loosened and pulled his black tie out of his shirt collar as he drove, unbuttoning the top collar with relief.

“Dear,” your mother chided. “Let the man grow cold in his grave first.”

Ten years after you’d given Javi his first kiss on the cheek and two years after you’d started running away to the olive grove to kiss him in secret more regularly, something wonderful had happened.

Lucas Sr. had died. 

He’d stupidly got the Gutierrez family mixed up in transporting arms and drugs and since crime leads to crime, he got his reward in the form of a bullet to the back of the head.

While it didn’t necessarily mean an end to the lucrative dealings–and therefore your family’s reluctant involvement–Javi’s father was far more pragmatic and the violence would more than likely cease now.

Because he would take over as head alpha of the Gutierrez clan.

Which meant that heir status would transfer to Javi.

As you’d neared your full presenting age, Lucas Sr. had tried to sway your father’s opinion and consider a marital merger of the two packs; you’d be queen of the island and breed pups that would inherit it all. He didn’t seem to care that everyone knew you and Javi had a love bond. Or that you were more than just your womb. Once you were marked, he maintained, everything would right itself.

If Javi had been an alpha, you would have begged him to bite you, to mark you in order to make the bond his right. But even if he could, Javi would never have done something so damaging to you and your future, no matter how badly he wanted you for himself.

The way he would kiss you so urgently and so sweetly among the olive trees, his scent giving you the spins. Even if he didn’t have scent glands, he groaned deep in pleasure as you sucked little marks into his neck and nibbled your way along his shoulder. Javi loved to twine his fingers in yours as he kissed you deep, pressing himself into you, letting the heady bond push you into wanting. Even if he couldn’t possibly get the full benefit of your scenting, it seemed to drive him wild. But as a beta, he had more control and refused to go too far since you hadn’t come into your slick yet and he didn’t want to hurt you.

But someday. Someday he would mate you and fulfill your heat without question now that there would be no more talk of Lucas. It was already understood by your parents that you had bonded yourself to Javi and they had always approved of the boy. There was nothing to debate on that front, alpha or no, your parents wholly supported your choice.

And so they chose not to call attention to how you were filling up the car with your happiness, unable to control your pheromones on the ride home from Lucas Sr’s funeral. They had a bit more control over their own scents and their own sense of respect for the deceased alpha, or they might have let their happiness mingle with your own.

________

--PRESENT DAY--

“Excuse me, captain, but it looks like we’re heading south. Doesn’t this ship usually dock at Port Alcudia?”

Just before heading down to your sleeping cabin, you’d taken a stroll on the deck of of the ship, making out the brighter lights of Palma rather than the warm simmer of the northern port. 

The captain had come down to welcome you back to Mallorca. With a warm smile he explains, “Your father ordered the shipment to come in through the capital tonight. He’ll be meeting you there. You might want to get a little rest before we arrive, señora.”

Your mind screams. Silent fury.

Palma? You don’t want to be anywhere near Palma, near the Gutierrez territory where they can smell you and you can smell them and–

With a flustered nod, and a little trip over your own feet, you turn away and make for your cabin. If you open your mouth now, you don’t know what violence you might unleash on the friendly captain.

And it’s best to get out of this night air. Once you’re below decks, you can stop imagining you can smell him, that awful, animalistic, alluring scent that kicks your body into hot gear. Maybe a a little time with your toys will help you sleep and help you beat this awful yearning you suddenly feel.

_____

--YEARS AGO--

It wasn’t long after the funeral that you went into heat for the first time.

It happened after a long weekend at the Gutierrez compound. Now that your brothers were all grown beyond puppish playtimes and out on their own, it was generally just the parents playing a round of cards and drinking fine bourbon. Lucas was usually out playing alpha of the pack with his gang of beta wannabes, stirring up trouble and making Palma his personal pissing ground.

This, of course, meant time alone with Javi.

Everyone thought you were in the den watching a movie, content to let the lovebirds cuddle and neck without admonishment from the former head alpha. But the night had been warm and you’d been bold, running down to the shore to go skinny dipping in the water, giggling between kisses. He’d swim you out to the breaker to throw you into the gentle waves so he could catch you when you washed back again.

It was so natural, being naked around Javi. You’d known each other all your lives, there was no shame with him, just mutual adoration, a comfortability that was easily won.

So during a break, the two of you lounged on the beach, unclad in the moonlight, talking over which university you wanted to attend together–maybe even over in the States. The world was your oyster, and Javi was your pearl–

Then there was chaos. There was a clamor and you were being jostled and hoisted by rough hands. Two betas–one on each side–pulled you naked and screaming away from Javi. They were loud and laughing and seemed to grow louder to cover your keening.

Suddenly there was a loud crack as a hard hand slapped your ass and the smell of fetid pettiness filled the air. Everyone went quiet as Lucas came around to face you.

“This is really very sweet. Is this what you two get up to when you’re alone? You don’t even fuck!”

“Lucas, stop this” Javi had gotten to his feet, breathing big lungfuls, naked and vulnerable, adrenaline obviously coursing through him as he prepared for a bullying attack by his cousin– the story of his life. “Let her go!”

Lucas screwed up his face in a mock pout. “Let her go! Waaaaa!!” He rounded on Javi,  posturing, licking his chops. “Oh ho, little cousin, look at this little dick. Don’t you know what to do with it? Don’t you know how to make your omega submit? Ohhhhh! Oh noooooo, I guess you doooooon’t! You can’t make her do a damn thing, can you? Should I show you how?”

“You’re in still mourning, cousin. You’ve been drinking.”

“Oh look. The beta can smellllll something. You gonna tell your mommy? If only you could smell more than just what’s on my breath. But me? Can smell your fear. I can smell how this omega is about to come into her ripeness. If only you could smell how sweet she–”

“No. Stop this, Lucas. Take your pack and go.”

“I would tell you to make me,” the alpha growled, closing in on Javi and baring his teeth, “but you don’t have the balls.” He glanced down. “Almost literally, really.”

Javi’s anxiety was starting to mount as it became clear that his cousin was aiming to cause real hurt that night. “Why are you doing this??? ”

Lucas rumbled low in his chest, a fearful threat that caused you to crumble in your captors’ hands, a whine seeping up from your heart and out of your mouth, cowering and scared.

The sound you made had an immediate reaction on both cousins. Lucas sniffed the air with a menacing grin, almost visibly salivating over the scent of your fear and submission.

But there was no submission coming from Javi. Your distress pricked something in him, your sweet boy’s eyes flashed in a way you’d never seen them do before. 

There were so many scents swirling in the warm ocean air–your terror, Lucas’ threat, even, you imagined, something territorial from Javi–and everything happened so fast–Javi swung first, there was a growl, then maybe there were two. In the furious tussle, there was a swift kick and a yelp–a high bark–from Javi as he went down, grasping his groin and whimpering in pain from Lucas’ signature move. You were screaming at the asshole to stop and the boys holding you laughed as Lucas unzipped his pants and pissed his dominance all over Javi before turning to waggle his dick at you in a rude display. 

But there was a bloom in his eye socket. He hadn’t won without consequences and the mark of Javi’s big fist–usually so gentle–would show angry and black on Lucas’ face tomorrow. 

A wave of the alpha’s hand and you were dumped in the sand, breathing hard and trying not to cry as three sets of boots made their way up the shoreline and into the night.

Javi. Sweet Javi. You expected to find him crying in the sand, loving him all the more for his soft heart.

But instead you found him staring after the assailants, a fire in his eye you would never have recognized as his. He simply stood, came to where you’d landed and helped you up, silently looking you over for hurt and abrasions, pressing his lips to the marks on your wrists where you’d been held. Rather than wilting under Lucas’ attack, Javi seemed sturdier, his shoulders square, his jaw set. He gently took your hand and led you back into the waves, taking a short second to wash Lucas’ stink from himself before administering caring caresses to you.

No words, only gentle hands and calming kisses. There was something new and reverent about him that night. His whole presence demanded your calm, and as he pulled you into his chest and closed you in his arms, the pulse of the waves against him made it sound like he was almost purring.

“I’m sorry, princesa,” he’d whispered low into your hair, almost drowned out by the gentle waves. “Mi princesa. Mine.”

Mine.

That night, back at home, the switch flipped.

You’d laid in the dark, trying to calm yourself, to sleep, but the event kept replaying in your mind. If Javi had been an alpha, he surely would have submitted to Lucas’ dominance and backed down. Maybe that would have kept him from getting hurt.

But he did get a good punch in. Your Javi, your kind, meek boy chose violence. For you.

You thought about how satisfying it was to have him comfort you, to lay your cheek against his chest, growing broader by the year, no longer the skinny boy he once was, but coming into his man’s body….and suddenly something deep, deep, deep inside latched onto that thought. Hard.

Javi’s body. Strong and protective. How he seemed bigger that night. Gentle but dominating. Your love. Your home. His beautiful curls and sweet kisses. His arms around you, a hand on your head holding you against his pounding heart.

After some time with these impressions in the dark, you realized your breath was coming in shorter pulls, faster. It was hot in your room. You needed to get out. You needed something…something else.

In the deep of the night, roused when you’d tipped over a lamp, your mother found you in the family room, feverishly grasping every couch cushion, every throw pillow you could possibly hold in your arms, trying to drag them all to your room at once. 

“Oh, my baby,” she gasped, doing her best to gently separate you from your gathers, sniffing at your hair and feeling your forehead for the fever she knew would be there. “Shhh, my darling. Put them down. Come with me. Come.”

Ignoring your pleading whines and leading you back to you back to your bedroom, she addressed the housekeeper–equally woken with your noise–to fetch her a list of things. You’d pushed away, trying to get back to those beautiful, plush cushions, but she took you in her arms and kept you on the path. 

“My beautiful girl, how you’ve grown. This will be a rough night for you, but it will be okay, alright? Come.” Settling you on your bed, she didn’t try to stop you as you began to pull the comforter and your pillows into a pile at the center. “Darling? Where are the clothes you wore today? The ones you wore when you were with Javi, hm?”

You shook your head, unable to think of the clothes in your closet, only the blankets stored there. “We went swimming. I wasn’t wearing clothes.”

Her lips pressed together in worry. “Well then, anything you wore when you were close together this weekend?”

Again, your head was muddy. Javi. Broad. Protective. Gentle. Soft. Soft clothes soft blankets you needed–

Your mother urged you to stay where you were, and soon enough, the housekeeper returned with a heap of plush blankets you’d never seen before thrown over her shoulder. In her hands, a lavender box with a ribbon–your favorite color as a child. Handing them to your mother, she left, saying kindly that she’d return with a pitcher of cool water.

There were so so many fluffy textures in that pile of blankets. You hardly took note of your mama’s warm smile, you were a grasping thing, desperate to take each new softness and rub it against your cheek. Yes. This would do. And this. This too. All of them. You needed them all.

“These things have been waiting for you a long time,” she cooed, running her hands over your feverish forehead while you worked at arranging your bedding. “You picked every one yourself, long long ago when you were very young and we were certain you’d need them some day. This,” she said, placing the box on your nightstand, “I ordered for you a while ago. You may find something to help you in here, okay, my heart? You go ahead and make your nest and open this box. Your body will know what you need.”

Once the housekeeper arrived with the water, your mother urged you to drink a glass. Then she kissed your cheek and stood to leave. “I will come to check on you in the morning. I won’t enter unless I hear you say that I might.”

“Mama,” you whined, a little scared to be left alone, your breath coming in little pants.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. An omega’s first heat can be very frightening, but it can be very nice too. Make your nest just how you like it. You’ll feel better if you get it just right. You’ll know what to do. Open the box. Soothe yourself. It will be over before you know it and you will learn so many new things about yourself. The next one will be much easier, I promise you, my baby girl.”

But it wasn’t enough. Not nearly. Your first heat came much later than most omegas and the consequence was that it hit much harder. You tossed and turned, tried every toy and aid in the box, but still your whole body clenched and cramped. The soft nest around you became matted with sweat, both a comfort and a torture all at once. You were vaguely aware of the sun coming up and darkness coming back a couple of times over, of your mother helping you into the bath, begging you to eat.

On the third day as your muscles continued to seize and shake and you clutched at your newly washed blankets, at some point, you began to softly whine, the whine forming a word that repeated over and over without end.

Javi. 

Javi. Javi. Javi. Javi. Javi….

Sometime in the night you were aware of your mother’s voice in the dark, soothing, telling you that it would be alright….

And then, suddenly, it was. 

Not because of a lessening of your need or because of the love in her voice, but because of the scent.

It was the smell of adoration, of your bond, of sweetness and laughter and nights watching Nick Cage films and the blue sea and of olive trees. And then there was warmth at your back as a broad body curled around yours, the tickle of curls you knew to be the color of dark, rich honey brushing your shoulder, a kiss to your scent gland that made all of your muscles release and submit.

“I’m here now, mi princesa. I will try to give you what you need.”

Javi filled up your senses completely. Even in the darkness of your room that night, you could map him clearly with your nose, could feel his love for you in his gentleness. His skin was addictingly tangy and soft and you couldn’t seem to get enough of it, couldn’t spread enough of your scent on it, needed more of it holding you down, wrapped around you, inside you.

Finally, your head began to clear, a breath of fresh air as he brought you down from that initial climax, and you were able to fully come to yourself and register that he was really here.

“Javi?”

“Hello.” You could just make out his happy face in the dark above you, his curls in his eyes bobbing with each hard breath.

You laughed at his simple, joyful greeting, as if you hadn’t just been taken by him for the first time, as if he wasn’t still inside you.

“You’re here.”

“I am,” he breathed heavy, a shy smile in his voice. “Your mother called me and told me that you were suffering. But I already knew. I could feel it.”

That’s when you noticed the sound. A vibration, a rumble that cycled with his breath and that pulled your heart toward him with every hard, fast beat.

Javi was purring.

“Javi…you…you’re…”

He shifted above you slightly and you realized that you weren’t just full of him.

He was attached. Knotted.

“I am yours, princesa, that’s what I am. And you are mine. Do you feel better? Did it feel good? I hope you are pleased–”

But you stopped his worry with a deep kiss.

Contented.

Soothed.

By your alpha.

Your mother was right. An omega’s first heat could be very nice indeed.

________

--PRESENT DAY--

“Welcome home, my heart.” You mother holds her hands out to you until your face comes within reach and then she kisses your cheek and scents it before pulling you into a warm hug. “Oh my baby. I am so happy to see you.”

“Hello, Mama.” You let her sway you, her scent of home and love settling into your pores. “I thought Papa was coming to drive me. The captain said–”

“He’s already there. We’re going to meet him at the holy grounds.”

“The holy grounds? Is the bonding today? Did I get the date wrong?”

“No no no. There’s a…a funeral today. The entire family is there. We want you there too. I have a black dress for you.”

Your heart begins to beat a warning. “A funeral? Who? Is everyone okay?”

And just as suddenly, the warning dies to a simple sorrow. Your mother has always been a talented calmer, her touch on your wrist points, a warming aura, the scent of home. She learned from her own mother and from her mother’s mother, from the great clans of your mother’s home country.

“It is Mr. Gutierrez, darling. Javi’s father. He passed just days ago.”

There have been very few times in your life that it might take two hands to count every feeling that crowds in at once, as it does now. Mr. Gutierrez was always kind to you, like another father; poor Javi, he must be heartbroken; Javi will be the grand alpha of the island now; you want to go to the funeral, to pay respects; but the heartbreak of seeing Javi there; oh gods, what if Lucas is there; what if–

“Mama…I…this is sudden…I don’t know if I can…”

But she only looks at you with concern, and you know, you know why your father sent her to fetch you. To give you the choice. You would have had to submit to him, but it’s easier to refuse your omega mother. Not effortless, but easier.

“I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t want to keep you in the dark. But there is more to this tale. If you want me to, I will hold your hand the whole time.”

She wants you to go. For your father. For Mr. Gutierrez. 

For Javi.

So you swallow your fear, bolster yourself up for the trial ahead, and give her a shallow nod.

______

--YEARS AGO-

Your father had been furious at first when he learned that your mother had snuck an alpha into his daughter’s room during her heat. But it was just his initial protectiveness flaring up, something she loved about him, and she had a way with him. She calmed his fears, reminded him that omegas very rarely conceive in their first year of mating while their body adjusts, certainly never during their first heat. And she reminded him that this was Javi–sweet Javi Gutierrez–the boy he liked and approved of and that his daughter deeply loved.

But at the same time, he had a hold on tradition, didn’t want to overstep or mar his footing with a friendly clan. So it was decided that the time had come for an official betrothal announcement and merger agreement between the two packs.

Not that anyone had any objections.

You’d sat smiling out of the car window on your way to another weekend at the Gutierrez compound, knowing full well that you’d return with a mark on your throat. You’d need to remind Javi to bite hard, to make it last. He was gentle enough that it might not take at first.

You couldn’t wait to carry his scent with you always.

It seemed like such a simple solution when you were children– 

“Maybe you’ll become an alpha when you’re older.”

See, Javi? I told you.

But it all worked out and had been worked out for longer than anyone had realized. Javi may have been a late presenter, but he already had his omega and so there was no need to fight for one or have the pheromones to attract one, so his body never put out the signal. On the other hand, you’d bonded early to Javi and never had an interest in other alphas, but that also meant there weren’t any alpha pheromones coming from him to trigger you into a heat. There was no reason for your body to switch on until your alpha presented himself.

It was when Lucas had threatened you that Javi’s alpha came to life. And once you met it, your omega was obsessed. If you were already in love with Javi, then there were no earthly words for your bond with him now.

Perhaps there was some gratitude towards Lucas for this. If there was, you never heard it from Javi or anyone else.

Javi, on the other hand, was still on wobbly ground, learning to control his alpha so it would not control him. But he found he never needed to bother. Because of you, it had been with him all along, content and secure. It had learned to dominate with tenderness.

And you are like your mother before you. A natural soother.

Everything was perfect. 

Until it wasn’t.

All was not well at the Gutierrez compound when you and your parents arrived that day. There was growling and snapping coming from the head alpha’s office. There were rumbles and yelps foretelling of a fight. Your father immediately moved to rush down the hall to Mr. Gutierrez’ aid, but your mother was able to hold him back.

Perhaps she always regretted that.

Lucas burst out of the doors of the office in mid declaration. “It’s mine by rights! My father was grand alpha and I am the next in line! Not some second son and his weak beta pup–!!”

Stopping when he saw your family gaping, the wild look in his eye dimmed when he saw you standing there. Lucas straightened himself and grinned mischievously, wiping the blood away from his lips.

Behind him you could see Mr. Gutierrez and Javi, both of them haggard from a fight, Javi clutching one arm dripping in blood from a wound. Without thought, you stepped forward, drawn to your love, drawn to make sure he was okay–

But Lucas stepped in to block your path.

“Well, cousin,” he snarled in victory, “if I don’t get what’s mine by right, then neither do you.”

And before your father’s hackles could rise, before any of the alphas present could even lift a growl, Lucas swiftly sunk his teeth into your collarbone and clamped down.

Hard.

____

PART 2 of 2 (coming soon)

Daniel watched him carefully. “If this clause isn’t honored, the alliance becomes contestable. Moretti retains the right to claim breach.”

Tommy leaned back in his chair. “Meaning we’re right back where we started — men dyin’, trucks burned, streets bloody.” 

Joel exhaled slowly through his nose. “She didn’t choose this. She didn’t have a say in any of it.”

“No,” Tommy agreed. “Neither did you.”

Daniel nodded. “The entire peace depends on this contract being executed in full. Including that clause.”

Joel’s breath tightened. “Doesn’t mean I gotta like it.”

“Nobody likes it,” Tommy agreed. “But we’re not playin’ with emotions here. We’re playin’ with lives.”

Joel’s jaw flexed at that, a muscle jumping once in his cheek. He didn’t argue, because the truth didn’t need arguing.

Daniel clasped his hands. “Joel, if this clause is ignored, Moretti will see it as you undermining the agreement. He’s looking for an excuse. Any excuse.”

Joel’s jaw tightened. “She’s young. She’s been told her whole damn life to nod and obey. She’ll sign whatever’s put in front of her because she doesn’t know she can do otherwise.” Finally, he ran a hand across the back of his neck. “Just… make sure she hears it. All of it. Lay it out clear so she ain’t blindsided later.”

Daniel nodded. “I’ll present the terms to both parties. Her counsel will be present as well. We need both your signatures before dinner.”

Joel’s jaw shifted, not in refusal, nor in acceptance. Something in between. His hand hovered over the document, his fingers brushing the edge, the weight of responsibility passing through him like a pulse. Duty. Peace. Stability. Things he had killed for. Things he would marry for.

Tommy’s voice softened. “What’s eatin’ at you, brother?”

Joel didn’t look up. “Just thinkin’ how goddamn young she looked at that table this morning.”

Tommy’s expression eased with something like sympathy. “I believe she’s tougher than she looks.”

Joel still didn’t move. He stared down at the document, the paper holding the weight of blood, peace, obligation. And of a girl who had never been given a real choice. Then he lowered himself into the chair, jaw set. He flipped to the back page, found the signature line with his name already typed neatly above it.  He hesitated only once. Then he signed. A slow, deliberate stroke of ink.

When he finished, he slid the document back toward Daniel. Daniel closed the folder gently. Joel’s eyes were unreadable. “Bring her the papers.”

Daniel nodded and stood. When he stepped out, the room grew still again.

Tommy walked around the table, clapping a hand on Joel’s shoulder. “You signed because it’s what had to be done. Don’t let guilt talk you out of that.”

But Joel didn’t look reassured. “She doesn’t deserve this,” he murmured.

“No,” Tommy said softly. “But neither do you.”

Again, Joel didn’t argue.

Your room felt warmer than it had the night before, though nothing had changed except you.

After breakfast, after the quiet walk through the gardens, after Joel Miller showed you the orchard and the lavender rows and spoke of his grandfather’s hands shaping the estate stone by stone, he had escorted you back to the house with a kind of measured courtesy you were unused to.

When you reached the terrace steps, he had paused beside you.

“I’ve got a few things to take care of,” he’d said, voice steady. “Work starts early around here.”

You’d nodded, unsure what else to do. He had waited a beat longer than expected, as if making sure you were truly all right, then added, “Marta’s inside if you need anything.”

You had watched his broad frame disappear down the hall, shoulders relaxed, posture controlled, the sunlight catching the silver at his temples and the curve of his wristwatch. You weren’t sure why your stomach had tightened at the sight.

Now, alone in your room, you pressed your palms to the edge of the vanity table and tried to make sense of the morning.

He was not what you expected.

You’d braced yourself for someone brutal, impatient, a man who wielded fear the way your father did: efficiently, without apology. Instead you’d been met with someone quieter. Older than you, composed. Kind in the way men who choose their words carefully are kind. Gentle, even, though you didn’t fully trust that word.

And he had looked at you as a person, not as leverage or as currency. That part unsettled you the most. You’d grown up surrounded by men who valued power and reputation, not softness. Joel Miller, with his warm eyes and low, steady voice, made you feel seen in a way you weren’t prepared for.

And he was handsome. Devastatingly so. You hated the way your cheeks grew warm at the thought. You were inexperienced. Romance had been a spectator sport for you, distant, theoretical. And now you were to marry a man who seemed carved from something solid and adult and entirely beyond your depth.

You were still trying to steady your breath when a knock sounded at the door.

“Come in,” you managed.

Marta stepped inside, hands folded gently in front of her apron. “The lawyers are ready for you, dear.”

You blinked. “Already?”

She nodded. “They said it won’t take long. Just formalities.”

Formalities. Your life seemed to be made of them.

You sighed quietly, smoothed your skirt with trembling fingers and followed Marta through the hall, down the stairs, and into a small study off the main foyer.

The moment you stepped inside, both men rose. Daniel Carter was the first to incline his head. He was a neatly dressed man with calm eyes behind his glasses, his expression neutral but not unkind.

Next to him stood an older man in an immaculate navy suit. His smile was warm, practiced. Your father’s lawyer.

“Miss Moretti,” he greeted, extending a hand. “Michael Antonelli. A pleasure.”

You’d met him before, though briefly, mostly in passing outside your father’s office, his tone always courteous but distant.

“Please,” Antonelli gestured toward the chair. “Sit, my dear. No need to look so tense. We’re simply reviewing the wedding documents.”

You took the seat across from them, folding your hands tightly in your lap.

Daniel opened the folder with the prenup, adjusting it so the text faced you clearly. “We’ll go through each section. You can stop me at any time if you have questions.”

His tone was steady, almost gentle. Antonelli nodded with a fatherly smile. “It’s all standard procedure. Nothing alarming. Just protection for both families.”

You tried to absorb the words, but your focus splintered: on the soft scratch of paper, the faint smell of polished wood, the way your heartbeat thudded at your throat.

Daniel began reading. Most of it was familiar in concept: asset rights, estate separation, inheritance protections. You nodded at intervals, trying not to appear ignorant. 

And then Daniel reached the next paragraph. “Section Eleven,” he said slowly, “outlines the terms of binding recognition of the marriage.”

You blinked. “Binding…?”

“A symbolic clause,” Antonelli cut in smoothly. “Ceremonial, really.”

Daniel paused, as if he wanted to add something, but Antonelli gave him a brief, warning glance. A flicker so quick you almost missed it.

Antonelli smiled at you. “It affirms the union is genuine. A traditional element in arrangements of this scale. Ensures there’s no dispute later. Nothing unusual.”

His tone reminded you of men explaining things to children. You opened your mouth. “I just… I’m not certain I understand what it requires.”

Antonelli waved a hand lightly. “It simply confirms the marriage is honored by both parties. Perfectly standard. A formality your father agreed to long ago.”

The words washed over you. Smooth, warm, definitive. And yet somehow empty.

Daniel cleared his throat. “If you’d like me to read the specific phrasing—”

“That won’t be necessary,” Antonelli said gently but firmly, placing a hand on the page and smiling at you. “She doesn’t need all the tedious legal language. No bride does the day before her wedding.”

You felt heat rise in your cheeks. Embarrassment at not knowing what to ask, fear of seeming foolish, and a deeper instinct to remain polite.

You’d been raised to defer. To not cause disruption. To trust the men who claimed to speak for the family. So you nodded.

Antonelli’s smile widened, satisfied. “Excellent. Then we can proceed.”

Daniel hesitated for half a second, with a small, flickered resistance. But he closed the document and turned it toward you. “Your signature goes here,” he said quietly.

Your hand trembled as you reached for the pen. You looked at your name typed neatly above the line.

This is happening. This is your role. This has always been your role.

You inhaled slowly, pressed the pen to the paper, and signed. When you lifted your hand, Daniel nodded respectfully.

Antonelli snapped the folder shut with polished efficiency. “Well done, my dear,” he said. “That wasn’t so frightening, was it?”

You offered a small, strained smile. “No,” you whispered. “Not at all.” But your heart said otherwise.

The afternoon passed in a slow, muted blur.

After the meeting with the lawyers, Marta accompanied you back to your room, checking on you with the kind of soft, unobtrusive care that made your throat tighten unexpectedly.

“If you’d like,” she offered, “I can help you unpack. Or get someone to.”

You nodded. “Yes… thank you. That would be nice.”

Two maids came shortly after. They were quiet, practiced women who moved around your room with gentle efficiency, hanging your blouses in the cedar-lined wardrobe, placing your folded sweaters into the dresser drawers, smoothing your skirts over velvet hangers. You tried to help, but they were quicker, better and more accustomed to this house.

The room itself slowly began to feel less like a guest space and more like something you were meant to inhabit. Soft cream walls. A window overlooking the orchard. A heavy oak desk positioned under a painting of the river. A small armchair upholstered in moss green. Your small stack of books looked almost shy on the nightstand, dwarfed by the elegant lamp and the vase of fresh rosemary someone had placed there.

Around five, Marta knocked again, holding a small envelope and a gentle smile.

“Dinner will be at seven,” she said. “Just the family tonight. Nothing formal.”

Nothing formal. You weren’t sure what “formal” meant in this house, but the words eased something in your chest. You thanked her, and she disappeared down the corridor with her soft-soled shoes whispering against the rug.

When seven approached, you changed into something simple: a grey cashmere shirt tucked neatly into black trousers and Ballerina flats. Your hair was tied back loosely.

The soft evening light spilled across the floorboards as the sun dipped lower, turning everything gold. You hesitated in the mirror: not quite elegant, not quite casual. Safe.

When you entered the dining room, you felt nervous. Joel was already there, wearing a dark button-down shirt, sleeves rolled once at the forearms, paired with pressed trousers and a leather belt. Clean, understated, but undeniably refined. Tommy, in a charcoal sweater and dress shoes, was standing right next to him with a glass of what you assumed was Bourbon in his hand.

And then there was a woman beside him. She wore a deep emerald blouse and tailored black pants, her dark curls pulled back into a low knot, gold earrings catching the light. She was beautiful. And confident in that easy, unforced way some women carried themselves. Like they knew exactly who they were and took up space without apology.

Tommy spotted you first. “Hey,” he said warmly, standing. “C’mon in.”

The woman turned towards you, offering a polite, reserved smile. She didn't seem unfriendly,  just cautious, assessing, the way someone might greet a newcomer entering a delicate situation.

“I’m Maria,” she finally said. “Tommy’s wife.” She extended her hand and shook yours with a firm grip, her rings feeling cool against your skin. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” you replied, feeling suddenly younger than you were, and smaller in your simple outfit.

Maria’s gaze softened, just barely. “I hope they’re not overwhelming you with all the preparations.”

You managed a small smile. “A bit. But everyone has been… kind.”

“Good,” she said firmly. “That’s how it should be.”

You finally looked at Joel. He gave you a quiet nod and gestured toward the sideboard, where drinks were set neatly beside a tray of glasses. “You drink wine?” he asked, voice steady.

You glanced at the bottles. Red, white and something sparkling. “White, please.”

He poured it himself, not handing the duty to anyone else. When he passed you the glass, his fingers brushed yours lightly. Intentional or not, the touch sent a small shiver through you.

Dinner was a three-course meal, simple but beautifully done.  Roast beef with lemon thyme sauce, buttered green beans, and a small serving of rosemary potatoes. It smelled like home should have smelled, warm and comforting.

Conversation flowed mostly between the others. Tommy spoke about one of the horses in the stable being particularly moody. Maria shared a story about their four-year-old son, Benjamin — “Benji,” she called him — who had apparently tried to ride the family dog that morning like a horse. Joel gave a low, amused huff at that, shaking his head in what looked suspiciously like fondness.

You sat quietly, listening, answering politely when addressed, feeling the warmth of their easy dynamic and yet, hovering at the edges of it.

Maria turned to you at one point, her voice gentler now. “It must be a lot. Coming into all this.”

Your fork paused over your plate. “Yes,” you admitted quietly. “It is.”

She nodded slowly. “I imagine it feels like stepping sideways into someone else’s life.”

Your chest tightened. You nodded.

“But,” she continued, voice softening further, “you don’t have to figure everything out tonight.”

Something in the gentle firmness of her tone made your eyes burn for a second. You looked down, pretending to adjust your napkin. Joel watched you, discreet and thoughtful, his gaze flicking to you with a kind of calm attentiveness you didn’t know how to absorb. 

As dessert plates were cleared and the last of the wine softened the room’s edges, Joel leaned back slightly, directing his attention toward you with the quiet gravity he always seemed to carry.

“Tomorrow’ll be a long day,” he said gently. “Preparations’ll start early. Marta’s got the hair and makeup people comin’ by your room around nine. We’ll leave for the Prescott estate at noon.”

You nodded, trying to ignore the tightening in your chest. “And the ceremony…?”

“One o’clock,” Joel said.

Maria dabbed her mouth with her napkin before setting it neatly beside her plate. “I’ll drive with you to the chapel,” she said, her tone warm but practical. “We’ll go together. It’s better that way.”

You blinked. “You… will?”

“Of course.” Maria smiled, small, but genuine. “No bride should arrive alone for something like this. We’ll take care of you. I promise.”

You nodded, grateful. Her kindness pressed against your ribs like something fragile and painful all at once.

Joel cleared his throat, almost grateful for the interruption. “Tommy and I’ll head there earlier,” he added. “Security checks, the usual protocol.”

Tommy grinned, raising his glass toward you with an exaggerated flourish. “Plus, somebody’s gotta stand next to him and pretend to be the best man.”

Joel shot him a flat look. “You are the best man.”

“I know,” Tommy said cheerfully. “That’s why I said pretend.”

Maria rolled her eyes fondly. “He’s been insufferable about that title all week.”

Tommy pressed a hand to his heart. “Ma’am, I earned this.”

You couldn’t help it. The corner of your mouth lifted. Just barely, but it did. And for a moment, the table felt like something close to a family scene. A stark contrast to the reality beneath it all: You were a guest in your own marriage.

Joel noticed your faint smile, even if he didn’t comment on it. His gaze lingered a moment longer than necessary before he pushed his chair back. You rose from the table with them, and though no one made a show of it, Joel stood just a bit straighter when you did. A quiet gesture, respectful and understated.

“Get some rest,” he said. “Tomorrow will be a long day.”

You swallowed, glancing back. “Goodnight.”

As you walked back toward the west wing, your soft steps echoing against the high ceilings, you could still hear the warm hum of their voices drifting from the dining room.

Warmth, laughter, familiarity. All the things a family could be. And yet, as you reached your door, one truth settled quietly and undeniably into your bones:  Tomorrow, you would walk into a life you did not choose. And their kindness made it easier and harder at the same time.

When you were gone Maria rose from the table as well, smoothing her blouse with a brisk, familiar gesture. “I think I’ll turn in too,” she said lightly. “Early start tomorrow.”

Tommy pushed back his chair and leaned in to kiss her cheek. Quick, affectionate, the kind of gesture that spoke to years of shared life. “Don’t stay up worryin’ about details,” he murmured to her. “Everything’s under control.”

Maria gave him a look that suggested she doubted that entirely, but she smiled anyway before turning toward the door. She paused beside Joel, offering her cheek. He leaned in, brushing a polite kiss against it.

“Night, Maria,” he said.

“Night, Joel.” Her voice softened, just a degree. “She seems decent. And shy.”

Joel’s jaw twitched, just slightly, but enough that Tommy caught it. “She’s had a hell of a week,” Joel answered quietly.

Maria nodded. “So have you.” Then she slipped out, her heels clicking once before the sound faded into the long corridor.

Joel lingered by the table, thumb idly circling the rim of his glass. Tommy stretched his arms over his head with a low groan.

“Long day,” Tommy muttered.

“Longer tomorrow,” Joel replied.

A beat of silence. Then Tommy slipped into the cadence of business, the way he always did when the house grew quiet.

“I checked in with Alvarez about the West Lake situation,” Tommy said. “He’s keepin’ the trucks staggered, like you asked. No overlap with Moretti routes.”

Joel nodded. “Good. Last thing we need is nerves on either side.”

“And the Riverside shipment?” Tommy added. “I told ‘em to run it tight. No extras, no new hires.”

“Smart,” Joel said. “Too many eyes right now.”

Tommy huffed. “Too many guns, you mean.”

Joel didn’t deny it.

The quiet settled again, heavier this time. The kind that comes only when two men are thinking of the same risks, the same ghosts.

Tommy glanced toward the doorway where you had left minutes earlier. “She held herself well,” he said. “All things considered.”

Joel didn’t comment, though something in his jaw eased before tightening again.

Tommy watched him for a moment, gauging the right time, then delivered the update with surprising gentleness.

“By the way,” he said quietly, “Carter called. She signed the prenup.”

Joel’s head lifted. “What?”

Tommy’s expression softened. “Carter called. Said the paperwork’s done. Her signature’s on it.”

Joel looked down, hands braced on the back of his chair, shoulders tight. Something unreadable crossed his face. Relief, yes, but threaded with something heavier. A weight. A guilt. A sense of duty he had taken on willingly, only to realize the cost wasn’t just his. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, the patchy scruff catching in the motion. Joel closed his eyes for a moment, just long enough for Tommy to see the internal conflict settle behind them.

“You did your part,” Tommy said. “She signed. The families are secure. The wedding goes forward. That’s the point.”

Joel straightened slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s the point.” 

He stepped away from the table, hand brushing the back of the chair she had sat in, lingering only a fraction too long. “Night, Tommy,” he said finally.

“Night, brother.” Tommy watched him go, a quiet sigh leaving him once his brother disappeared into the corridor.

“Hell of a way to start a marriage,” he murmured to the empty room.

Morning arrived as if poured in through the window. Slow, golden, and too gentle for what the day held.

You woke with the strange, hollow certainty that something irreversible had begun. The room was quiet save for the soft creak of the curtains breathing against the open window. The scent of rosemary—ever-present here—lingered. A knock followed, light but assured.

Marta.

“Good morning, dear,” she said when you opened the door. In her hands she carried a tray: tea, toast, a small bowl of berries, and a soft-boiled egg you doubted you could swallow.

“Eat a little,” Marta urged, setting the tray on the desk. “It will help.”

You nodded, though your stomach was tight and closed. You tried the tea anyway. It was camomile, warm and calming. But it did nothing to slow the pounding in your chest.

Everything felt suspended, like the world was holding its breath. And at the same time, everything rushed: voices calling down the hall, the sound of suitcases rolling, staff moving in and out of adjoining rooms, the faint hum of cars arriving far earlier than guests should.

Another knock sounded, firmer this time. When you opened the door, Maria stood there.

Her hair was pinned in soft waves, her dark curls brushed back from her face. She wore a sleek black dress with long sleeves. She looked elegant, understated, dignified. She looked every part the matriarch of a powerful family, even if she wasn’t one by blood.

“Good morning,” she greeted, voice steady but kind. Her eyes swept over you, noting your stiffness, your too-careful breathing. “How are you holding up?”

You almost laughed. Or cried. You weren’t sure which. “I’m… managing,” you said.

Maria nodded once. “We’ll take it one step at a time.” She stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

The stylists arrived shortly after. Two women with delicate hands and a rolling case of tools. They worked quietly and efficiently. Powder, pins, brushes, soft touches against your skin. You became a sculpture under their hands, molded into something elegant and immaculate.

As your hair was arranged into a low, classic chignon and your makeup shaped into soft, timeless lines, Maria stood back with arms folded lightly, observing.

When it was only the two of you again, Maria turned to the wardrobe. “Time to dress,” she said gently.

Your heartbeat stuttered. You walked to the closet slowly, fingers hovering over the carved wooden door before pulling it open. The scent of cedar rose softly. Inside, hanging at the center like the only thing that mattered, was your mother’s wedding dress.

You reached for it carefully, lifting it from its hanger as though it might crumble. The silk caught the light like water. Simple and ivory. It was beautiful in a way that required no diamonds, no spectacle.

Maria’s breath caught faintly. “Oh,” she whispered. “That’s… exquisite.”

“It was my mother’s,” you said, voice quieter than you intended.

Maria stepped closer, fingers hovering respectfully near the lace of the cuffs. “It suits you. It’s elegant. Joel…” She paused, recalibrating. “I think he will appreciate it.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that.

Maria helped you step into it. The fabric whispered down your body, cool at first, then warm as it embraced your shape. She fastened the buttons along the back with steady, practiced hands, smoothing the silk over your hips.

When you turned to face the mirror, you hardly recognized yourself.

A composed, graceful woman stared back. A woman who looked calm. Poised and unshakeable.

Maria reached into a small velvet pouch she’d carried under her arm.

“Tradition,” she said lightly, as if the word didn’t press too hard on either of you. “Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.”

You blinked. “I… don’t have any of those.”

“You have the old,” Maria said, nodding at the dress. “The new will come later.”

You didn’t understand what she meant yet. She opened the pouch and pulled out a pair of ivory lace gloves. They were delicate, made from lace, perfectly matching the detailing on your mother’s dress like it could have been crafted for it.

“These were mine,” she said. “I wore them at my wedding to Tommy. Borrow them today.”

Your throat tightened. “Maria… I don’t know if—”

“They’ll fit,” she said simply.

And they did. Perfectly. When you pulled them on, your reflection shifted again. The gloves transformed the entire look and made it even more refined, more ethereal. More like you belonged to the kind of wedding that had nothing to do with choice and everything to do with legacy.

Maria stepped behind you, resting her hands gently on your shoulders.

“You look beautiful,” she said. “Truly.”

You swallowed hard. “It doesn’t feel real.”

“It will,” Maria said softly. “When you walk into that chapel and all those people turn to look at you… it will feel very real.”

Your stomach twisted. Maria squeezed your shoulders gently. Somewhere downstairs, the first of the arriving cars rumbled into place. Maria opened the door, her expression shifting to something firmer, steadier.

“It’s time,” she said softly.

You felt the world tip forward. Toward the drive. Toward the chapel. Toward Joel. Toward a life you could not turn away from now.

You were guided to a waiting car, black and polished like obsidian.

Maria walked beside you, her movements composed, her presence neither smothering nor distant. As if she understood that too much kindness could be overwhelming right now. 

When the driver opened the door, she gestured for you to enter first. Inside, the car smelled faintly of leather and lavender. A soft bouquet lay beside your seat, its pale petals trembling with the motion of the door. Maria sat after you, smoothing her dress.

The car pulled away from the Miller estate, the gates drawing shut behind you. Outside, Austin began to unspool. Stone walls, manicured hedges, then the sweep of the city in morning light. Buildings you didn’t recognize. Sidewalks you’d never walked. Your reflection hovered in the window: faint, translucent, your mother’s wedding dress soft around your shoulders.

You held your hands still in your lap. You didn’t dare wrinkle the fabric.

Maria spoke first, her voice even, unobtrusive. “If you need the window cracked, just say so.”

You shook your head gently. “No… thank you.”

Silence settled again. You tried to focus on the hum of the car beneath you, something steady in a world that suddenly felt unmoored. But your thoughts slipped anyway.

Soon I’ll stand in front of a room full of strangers and marry Joel Miller. And I hardly know anything about him beyond a handful of moments.

The memory of the yesterday morning kept returning: the way he’d walked beside you through the garden, slowed his pace so you could keep up, the warmth of his voice when he spoke about his grandfather’s walls. He hadn’t been cruel. He hadn’t even been cold. He’d been controlled, yes—measured, careful—but there had been a quiet gentleness beneath it that unsettled you more than the formality of the day itself.

You wondered whether he felt any of this.  Whether he was already at the chapel. Whether he was nervous. Whether he’d remembered to shave. Your heart tightened at the thought, absurdly fragile.

Maria shifted slightly, perhaps sensing the weight of your silence, but she didn’t push. She didn’t pry. Her voice, when it finally came, was soft enough not to intrude.

“It’s a long road,” she said simply. “If you need water—or anything—just ask.”

You nodded, grateful for the offer and the restraint.

Outside, the city began to thin. Houses gave way to hills. The road curved toward the Prescott estate, the chapel hidden somewhere at the end of the ascent.

You drew a slow breath. You could feel your heartbeat through the silk at your ribs.

Beside you, Maria kept her eyes on the window, her posture composed, as if protecting your silence rather than filling it. And ahead of you, beyond the bend in the road and the veil of morning light, waited the man you were about to marry.

The Prescott estate emerged just as the sun was high in the sky, the world dipped in liquid gold. The manor rose from the rolling lawns like something carved from time itself: warm sandstone, ivy climbing its ribs, cypress trees standing guard along the path.

The car slowed. Through the window, you saw the spectacle laid out like a stage: rows of black sedans, valets moving with synchronized precision, security positioned like statues carved from muscle and vigilance. Everything was orchestrated. 

When the driver opened your door, the light caught on your mother’s dress, the silk glowing as though it had been waiting for this one beam of sun.

Maria stepped out first. She circled the car with quiet purpose and offered her hand for balance, her touch gentle yet sure. “Take your time,” she murmured, perfectly discreet. Her eyes lingered on your face, searching for strain but offering no commentary, only solidarity.

As she guided you forward, someone else approached.

Your father. Victor Moretti stood near the chapel steps, posture impeccable, expression honed into its customary sharp composure. But when he saw you, he stopped.

His eyes dropped briefly to the dress. Your mother’s dress.

There was  a flicker. A tightening around his jaw. A faint inhale. You saw something cracked in the marble of him. Barely, but unmistakably.

“Your mother…” he said once, the words barely above a breath. Not tender. Not warm, but human.

Hope rose in you like a fool’s wish. A small, bright thing that shouldn’t have existed. But then he blinked, the expression shuttered, and the mask slipped perfectly back into place.

“You look appropriate,” he said, voice clipped but smoother than usual. Maria, beside you, stiffened at the bland dismissal. She didn’t speak, but the air between her and Victor cooled a degree, enough that even you felt it. Two worlds measuring each other in silence.

Father Mateo descended the steps with slow, careful movements. His face brightened with recognition, softened by memory. “My child,” he murmured, taking your hand in both of his. “You’ve grown into a beautiful young woman. I remember when your head barely reached my belt.”

Your lips curved into something that resembled a smile, though faint, fragile. “Feels like… a lifetime ago.”

He nodded, sadness carving a gentler pattern into his features. “Life moves quickly. Especially on days like this.”

He stepped aside. Victor extended his arm, as it was expected of him, the gesture belonging more to ceremony than fatherhood. Maria’s hand lingered a single second on your back before she stepped away, yielding you to your father. 

Inside the chapel, the hush was immediate and thick.

It was smaller than you expected but impossibly ornate: arched ceilings of honey-colored stone, candlelight trembling along carved columns, white floral towers rising like frozen waterfalls on either side of the aisle. Every seat bore a golden sash; every guest’s gaze held the weight of intention disguised as curiosity.

Your steps echoed softly as you crossed the threshold, the hem of your mother’s dress whispering over the carpet. Victor walked beside you, his arm tense beneath your hand, his silence as heavy as the vaulted ceiling above.

The aisle stretched long and wide, a corridor of eyes and expectation. You wanted to run. The thought wasn’t new. It had arrived weeks ago, the moment your father had told you what was to come. But now, walking that aisle, hem trailing behind you, it took shape as something desperate, something bodily.

But of course you didn’t run. Because where would you go? Not back to the Moretti estate. Not forward into some imagined future with Joel. Not into the trees or through the crowd of unsmiling witnesses. There was nowhere.

So you walked. Each step felt like it belonged to someone else, borrowed like the lace gloves on your hands. The music swelled, violins like distant weeping, but none of it reached you fully.

You inhaled. Exhaled. Your fingers tightened on your father’s arm, though he didn’t notice.

And then you saw him. 

Joel stood beneath the arch of flowers, suit dark and perfectly cut, with a white shirt crisp against his skin. In the softer light of the chapel, he looked even more imposing than he had in the garden — broader, more contained — but there was nothing theatrical about his presence. He simply was. Solid and centered. Tommy stood a step behind him, hands folded, expression easy but watchful.

For a heartbeat, Joel’s eyes flicked past your shoulder, acknowledging Victor with a small, formal nod. Then his gaze returned to you and didn’t leave.

He didn’t do the cliché double-take. He didn’t look stunned. But something in his face shifted: his jaw easing, his brows softening, his eyes darkening in that way people’s eyes did when they actually saw something. His gaze followed the line of the dress, the simple fall of the ivory silk, the high neck, the lace at your wrists. No glitter, no jewels, no spectacle.

Just you. And you saw the quick, unspoken approval in the way his mouth almost, almost curved.

Victor stopped at the final step. He didn’t squeeze your hand, but he did pause for one fraction of a second longer than necessary before he let go. That was as close to tenderness as he allowed himself. Then he placed your hand into Joel’s.

Joel’s grip was steady and warm. He didn’t pull, just closed his fingers around yours with enough pressure to say he was there. For a moment, his thumb brushed the side of your glove, barely there, more reflex than intent.

“Hi,” he said quietly, just for you.

You almost smiled. “Hi.”

Father Mateo’s voice rose then, filling the chapel, and the moment broke into ritual. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…”

The words rolled over you, not quite landing. You stood beside Joel, your hand still in his, your heartbeat thunderous in your ears. You felt the warmth of him at your side. When it was time to turn toward each other, he did so without hesitation.

Up close, his expression was calmer than you expected. There was no visible strain, no obvious nerves; only a gravity in his gaze that made it hard to look away. Candlelight picked out a faint scar near his temple, the roughness of his stubble, the flecks of gold in his brown eyes.

You repeated your vows, your voice steady even as your stomach tightened. Joel’s voice followed, quiet but certain. When Father Mateo nodded for the rings, Tommy stepped forward, placing a small velvet box in Joel’s hand.

Joel opened it, took your ring with careful fingers, and lifted your hand. The lace of Maria’s glove brushed his knuckles as he eased it back just enough to bare the base of your ring finger.

You hadn’t expected it. You’d assumed a simple band, chosen by a planner. But what he produced from the small velvet box was elegant. Understated. Gold, not flashy. Delicate, with a small sapphire at its center that caught the candlelight in a dark blue flash. Beautiful in a way that stopped your breath for a moment. You blinked.

His eyes flicked up once, briefly, as if checking your reaction. “Thought it might suit,” he murmured.

You placed his ring on his finger with slightly less grace — your hands weren’t as steady as his — but he didn’t seem to mind. His mouth twitched, almost reassuring.

And then it was time. “By the power vested in me,” Father Mateo said, voice soft but clear, “I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

The chapel held its breath.

For a second, he just looked at you. He leaned in slowly, giving you a fraction of space to pull back if you needed to. You didn’t. His hand lifted, resting lightly at your waist. Not claiming, just anchoring. The other still held your gloved fingers.

You caught your breath. Saw the way his eyes moved to your lips, the shallow rise of his chest. It wasn’t longing, it was more controlled than that. Like a man aware of how closely the world was watching, and how carefully he meant to move within it.

His hand lifted, slow and deliberate, to the side of your face. Not touching, just near. And then he leaned in.

The kiss was not passionate. It was brief, sealed with obligation, and yet, somehow, not unkind. His mouth met yours, firm but careful. You closed your eyes. Not because you wanted to, but because it was easier than looking at the cameras, at the crowd. At your father. At what this moment had become. But for just a second, you felt the warmth of his breath, the quiet strength of his frame. It wasn’t possession. It wasn’t affection. It was ceremony. And still — your heart thudded wildly.

When he drew back, he stayed close for a second longer, his forehead almost but not quite touching yours, his breath shared with yours.

“You did good,” he murmured, so quietly only you could hear. “It’s over now.” Joel’s eyes searched yours for a fraction of a second, measuring. Applause erupted behind you. The flash of cameras. A wave of toasts, of speeches, and laughter.

But you stood still, beside a man who was now your husband.

The reception began almost immediately, the chapel doors thrown open to the marble terrace just beyond. 

You followed Joel through a side door and down a short corridor that opened into a grand hall attached to the Prescott manor, into a room of high ceilings and pale stone, with tall arched windows flooding everything in late-afternoon light. White flowers cascaded from towering arrangements, candles burned in tiers of crystal, and a string quartet played from a small balcony above, their music falling over the room like something expensive and practiced.

It was elegant and tasteful. Impeccably curated. And utterly overwhelming.

Waiters in crisp white shirts offered champagne flutes before your heels had even touched the stone. You stood at Joel’s side near the entrance as the guests flowed in, forming a subtle receiving line. A waiter passed with a tray of champagne flutes; Joel took one and handed it to you before accepting his own. His fingers brushed your glove again, grounding, intentional.

“Just breathe,” he murmured, without looking down at you. “You don’t have to remember everyone. Just smile and let them talk.”

You nodded, the movement small. Your heart was still racing in your chest.

The first to approach were the Prescotts—the hosts.

“Joel,” said a man in his sixties, tall and thin, with silver hair and an understated navy suit. “Congratulations.” He turned to you, offering a cordial smile. “I’m Charles Prescott. This is my wife, Marianne.”

Marianne Prescott, draped in deep plum silk and a diamond choker, took your hands with a warmth that felt rehearsed but not entirely false. “My dear, you look radiant,” she said. “The dress is… unique. Classic. A beautiful choice.”

“Thank you,” you said, fingers tightening just slightly on the stem of your glass.

The Prescotts moved on, replaced by a slow procession of faces and names. Every few moments, another figure would approach — a boss, a cousin, a politician with teeth too white — each offering a handshake for Joel, a cool kiss to your cheek, a rehearsed line of congratulations.

“Beautiful ceremony.”

“She’s stunning, Joel.”

“May your house know peace.”

You smiled where you had to. Tilted your chin. Nodded. Your throat ached from holding in every word you wished you could say instead.

“Signora Bianchi,” someone murmured behind you as an older woman approached, dressed in black with a strand of pearls at her throat. You remembered her from childhood visits. She used to be in the corner of your father’s dinners, watching and listening.

Her gaze settled on you, and for a moment, the years fell away from her expression. “Dio mio,” she whispered softly. “That dress…”

Your heart skipped. “Yes,” you said. “It was my mother’s.”

She stepped closer, fingertips hovering just above the silk, not quite touching. “I remember when she wore it,” she said quietly. “She was nervous. Just like you.”

Heat pricked behind your eyes. From the edge of your vision, you felt rather than saw Joel turn his head—his attention shifting, his posture tightening just a fraction. You didn’t look at him, but you knew he’d heard. His silence deepened, shaded now with something like curiosity.

“It suits you,” Signora Bianchi said, her voice gentler now. “Very much.”

“Thank you,” you managed.

She squeezed your hand once, briefly, then moved on, leaving a hollow ache and a strange, fragile thread of connection to a woman you’d never known.

Trays floated past: champagne, sparkling water, tiny canapés with smoked salmon, goat cheese tarts, crostini with shaved beef and horseradish cream. You took one flute of champagne, barely sipping, and nothing else.

Joel noticed.

By the time you were finally allowed to drift from the entrance toward your table, the room had blurred into a shimmering collage of candlelight, glass, and the constant low hum of conversation. A long head table stretched along the far wall, draped in white linen and lined with crystal and gold-rimmed plates. You and Joel took your places in the center, Tommy and Maria flanking you on one side, Victor and a Moretti adviser on the other.

Waiters moved in quiet synchronization, pouring wine, refilling water, setting plates with practiced ease.

You stared at your empty place for a moment, aware of the food, the noise, the weight of eyes.

Joel leaned closer, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

“You need to eat,” he said. It wasn't a command. Not quite a request either. “You’ve had almost nothing today.”

Your instinct was to protest. “I’m not—”

“Hunger sneaks up on you,” he cut in gently. “Trust me. It’s a long evening. Take a few bites. For later, if not for now.”

You hesitated, fingers tightening around your napkin. Then you nodded.

The first course arrived. It was a delicate plate of burrata with roasted figs, a drizzle of balsamic, and toasted pine nuts. It looked beautiful. You forced yourself to lift your fork, cutting off a small piece, then another. After a few tentative bites, your stomach grudgingly remembered what it was supposed to do.

Joel didn’t comment. But when you finished half the plate, you caught the faintest glimmer of approval in his expression before he turned to answer something Tommy said.

The second course was a choice of seared seabass with lemon and capers or filet of beef with red wine jus and truffle mash. You chose the fish because it seemed lighter, easier. You barely tasted it, but you ate some. Joel stuck with the beef, answering two toasts in between cuts with quiet nods and short, controlled responses.

Then came the speeches.

The clinking of glasses rose up in a ripple, gradually pulling the hall’s hum into a concentrated hush.

Victor stood. He didn’t look at you. His gaze swept the room — the Prescotts, the Millers, the Morettis, allies and rivals and carefully neutral parties — and only then settled on you and Joel at the center table.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, voice smooth, measured, amplified by a microphone he barely needed. “Tonight, we witness not only a union between two individuals, but a turning point between two houses.”

You sat very, very still.

“My daughter,” he continued, almost as an afterthought, “has always carried the Moretti name with quiet dignity. She has been raised to understand duty. To understand that some choices are larger than ourselves.”

He let that hang, quick and sharp. You felt the room’s attention tighten on you, on the elegant bride in the vintage dress, the embodiment of that “duty.”

“Joel Miller,” Victor went on, turning toward him. “Is a man I have known by reputation far longer than by acquaintance. A man who has proven himself disciplined, measured, and unwilling to spill blood without reason.”

There was a faint murmur at that, half acknowledgment, half skepticism.

“It is no secret that our families have disagreed,” Victor said, the corner of his mouth ticking in something that wasn’t quite humor. “But tonight, we demonstrate that legacy need not be defined by conflict. That strength can recognize strength. That the future of this city is not in constant war, but in carefully chosen peace.”

He lifted his glass. “To my daughter,” he said, finally allowing his eyes to rest on your face, his tone dipping just enough to pass for paternal. “May she find her place in this new home with the same composure she has shown in mine. And to Joel, may he prove himself as worthy of her loyalty as he has of his own men.”

It was almost tender. Almost. But the cold ran under it like steel.

Glasses were lifted. Crystal chimed. You took a sip of champagne because it was expected, not because you wanted it.

Then Tommy rose. He didn’t bother with the microphone at first. When someone gestured, he relented, grinning as if he’d been dragged into formality against his will.

“All right,” he said, voice instantly more relaxed, more human. “I’ll keep this short. Which is new for me, so you’re all witnesses.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the room.

“I’ve known Joel for… well, all my life,” Tommy said. “And I can tell you three things for sure. One: he is stubborn as hell.”

More laughter.

“Two: he will break his back to keep the people under his roof safe.”

That quieted the room a bit.

“And three,” Tommy added, glancing between you and Joel, “he does not do anything halfway. If he’s in, he’s in.”

Tommy’s gaze settled on you, his features softening, just a fraction. He lifted his glass, the light catching the rim. “And from what I’ve seen so far, he’s not the only one showin’ strength to make this happen.”

Your stomach tightened at that subtle acknowledgment, but Tommy moved on before it could linger.

He turned back to the room, raising his glass. “To Joel and his wife,” he said, deliberately leaving your name out, as if protecting it from too many mouths. “To new beginnings, fewer bullets, and a future that doesn’t end in a ditch off I-35.”

The last line got a louder laugh than expected. Even Victor’s mouth twitched.

You felt Joel exhale beside you, a small breath that seemed to take some of the pressure out of his shoulders. Glasses were raised again. The string quartet shifted into something warm and lilting. You thought, for a moment, that the worst was over.

You were wrong.

A few minutes later, as the hum of conversation swelled back to life and waiters moved to pass coffee and digestifs, Joel pushed his chair back slightly and turned toward you.

His gaze was calm, unreadable, but not unkind. “Mrs. Miller,” he said quietly, so only you could hear. “Will you grant me this dance?”

You froze. You hadn’t thought that far ahead. Dancing hadn’t existed in your mind yet. The word alone made your stomach flip.

“I—” You swallowed. “I’m not a very good dancer.”

His mouth curved, just a little. “Lucky for you,” he said, “I am.”

He stood and offered his hand. There was no way to refuse without causing a scene, and you were too well-trained to do that. So you placed your hand in his and let him guide you toward the center of the room, where the polished stone floor opened up under a delicate wash of light.

The string quartet shifted to something slower, a classic piece that sounded timeless.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding as he turned to face you, one hand settling with careful pressure at the small of your back, the other gently holding your gloved hand between you.

“Just follow me,” he said, voice low. “I won’t let you fall.”

You almost laughed at that, but it came out as a shaky exhale.

Everyone was watching. You could feel it, a ring of eyes pressing in around the two of you, judging your posture, your chemistry, the metaphor they wanted to spin from how you moved together.

You hated it.

“Look at me,” Joel murmured, as if reading that thought. “Not them.”

You did. His gaze held yours steadily and it somehow helped ease your nerves a little.

He led you into the first steps with a competence that was almost unnerving. His movements were smooth and assured, his hand at your back steady but not intrusive, guiding you through turns and shifts with just enough pressure for you to understand what he wanted.

You realized, with a start, that you trusted him not to embarrass you.

“I’m stepping on you,” you whispered once, mortified, when your shoe brushed the edge of his.

He huffed the quietest breath of a laugh. “You’re not. And if you do, I’ve had worse.”

You blinked up at him. “That’s very reassuring.”

“There you go,” he said softly. “You can joke.”

The corners of your mouth lifted before you could stop them.

After that, the dance found a rhythm. Your body remembered how to follow. He adjusted subtly when you hesitated, slowed when you needed a heartbeat to catch up, turned you in a way that made the room blur and sharpen all at once.

If anyone in the room noticed your nerves, they hid it well. What the guests saw was a composed bride in a simple, stunning dress, and a groom whose hand never left her, whose gaze didn’t stray, whose movements were steady and sure.

When the music began to fade, he didn’t spin you into some dramatic final pose. He just slowed, brought you gently back to stillness, and let his hand linger at your back for a second longer than necessary.

The room applauded. You barely heard it.

“You did fine,” Joel said quietly.

“I didn’t fall,” you replied.

The spell broke. Other couples began to rise from their seats, joining the floor, diluting the attention. But somewhere under the silk and the lace you couldn't shake one thought. His hand. On my back. Leading me steadily through the first dance as husband and wife.

By the time the sun slipped completely below the horizon, the reception had softened at the edges.

The lights were warmer now, candles doing more of the work than the chandeliers. The string quartet had given way to a smaller ensemble; the music looser, lighter. Some of the men had drifted toward the terrace, cigars glowing faintly in the dusk as they leaned in close for quiet conversations. Women laughed in small clusters, glasses in hand, their jewelry catching the light whenever they tipped their heads back.

On the dance floor, couples moved more freely now, no longer watched as symbols, just bodies following familiar habits. Someone’s laugh rang out too loud. A waiter nearly collided with a guest as he navigated a tray of espresso cups and small glasses of grappa.

You stood near one of the tall windows, half-hidden by a floral arrangement, your fingers resting lightly on the sill. From here, you could see the terrace, the faint orange glow of cigar embers, the blurred silhouette of Joel among a small cluster of men, with his head bent, listening, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass.

You felt relieved, in a way. The ceremony was done, the speeches given, the first dance survived. You’d done everything expected of you: smiled, greeted, moved with the right degree of composure. No scene. No misstep worth gossiping about.

A wave of voices rose behind you and then softened again. You focused on the cool glass beneath your fingertips, your reflection faint and ghostly over the darkness outside. The sapphire on your finger caught the light from a nearby candle, flashing a deep, quiet blue.

“You’ve managed very well.”

You turned.

Maria stood a few steps away, a half-finished glass of white wine in her hand. Her hair was a little looser now, one strand falling from its pins. She didn’t look tired, exactly, but the day had settled into the fine lines around her eyes.

“How are you holding up?” she asked, tone soft but not pitying.

You considered the question for a moment. “I’m… standing,” you said. “Which is something.”

A small hint of a smile touched her mouth. “It is.”

She stepped closer, her gaze drifting briefly to your hand. “The ring suits you,” she said. “The blue is a good choice.”

You looked down at it again. The slim gold band, the sapphire set cleanly at its center, not ostentatious but impossible to miss. “It’s beautiful,” you admitted quietly. “I didn’t expect…”

You trailed off, searching for the right word.

“Something so personal?” Maria offered gently.

You nodded, hesitant. “Yes.”

For a moment, Maria’s expression shifted into something like consideration passing behind her eyes, weighing what to say and what to leave alone.

“You remember when you arrived at the house...,” she said at last, “and Tommy told you Joel had something he needed to take care of? That he wished he could have been there.”

“Yes.” The disappointment of that moment flickered back, faint but still traceable. “I remember.”

Maria’s gaze settled on the ring again. “This,” she said quietly, “was what he was doing.”

You blinked. “The ring?” Your throat tightened. “He chose it himself?”

She nodded once. “Told Tommy he wouldn’t meet his wife for the first time without the right ring in his pocket.” Her lips twitched, almost fond. “They argued about timing, of course. But Joel was insistent.”

You looked back at the sapphire, the way it sat simple and sure against your skin. The “something blue” Maria had mentioned that morning, without telling you why she sounded so certain.

“I thought,” you said slowly, “he just… didn’t want to be there.”

Maria’s eyes softened. “Men like Joel are not always good at showing what they intend. But he is very deliberate.”

You let the words sink in, their weight surprising you.

Silence stretched between you for a moment, not uncomfortable. The music shifted to something slower. Somewhere across the room, Tommy laughed at a joke too loudly, drawing a few amused looks.

“I know this doesn’t make it easier,” Maria said finally, choosing her words with care. “But it’s not nothing either.”

“No,” you agreed quietly. “It’s not nothing.”

She nodded, then lifted her glass slightly in a small, private toast. “To surviving the first day,” she said.

You huffed a quiet breath that almost counted as a laugh. “To surviving.”

She walked away a moment later, rejoining a small group near the bar, leaving you alone with the hum of the room and the distant silhouette of your new husband on the terrace.

The sapphire caught the light again as you turned your hand, deep and steady as midnight.

You didn’t realize how long you’d been standing alone until the room shifted around you.

The music had softened, the light had warmed, and the crowd had thinned into loose clusters: men with their jackets open, cigars glowing on the terrace; women laughing in small knots, heels dangling from their fingers, jewels catching stray candlelight. The grandness of the evening had settled into a low, expensive hum. You were tired of standing. And of smiling.

You were still by the window, half-concealed behind a curtain of white flowers, when Joel found you.

“Here you are. You’ve been in this corner a while,” he said quietly.

You turned. He looked composed as ever, hisshirt collar immaculate. But there was a faint looseness to his shoulders now, a trace of the long day in his eyes.

“Just getting some air,” you replied. “I’m fine.”

His dark brown eyes travelled over your face, taking in the careful posture, the tiredness you’d tried to iron out of your features. He didn’t argue. He only nodded once.

“Long day,” he said. “You ready to head out?”

The question landed softer than you expected. It wasn't an order or an assumption. It was an out.

“Yes,” you said. “I think I am.”

He glanced across the room, caught Tommy’s eye, and tilted his head once. Tommy nodded, already moving toward the exit, no words needed. “Car’ll be out front in a minute,” Joel murmured, turning back to you. “We’ll go when you’re ready.”

We’ll go. Not I’m leaving.

You followed him toward the entrance at an unhurried pace. People stopped him along the way with short handshakes, a quiet word here, a nod there. He kept his replies brief but courteous, never letting your hand slip too far from the crook of his arm.

Near the main doors, a familiar figure stepped away from a small group and moved towards you.

Victor. His glass was empty, his tie perfectly in place, his expression untouched by the fatigue that had begun to show in others.

“Joel,” he said, with a small, controlled smile. “A successful evening.”

Joel’s posture remained level. “Seems that way.”

Victor’s gaze flicked to you, cool, assessing, as if confirming you were still where you were supposed to be.

“My congratulations again,” he said, the words polished, smooth. “You’ve taken on something significant.”

There was the faintest pause before he added, “She is your responsibility now.”

The way he said it was not cruel, but distant. You felt the words land like a weight, very familiar in their shape.

Joel’s jaw tightened. His expression didn’t change much, but you saw something shift in his eyes. A brief flash of displeasure, that was quickly banked. He inclined his head with restrained politeness.

“I’m aware,” he said evenly. “I intend to do right by that.”

Victor gave a slight nod, satisfied, already half-turning back toward his circle. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, sir,” you replied automatically.

He didn’t look back.

You felt Joel’s arm ease under your hand, some small tension unwinding. He didn’t say anything about what had just been said; he didn’t make a comment, he didn’t offer pity. But he did look down at you, just for a second, and there was something there, something quiet and protective, that you weren’t used to seeing directed at you.

“Come on,” he said softly. “Let’s go.”

Outside, the night was cooler, the noise of the reception muffled into a distant glow behind you. The Prescott manor loomed warm and lit against the dark sky; staff moved about like ghosts, collecting glasses, closing doors.

Joel’s car waited at the bottom of the steps, engine idling softly. Tommy stood nearby, hands in his pockets, his tie now decidedly undone.

“Car’s ready,” he said. “Everything’s clear.”

Joel nodded. “Thanks brother.”

Tommy stepped back, letting Joel guide you forward. He released your arm long enough to open the passenger door himself. “Watch the hem,” he said quietly.

You gathered your dress carefully. His hand was there as you lowered yourself into the seat, steady and sure, his fingertips brushing the lace at your wrist for the briefest moment. Once you were settled, he adjusted the skirt so it wouldn’t catch in the door, then closed it with a soft, final thunk.

A moment later, he rounded the front of the car and slid into the seat beside you. The driver eased them away from the estate, the lights of the manor shrinking behind you.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The car hummed around you, the city unspooling again beyond the windows. You stared at your hands in your lap, at the lace gloves, at the band of gold and the sapphire catching occasional glints of passing light.

“That dress,” Joel said at last, his voice low in the dim cabin. “It suits you.”

You glanced at him, surprised.

“It’s…” He paused, as if choosing his words carefully. “Elegant. Not loud. It fits better than anything those stylists could have brought.”

Something in your chest eased minutely. “It was my mother’s,” you said quietly. “I found it in the attic at home.”

He nodded once, eyes returning briefly to the line of the silk at your shoulder, then back to the road ahead. “The woman earlier—Signora Bianchi—she recognized it.”

“Yes.” You swallowed. “She was at their wedding, apparently. My parents’. I didn’t know that until today.”

There was a short, gentle silence. Then: “What was she like?” Joel asked carefully, not prying. “Your mother.”

You stared at your hands again, smoothing the fabric of your skirt. “I don’t know,” you admitted. “She died when I was born. I only know what people told me. That she was kind. Soft-spoken. That she laughed easily.” A faint, almost self-conscious smile ghosted across your lips. “Sometimes I think they talk about her like she was a story, not a person.”

Joel was quiet for a moment. “Stories stick,” he said finally. “Maybe that’s better than bein’ forgotten.”

You glanced at the ring then, the sapphire a small, steady pulse of blue in the dim light. “Thank you,” you said softly. “For this.”

He looked over, with a hint of surprise in his eyes. “For the ring?”

You nodded. “It’s beautiful. And it's… more personal than I expected.”

He studied you for half a breath, then looked away again, his profile lit by the passing glow of a streetlamp.

“I figured if we were gonna do this,” he said, voice quiet and even, “some part of it oughta be chosen, not assigned.”

Outside, the city slipped by.

The car turned through the gates and up the drive, the Miller house rising out of the dark. Some of the downstairs windows were lit, others dark. The noise and glitter of the reception felt like it belonged to another world entirely now.

When the car stopped, someone from the staff moved quickly toward the door, but Joel was there first. He opened it himself, leaning in just enough that his shadow cut across your lap.

“Careful,” he murmured.

You gathered the silk, his hand there, steady  and unhurried, as you stepped out. The cool night air wrapped around you, carrying the faint scent of cut grass and stone cooling after heat.

Inside, the foyer was soft and dim. No bustle, no noise. Just a lamp on the console table, a faint trail of lemon oil and something like lavender. Marta appeared at the base of the stairs, hands folded neatly in front of her.

“You’re back,” she said, voice quiet, as if the house were already half-asleep. “I’ve left water in your room. And a light tray, if you find you’re hungry later.”

“Thank you,” you said.

Her eyes skimmed your face with quick, professional care, then flicked to Joel, who gave a small, appreciative nod. She understood whatever passed between them without needing it said.

“I’ve made sure your room is ready.” Her gaze flicked to the dress, then back to your face. “We’ll get you out of that first, hm? It’s been a long day.”

You managed a small, grateful nod. “Thank you.”

Joel glanced between you and Marta. “I’ll let you take it from here,” he said to her, with that quiet authority that didn’t need raising. Then to you, “I’ll check on you in a bit.”

You didn’t quite know what “a bit” meant. But you nodded anyway.

Marta led you up the stairs, her pace matched to yours. The house was quiet. In your room, the lamp on the bedside table was already lit. The bed had been turned down. A carafe of water and a tumbler waited on a small tray beside a few slices of apple and some crackers. It all looked very civilized, very calm, as if this were any other night.

“Stand here,” Marta said gently, guiding you to the space in front of the mirror. “Let’s get you breathing again.”

You turned your back to her. Her fingers, sure and practiced, went to the row of buttons along your spine. Each one came free with a soft pull, and with each release, some tightly held part of you seemed to exhale.

“These old fastenings,” she muttered half to herself, not unkindly. “Beautiful. And maddening.”

The dress loosened at your ribs, the collar softening around your throat. When she slid the fabric carefully off your shoulders, you felt oddly exposed and oddly relieved all at once. She collected the silk with reverence, as if she understood that it was more than just a garment.

“I’ll hang this properly,” she said. “We don’t want your mother scolding us from wherever she’s watching.”

Your throat tightened at that, but you managed a quiet, “No. We don’t.”

She laid the dress over her arm, then paused, studying your reflection one more time. You stood in your slip and stockings, hair loosened around your face, lips mostly bare of color now. You looked younger. Less like a bride. More like yourself.

“You did well today,” Marta said. “Better than most would have, in your place.”

You didn’t know how to answer that. So you simply said, “Thank you,” and hoped it sounded like you meant it.

She helped you into a white silk nightgown and brushed out your hair with a wide-toothed comb, her hands steady and patient. The silence between you was soft.

When Marta finished, she touched your shoulder gently. “Everything will be alright. One moment at a time.” She turned to leave. Then paused at the door.

“If you need anything,” she added, moving toward the door, “I’ll be up a while yet. Just let me know.”

You nodded. “Goodnight, Marta.”

“Goodnight, dear.”

The door closed softly behind her. Her footsteps retreated down the hall, leaving you alone with the lamplight and the quiet.

The fabric of the nightgown brushed lightly over your skin, cool to the touch. When you looked at yourself in the mirror again, the bride was gone. Just you remained. Bare arms. Bare fingers. The sapphire still on your hand, quietly insistent.

That was when the knock came. Soft and polite. But in the stillness of the room, it made you jump.

Your heart lurched against your ribs. For a moment you just stared at the door, as if expecting it to open on its own.

“It’s me,” came Joel’s voice, muffled but unmistakable.

You swallowed. Your mouth felt too dry. “Come in,” you managed, the words thin but clear enough.

The handle turned. The door opened, then clicked shut again behind him with that same careful finality he always seemed to bring into a room.

He’d lost some of the formality of the evening. No jacket, no tie. The top button of his shirt undone, the sleeves rolled to his forearms. He lookes a little tired, a little relaxed, but still entirely present.

His gaze moved over you once. Your nightgown, your bare arms, loose hair. The ring on your finger. If he noticed more, he didn’t show it. His eyes settled quickly on your face.

“Didn’t wake you, did I?” he asked quietly.

“No,” you said. “I—I wasn’t sleeping.”

He nodded, stepping a little farther into the room, but not too close. “I figured I should check in,” he said. “Didn’t want you thinkin’ the evening ended with you being dropped at the door like a package.”

Something in that softened the knot in your chest.

He glanced at the chair where Marta had hung your dress, the silk now draped neatly over the back. His hand brushed the fabric lightly as he sat. “She took good care of this,” he murmured. “It really is somethin’.”

You followed his gaze, then looked down at your ring instead. Your thumb nervously traced the edge of the sapphire, a almost unconscious movement.

“I wanted to thank you again,” you said slowly, not quite meeting his eyes. “For the ring. And for… how you handled today.”

He watched you for a moment. “You already thanked me,” he said, but there was no irritation in it. Just a quiet acknowledgment.

“I know,” you replied. “I just… don’t want it to go unsaid.”

A small, reluctant quirk touched the corner of his mouth. “Noted.”

The room fell into a gentler silence. The lamplight cast soft shadows on his face, catching the silver at his temples, the tired set of his shoulders.

“It was a lot today,” he said after a moment. His gaze held yours. “You did really well.”

It sounded less like an evaluation, more soft and like a recognition.

You huffed a tiny breath. “It felt like walking through a test I didn’t study for.”

“That’s because you didn’t get the book,” he said with a slight grin.

You almost smiled.

He watched you for a moment longer, the hint of that almost-smile fading from his mouth, leaving something quieter behind.

The room seemed to exhale with you. For the first time all day, you felt the strain in your shoulders ease by a fraction. You were tired, yes, but you’d made it through. The ceremony, the reception, the endless scrutiny. Now he was here, sitting in a chair and talking in that low, steady way, and it felt — if not safe, then at least survivable.

Then his gaze shifted. Not away from you, but a little deeper. As if he’d come to the end of one page and knew there was another he didn’t particularly want to turn, but had to.

His fingers tapped once against his knee, then stilled. “There’s one more thing,” he said quietly. “About today. About… what comes after it.”

The tiny thread of almost-relaxation inside you snapped taut again. You straightened slightly. “All right,” you said, though you had no idea what you were agreeing to.

He didn’t get up yet. He watched you like a man who knew he was about to put weight on something fragile and was trying, in his own way, to be gentle.

“We’ve walked through a lotta…” he searched for the word, “performance today. Speeches. Vows. Papers. All of it for show and for record both.” His voice stayed even, but there was a heaviness under it now. “But there’s a part of this that doesn’t happen in front of anyone.”

Your heartbeat picked up, thudding in your throat. You swallowed. “You mean… here,” you said slowly. “Between us.”

“Yeah,” he said. No flinch, no coyness. Just a man naming a fact. “Between us.”

Your fingers curled tighter in the sheet.

Of course you knew what a wedding night was supposed to mean. You weren’t a child. You’d heard maids talk, heard jokes cut off mid-sentence when you entered a room. You’d watched brides at family weddings vanish after the last dance, cheeks flushed, eyes shining with something unreadable.

You knew what it meant in stories, in whispered conversations. The first night. The proof. The private counterpart to everything you’d just endured in public.

He finally rose, palms pushing lightly off his knees. He didn’t pace, he didn’t loom. He just came a few steps closer, stopping far enough away that you didn’t have to crane your neck to look up at him.

His eyes stayed on your face. “The prenup we signed,” he said, voice low, “it isn’t just about money. Or property. There’s a clause in there Carter and Antonelli were insistent on. Our wedding night needs to be… recognized.”

The word felt clinical. It still made your stomach drop.

“Recognized,” you repeated, your mouth suddenly dry.

He nodded once. “They wanted it explicit. No room for anyone, on either side, to claim this marriage wasn’t—” his jaw worked briefly, “—consummated.”

The word landed like a physical blow. Consummated.

On some level, you’d expected it. Of course you had. That was what people whispered about. That was what made a marriage “real” in the eyes of men like your father. But hearing it now, in this room, in his voice, pinned to tonight and to you, knocked the air from your lungs in a way you weren’t ready for.

You knew, in an abstract, distant way, that sex was expected. That husband and wife, in your world, didn’t just share a name and a house. There were obligations. Duties. You weren’t ignorant.

But somehow, that idea had stopped at the surface of you. Never quite sinking in far enough to take your shape. It was easier to keep it theoretical—what people did, in marriages, in houses that were not yours. Easier than imagining your own body, your own hands, your own hesitation in the dark.

And then there was Joel. You thought of his words in the garden, the day before: You’ll have space. And time.

You’d clung to that more tightly than you wanted to admit. Interpreted it the way you needed to: that he wouldn’t rush you. That whatever duties lay ahead would unfold slowly, later, when you weren’t fresh from an altar and a room full of strangers saying your new name. Your fingers toyed with the edge of the sheet. You took a slow breath, then another.

“Tonight?” you heard yourself say, your voice thinner than you meant it to be. “They… expect that tonight?”

He blinked once, slowly. “That’s how it’s written,” he said. “Carter told me you went through it with him. Antonelli confirmed it. They both said you understood what you were signin’.”

Whatever expression you thought you were wearing fell apart. You felt it happen — the way your face went cold, then hot; the way your throat closed; the way your body went very still, not with calm but with the precise, brittle stillness of something suddenly balancing on an edge.

You didn’t gasp, you didn’t burst into tears. You did something worse: you couldn’t seem to hide your reaction at all. Your eyes widened, the blood draining from your cheeks. Your hands, already twisted in the sheet, clenched until your knuckles went bone-white. Your shoulders drew in a fraction, as if you’d just stepped into a wind you hadn’t seen coming.

Joel saw all of it. He stopped as if he’d hit an invisible barrier halfway between the chair and the bed. The silence that followed felt loud enough to ring.

“You didn’t know,” he said, very quietly. It wasn’t accusation. It was realization, landing heavily between you.

You forced yourself to breathe, but it took effort.

“I knew there were… obligations,” you managed, the word rough in your mouth. “But Mr. Antonelli said the prenup was about protection. About support. Inheritance. He said there were paragraphs of legal language that ‘didn’t concern me.’” Your lips trembled once before you locked them again. “He told me it was standard. That there was no need to worry over every line.”

Joel’s jaw tightened, something dark flaring behind his eyes. Not at you, but at the shape of what he was seeing.

“And this clause?” he asked, voice still low but harder now. “How’d he explain that?”

You laughed once, a sound too sharp to be amusement. “He didn’t,” you said. “He just said it made the marriage… valid. That everything else would ‘follow naturally.’”

Naturally.

You heard your own words and hated how small you sounded.

“I signed because that’s what I’ve always done,” you went on, unable to stop now that the crack was open. “Because my father expected it. Because your lawyer and his were sitting across from me waiting. Because saying ‘I don’t understand’ has never been an option that ends well.”

By the time you finished, your chest hurt, and a treacherous burning rose behind your eyes.

Joel sank back down into the chair without seeming to decide to. He stared at some point over your shoulder for a long, heavy moment, his hand dragging once over his mouth like he was trying to physically wipe away the thought of Antonelli calling a clause like that ‘standard’.

“I walked in here,” he said finally, voice roughened at the edges, “thinkin’ you’d read every word that mattered. That you knew what tonight was supposed to be.” His eyes came back to yours, steady and unflinching. “I wouldn’t have come to your door the way I did if I’d known you didn’t.”

You believed him. That was the worst part.

“I knew what a wedding night is for,” you whispered. “In general. For other people.” Your gaze dropped to your twisting hands. “I just… thought you were different from them. When you said I’d have space. Time. I thought…” You swallowed hard. “I thought that meant not now.”

Not now. Not like this.  Not as a line item on a contract men had argued over without me.

Something in his face changed at that, like you’d reached right in and pulled a wire taut you couldn’t see. The control was still there, but threaded through now with something like anger and something like shame, neither of which seemed aimed at you.

For the first time since you’d met him, Joel looked genuinely shaken. Not outwardly—he didn’t pace, he didn’t shout—but in the way his silence shifted from composed to stunned.

You sat on the edge of the bed in a plain nightgown, bare-legged, ring glinting on a hand that wouldn’t quite stop shaking.

He had come believing this was the moment you both stepped fully into the role you’d agreed to. Now you both knew: neither of you had been told the whole truth.

And the night stretched before you both, waiting to see which side of the truth he would stand on.

previous chapter mainlist next chapter

“What kind of job interview is this?” She asks, turning the channels on the tv rapidly in the background as she checks for something to capture her interest.

"Receptionist," you repeat, which now makes it the third time she's asked. "At the embassy."

“Very respectable.” She hums. “Although you should aim higher than a receptionist.” She councils, although she’s had her own job for the last twenty-two years with no change.

“Okay, Mom.” The exhausted sigh you breathe the words on won’t penetrate her thought process and trying to explain to her that any job that helps make ends meet while you’re in the last year of your graduate program is plenty good enough would just be falling on deaf ears. So you don’t bother. The impending façade of the American Embassy in Dorne is like a nightmare of Federalist whitewashing amongst the stunning and ancient architecture of the country’s own architecture, and that thought is enough to call you to attention as you approach the steps. “I gotta go.”

“Okay.” Her tone is distracted, like it always is. “Love you.” She promises before hanging up.

“Sure.” You mumble, shutting off your phone and shoving it into your one low-end designer purse to fall haphazardly between your wallet and your lipstick as you climb the steps and pray this job isn’t shit that’s been gift wrapped for show.

The inside of the Embassy is surprisingly beautiful. Examples of Dornish art and American sculpture graces the walls and the beautiful tables in the entrance and along the halls.

You give your name at the desk and receive a judgmental eye raise from the secretary in return. A moment later she is picking up the phone and murmuring down the line to whomever is on the other end. You can catch your name in the quiet rumblings so you have to assume a hiring manager or human resources person is the recipient of the unhappy woman's call. "Second floor." She tells you after she hangs up, motioning toward the enormous grand staircase. "Turn right, go down five doors. Room 205. The ambassador's assistant is expecting you."

There are embassy working scurrying about, whispering frantically behind hands and there are way too many giggles for it to be anything other than something ridiculous. A lot of activity is centered towards Room 205 and a small crowd of four women are standing in front of the door.

“Good morning…” The gathered women are whispering in English and dressed in typically American fashion so you lead with that instead of Dornish. “I have an interview with the ambassador’s assistant?” It comes out more like a question though you didn’t mean it that way.

“The prince is in there!” One, the tallest of the group tells you, almost squealing the news.

"Really?" Although everyone seems to be making a very big deal about it, you straighten a little instead of doubling over into giggles with them. This is a chance to make a truly professional first impression. "I take it that that he isn't a frequent visitor?"

“Doran, sure.” The shrug is almost dismissive, as if the presence of the actual prince ruling Dorne was common enough that it didn’t matter. “But this is the Red Viper. Oberyn.”

"Oh, I see." The hot one. Resisting the urge to ask more questions, you smooth one hand down your shirt and extract the folder with the hard copy of your resume from your bag before approaching the assistant's desk. The older woman seems exasperated by all the activity in a very maternal way and you can appreciate that. "Good afternoon," you greet her with a smile and give your name.

“Oh thank goodness.” She huffs slightly, relaxing her defensive stance since she’s not going to have to beat another eager admirer away from the door. “We are just slightly behind schedule.” Her eyes drift towards the door leading into the ambassador’s office. “Would you mind waiting for a few minutes? I’m sure it won’t be long.”

"I don't mind at all," you assure her. "I imagine that there are out of the ordinary things going on here often enough that adaptability is key."

She nods sagely. “When one of the Royal family arrives at the Embassy, all hell breaks loose.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Despite being there to interview, you’re willing to dig in and ease some of the load even without the employment. It’s in your nature to be helpful and you don’t mind in the least.

She seemed surprised that you would even offer, before her face softening. “Just your patience.” She promises, but she’s giving you a very motherly nod of approval.

“Of course.” You agree, and step toward the chair she had indicated for you just a moment ago. “Take your time.”

The minutes drag by but the giggles behind the door leading into the hallway makes it obvious the fan club hasn’t left.

You sit with your ankles crossed and patiently thumb through the notes section of your planner as though it held something more important than a scheduled haircut and brunch with a few friends this coming weekend. You could always pick up more tutoring shifts at the university helping undergrads with their English skills, but the lackluster pay is less than enticing. In fact, you’re about two heartbeats away from discouraged when the door to the ambassador’s office opens.

“You must join me at the club.” Despite the formal suit of the man behind him, the first person to exit the ambassador’s office is dressed to impress anywhere but a board room. Brown leather pants that are not skintight, but attractively cut, a pale yellow linen shirt that is open to reveal half of a bronzed and hairless chest. Over that is a darker, almost mustard-colored tailored sports coat that is embroidered with orange radiant suns. Part of the familiar symbol on the nation’s proud flag. The dark-haired man is looking behind him, talking to the flustered ambassador as he exits.

"Of course." The middle-aged man in his nondescript black suit and white shirt with thinning hair and an enamel American flag pin in his lapel is nodding as he comes out into the anteroom behind the prince. Not that he much likes walking behind anyone, but this is a prince. He knows his etiquette. "Anything to get away from the mindless shopping trips," he chuckles. "My daughters are visiting their mother for her birthday and it seems like all they do is shop. Always so needlessly expensive."

Oberyn chuckles knowingly. “I have seven.” He reminds the ambassador. “I can never keep up with the bags and boxes, so I do not even try.”

"They would all be in boarding school." The ambassador states definitively, and with so much derision in his voice that you know you might be able to keep your mouth shut to not scoff at the man you're interviewing to work for — but your goddamn face does have subtitles. Shit.

Oberyn’s face doesn’t change much, just a slight hardening of his smile as he turns and spots a lovely creature sitting in a chair near the door. Her own face reflecting his inner feelings about that statement. “But if you send them away, you don’t have the pleasure of having your daughter’s presence everyday.” He nods towards you, “isn’t that right, missus……” he leaves off, wanting your name.

Careful not to correct a prince about even something as small as your honorific, you stand when he speaks to you and give him your name.

When a bare tinge of recognition flickers in the ambassador's eyes, his assistant purses her lips slightly. She already knows, as she hopes you do, that Ambassador Franklin won't agree to you being hired to his office now. Not after you were apart of embarrassing him in front of the prince. Franklin's ego is far too fragile for that. She leans over her desk toward you, where you stand in front of your chair. "Thank you for coming in," she dismisses quietly.

Shit.

Oberyn had turned, but he has the ears of a man used to his enemies sneaking up behind him. “Oh she is for hire, hmm?” He asks as he extends his hand towards the suddenly sour looking ambassador. It’s a mild pleasure to watch him grit his teeth as he capitulates to niceties. “She’s far too lovely to be working here.” He nods once and turns back towards you. “You shall work for me.” He announces.

Frozen on the spot because shock has essentially stopped your heart and all the rest of you right where you stand, you barely manage to be functional for about three seconds before eking out a confused, "Your Highness?"

Oberyn seems amused by your reaction and nods. “Yes, perfect.” He hums as he glides back over to you with a swagger of a man used to getting his way. “Come, we will discuss the terms of your employment.”

Royalty, they say, does not often hear the word 'no'. As the man extends his arm to usher you out beside him, you can understand exactly why. Nothing about Prince Oberyn's bearing in this moment is a question. These are orders and instructions that he gives with the expectation that his iron will applies to others, and that his wishes will be easily followed. And you, as with all the people around you, simply find yourself doing exactly what he wishes out of pure awe that he has even deigned to acknowledge you at all.

Before you know it your purse it back on your shoulder and you are walking beside the second-born prince of Dorne through the halls of the American Embassy. Whatever the fuck job he's got to offer you, you already know you're going to take.

“Do you speak Dornish?” He asks curiously, although all but the most stubborn of his people speak English. He guides you by the crowd of simpering women without even glancing their way as his eyes are turned to you to weigh your answer.

“Fluently, your Grace.” The only things you know about dealing with royals are from watching period movies and tv, and from living in Dorne. Hopefully you’re getting it right. You heard a tv reporter call him your Grace during an interview last week at some charity red carpet. “I have lived in Dorne for the better part of three years and started learning before I came here.”

“What brought you to our beautiful land?” He asks. “The sun, the heat? The beautiful people?”

“Graduate school, actually. The University of Sunspear has one of the best programs in the world.” And, truth be told, getting as far away from your family as humanly possible had sounded like a great idea.

The fact that a literal royal seems to have no attendants around him whatsoever is only the vaguest point of concern that taps at the back of your mind as you take long strides to keep up with him. Does he not have security? An assistant? A servant or something?

“Yes, Sunspear rivals the Citadel for education.” Oberyn agrees with a grin as he escorts you out of the building and onto the street of the city. The guards are motioned to vaguely and the gates opened without fanfare. “What were you studying?”

“Linguistic anthropology.” The words are relatively straightforward, but the field isn’t very well known. Most people don’t even know your field exists. “My research focuses largely on music.”

“Intriguing.” His eyes are sharp as he turns to look at you and then back towards the street. Guiding you away from the embassy and the waiting sleek red Viper that he was famous for driving and towards a small coffee shop. “Have you read Dr. Shamlan’s paper on ‘Linguistics and the Art of Love; how words have shaped Romance’? He asks. “I found it fascinating, my own hobbies including poetry.”

“I have.” Your jaw works, but only so it does not gal open in surprise as you walk beside him. “Dr. Shamlan is my advisor. I find her work remarkable.”

“Really?” He’s intrigued by that as well, impressed, considering that Dr. Shamlan doesn’t routinely take students on in an advisory capacity. “So what takes you from the classroom to the embassy?” He asks. “There isn’t much work in your field there.”

Wincing slightly, you stick to honesty and let him move you toward the end of the city block. “Work in my field is generally scarce and even when it’s available the competition is fierce. But I have rent and bills to pay. I thought this would at least keep my language skills sharp.”

He nods, although he doesn’t relate to that. With his standing as a prince, even when he was estranged from his family, he had opportunities. “Then you will enjoy the palace.” He tells you. “Most of the staff speak Dornish routinely.”

“With all due respect, your Grace…” He didn’t taken exception to the title the first time so you guess it must be acceptable. “You don’t have to offer me a job just because I can’t keep my facial expressions to myself. I got myself dismissed from that interview all on my own.”

Oberyn snorts and steps forward to open the door to the shop. “I never do anything that I don’t want to.” He assures you.

That seems to put the question to bed for him completely, and as you are swept into the shop by the sure and certain presence of him, all you can do for the moment is accept it.

The little cafe seems to accept his entry graciously but with little fuss, and you wonder as he leads you to a table in the back corner, if he is a regular here. He must be, you think a moment later when a waiter arrives with an espresso no one ordered but the prince seems to expect.

"Thank you." He nods towards you with a slight smile. "What will you have to drink, dove?" He asks kindly.

It seems right to order in English, since he is speaking it and most of the Dornish population is bilingual, so you simply order a cortado with a polite smile and don’t get fussier than that. The waiter has a lingering eye for the prince when he leaves but you can’t blame him. Oberyn Martell is even more handsome in person than he is in photographs or on TV, and you didn’t think that was possible.

"You are gorgeous." Oberyn hums as he lifts his espresso cup to his lips. "Are you involved with anyone?"

Straight to the point is a part of the prince’s reputation, but the question makes you short circuit slightly and the three seconds it takes you to recover are probably far too long. “I—” You clear your throat and fold your hands in your lap. Flattery is not what you had expected, even from the most famous — and infamous — lover in the world. “No. I’m not.”

"Good." He hums, although he is frowning slightly. "Although I must ask if my countrymen are idiots." He tilts his head. "Unless you prefer the touch of a woman instead of a man?"

The question startles a small laugh out of you, though you can’t think why. It’s a natural enough progression. “I don’t have a preference either way,” you tell him. “I’ve just spent most of my time studying and working.”

You are more intriguing by the moment. "I see." He smirks slightly as he sips his drink and wonders if he has found the perfect solution to his current boredom.

“I’m curious…” you venture, watching him study you like a fascinating new toy. “As to why that matters?”

“I like to know how to approach playing with my lovers.” He tells you matter of factly. “If you prefer solo play or group sessions. Men or women, or both.” He shrugs as if that should be obvious.

"Your—" Spluttering under your breath as your drink arrives, you wonder if you'll ever be able to get more than a few words out to him at a time. It doesn't look very likely right now. Once thanked for his delivery, the waiter departs again with another lingering glance for the prince. "Excuse me?" You look up at the man sitting across from you in disbelief.

“Lovers.” He tells you plainly again. “You are not chaste? One that does not care for fucking?”

"N-no—" Just surprised, that's all. "I thought you wanted me to work for you? I guess that...isn't on the table anymore?"

“It is.” Oberyn nods with a charming smile. “But what is better than mixing business with pleasure?”

"What...erm..." Suddenly the only thing you can look at without your whole face setting on fire is the cup in front of you, so you wrap your hands around it and try not to imagine what he would look like on top of you in the darkness of night. "What would the job entail, if you don't mind my asking?"

He contemplates that for a moment, honestly not giving it much thought before this very moment. Doran calls him impulsive, but he is just decisive. “Your job is to be available when I need you.” He shrugs. “It does not need to be more than that.”

“Available for…what? Exactly?” Your coffee smells divine and the wafting scent is calling your name every second, but you’re a touch too gobsmacked in this instant to sip it. “For…sex?” That can’t be right. He has a lover — you’re certain you’ve heard he has kids with Ellaria Sand. Didn’t you?

He tilts his head. "Sex, comfort, conversation, attending functions, shopping, time spent." He shrugs. "You do not like sex?" He asks curiously. "I could fuck the day away if given a chance to do so." He smirks, raising a brow and taking a sip of his espresso. "I have actually, many times."

“So you…want to pay me…to be your companion?” That’s a rather old fashioned term for it — you’re sure you read it in some romance drama — but it seems accurate. Or at least accurate to your understanding. “Like a — a high class sugar baby?”

“If you would like to look at it that way.” Oberyn looks amused by the term. “I prefer to look at it like a mutually beneficial adventure.”

“I’m…confused,” you admit, after a few moments of flabbergasted silence. He motions for you to drink your coffee and you take an obedient sip without even realizing you’ve done so. “There’s no way you can’t find someone to sleep with you and go out with you. Why are you willing to pay me to do it?”

You are one of two women who have asked him that question. The other one has born four of his eight daughters. He smiles with a charmed bemusement. “Because I am a man who prefers things his way.” He admits with zero shame. “Having a job would prevent you from jetting to the Maldives a moments notice or staying up late for the delightful orgy.”

“And…” As much as you hate to admit it, that’s a fair answer. Or at least it’s honest, which is good enough. And better than most other employers you’ve worked for. “Everyone else in your life would be just fine with this?” The more you put your mind to it, the more you’re sure you’ve read about the fashion designer being his partner.

He chuckles now. “My paramour has been chasing after me to expand our circle.” He explains. “I do not limit pleasure or love.” He tilts his head. “Although I must ask if you would be accepting of polyamory?” He asks. “My Ellaria will always have a place in my bed and heart, even if you are also there.”

Okay, well, at least you know you have your facts correct even if your head is spinning. “I’ve…never really thought about it,” you admit, taking another ship off your coffee. It is good. You’re just very distracted. “I don’t have any sort of moral objection to it, if that is what you’re asking.”

“And you enjoy women.” It’s not a question, more of a statement since you had already said that you had no preference. “Ellaria will love you.” He predicts with a small smirk.

The woman you’ve seen in advertisements for her business is equal parts elegant and fiery, a combination the Prince also has in spades. The idea of being the focus of so much obvious passion sends a chill up your spine. “I have…” You swallow the lump in your throat. “A few questions? If that’s okay?” Something in the back of your head says you’re not supposed to ask royalty questions, or something like that. But sensibly…Royalty doesn’t usually preposition strangers. So it seems like a breach of protocol might be acceptable.

“You may ask any questions you need.” Oberyn is encourage by the idea you would question him. That means you are curious and intrigued by the proposition.

“Would I be expected to give up my studies? My research?” You ask, carefully weighing your options. Literal Prince Charming is sitting across from you offering you luxury and passion, you’re not immune to the offer — but you’re also not stupid to agree to just anything. “A job would take up some of my time, but my research does too. And for that matter…I love it. I shouldn’t like to give it up at all.”

“The pursuit of knowledge is to be admired.” Oberyn shakes his head. “I could not expect that of you when I enjoy my own studies.” He smirks. “Besides, all the professors in your school will extend your schedules if I need them to.”

“Just because the prince told them to?” You ask, utter skepticism inherent in your voice and raised eyebrow.

He chuckles. “Because my family founded the school and funds it.” He answers smugly.

Lips pursed, you take him in for a minute and decide that whole smug suits him — there is a bratty part of you that wants to push back. “So yes,” you observe. “Prince’s orders.”

He arches a brow at the attitude in your voice. Finding it refreshing that you aren’t just bowing down and placating. Molding yourself into whatever you think he wants. “Basically.” He snorts.

Since being a little fresh with him seems to intrigue him rather than make him grumble, you shelve that knowledge for the future and take the last sip of your coffee. “You like to have things your way.” That isn’t question. It doesn’t need to be. “Am I ever allowed to say no?” Because if you’re not, you’ll walk out of this cafe right now.

He frowns slightly and looks offended. “Of course you are allowed to say no.” He huffs. “I am not a monster like those Lannisters.” He sneers, lips curling in disgust as he thinks about the noble family from Casterly Rock. Scandal followed them, more than even Oberyn would tolerate. “If you say no simply because, I will merely find someone else to amuse me for that time.” He tells you. “If it is because you are sick or hurt, I will pamper you.”

“I’m just trying to wrap my head around what you’re offering.” It stings that you seem to have accidentally offended him, but you won’t apologize. Boundaries are imprint to know before entering any agreement, especially one like this. “Twenty minutes after meeting me you offered me a situation that sounds way too good to be true. I just…I guess I’m wondering what the catch is.”

“There is no catch.” He promises. “If you ever decide to part ways with me, I will be very generous, but I do expect loyalty.” He warns. “Do not sell memoirs of our time together or go on trashy talk shows.”

“I’m not that kind of girl,” you promise just as readily.

“I did not think that you were.” He assures you. “I tend to be a good judge of character. And when you didn’t like the Ambassador, I knew I liked you even more than my split second first impression of a beautiful woman. I thought ‘this woman has brains’.”

Warmth flares in your chest, making your cheeks burn in the process. “Well,” you hum quietly. “I hope I don’t disappoint you, then.”

“I very seriously doubt that you would be able to do that, dove.” He chuckles as he winks at you. “What other questions do you have?”

“Is there some sort of contract for me to sign?” It seems like there ought to be, but you really have no point of reference here. The only things you know about situations even remotely resembling this are from stories you’ve read.

“Do you want there to be?” He hums, smirking slightly. “Negotiations and hard limits? I am more free spirited than that, but we can always compromise. A Bugatti for anal? No fisting or water sports?” He wrinkles his nose. “I’m not into either of those anyway. And most of the time, if I am buried in an ass, my hand is also wrapped around the cock on the other side.”

“I was thinking more of things like rent. Cell phone payments. Tuition.” You shift in your seat, wondering if he’s ever known the cost of a single thing in his life. “A sports car is all well in good, but I can’t live in it.”

“Oh.” He shrugs slightly. “Would you prefer your own penthouse or would a suite in the family wing of the palace? There is not as much privacy, but there is always something happening and you will have easier access to me if you wish.”

It’s a good thing that you don’t have anything in your mouth otherwise you would have spit it out. “I’m sorry, the palace?”

“Do you have an objection to the Water Gardens?” He asks, tilting his head and wondering if you are someone who opposes royalty. That would not be pleasant in the long run.

“N-no, I just—” This man is just relentless with surprises. It’s going to make your head spin which is probably why you’re laughing. “I expected you to ask what my expenses were, not offer me a suite in the palace.”

“If you would prefer a penthouse apartment, I can arrange that.” He promises. “You will be given a credit card for any other expenses you might have.”

With the dam of laughter breaking and the sense that this is somehow the most bizarre reality you could have ever stumbled into but it is real, you shake your head. “Fuck that,” you say after a moment. “If I can live in a palace, even for a little while, I wanna do that.”

“Do you prefer an apartment with a kitchen or would you rather have your meals sent up by the main kitchen?” He asks, curious if you cook or if you are like Ellaria and despise it.

“There are choices?” It just keeps getting weirder but at this point you’re going to roll with it. “I love to cook, but I have a feeling your kitchen is way better than my meager abilities.”

“Then you shall have an apartment with kitchen.” He promises. “We will have to have family night one evening.” He chuckles. “My paramour despises the domestic arena.” He admits. “It is not often I have a meal that is not from a restaurant or from the palace chefs.”

“Then I’ll have to make sure it’s very good.” He’s a warm presence, if imposing, and the rounded sound of his low laugh feels like a promise. “I’ve seen her work…your paramour.” That’s the word he used so you’ll use it, too. “She’s a very gifted artist with cloth. I just use food as art.”

“She is delightfully talented in many areas.” He teases. “And you will learn that first hand if you wish.”

"Somehow I feel the two of you are endlessly talented." They have that reputation, anyway, and after a mere half hour in Prince Oberyn's aura you have no reason at all to doubt it.

He pops the grape into his mouth and tilts his head, a little perplexed by your reaction. “Does your expenses require more?” He asks curiously. The black Amex he will give you has no limit and you could use it, but he had expected that to be used for your frivolous shopping and splurges.

“My expenses are maybe half as much.” And even that is only because of tuition. Without university expenses? It would be a quarter.

“Then ten is not acceptable on principle?” He asks, confused why you would be refusing.

“It’s just…” You fidget in your seat again, folding and refolding your hands in your lap. “I don’t think I’ve ever had ten thousand dollars in my entire life. And you want to give me that plus all this other stuff…just…to date you?”

“Isn’t that what a sugar baby contract is?” Oberyn gets the idea that you hadn’t expected much and that is disappointing. You should expect the world. “If we had a contract.”

“I’ve…only read about them in stories,” you admit quietly. The boldness you felt just a few minutes ago is gone and you feel silly again. “So I actually…don’t really know.”

He smiles at your honesty. “Then let me enlighten you.” He hums with a proud sense of self importance. “In return for your time, your body, your adoration - which will come.” He shoots you a confident wink. “I will set you up in my wing of the palace, pay you ten thousand dollars a month, and give you a shiny black Amex card that has no limit to buy whatever your heart desires.” He chuckles. “I think that it is a good deal, but I’m enough of a whore to just want the orgasms I guarantee you.”

“I hate that people make liking sex into a bad thing,” you tell him honestly. “It sucks. And it’s one of the things I was glad to escape when I left home.” His eyebrow raises again and you shrug. “Just because I haven’t had a lot of sex doesn’t mean I don’t like it.”

“You will be having plenty of sex from now on.” He promises. “Do you have a method of birth control?”

“I was considering going off of it.” Which sounds ridiculous now. “I suppose I’ll get a refill instead.”

“Do you prefer a pill or would you like an IUD?” He asks. “The royal physician will take care of your health screenings and things like that.”

“Why don’t I talk to your doctor?” Years on the pill have not always been easy. If you’re going to stay on birth control, you might want to explore other options. “I don’t suppose you have palace movers too?” You joke.

He snorts and shoots you an amused look. “Of course the staff can handle anything you need moved.”

“I’m teasing,” you assure him, having visions of uniformed staff showing up at your apartment complex in formation. “I can manage it. Just…I guess…let me know when I should plan on moving things over? And when you want to, um…” Test drive your newest investment. “Go out.”

“Today?” He asks. “Tomorrow? What day is best for you?” He asks. “To move and to …go out.” He shoots you a teasing grin of his own.

“If you want to go out tomorrow, I should go home and pack tonight.” It all suddenly feels very immediate, and you’re as nervous as you are filled with anticipation. “Or maybe…” you half-frown. “We should go out first? Make sure that we actually…are compatible?”

“You don’t think we will be?” He surprised by the notion and it shows on his face.

“It’s not that.” It’s just that you’re about to change the entire way you live for him and before you do that, it might be good to make sure that the chemistry is right. “I just can’t afford to assume anything.”

He has to admire your honesty, the way that you speak your mind. You are going to fit in far better with his group that you realize. "I can respect that." He spreads his hands. "You decide." He tells you.

Gulping down a nervous breath, you try very hard to look more certain than you are. “We should go out tonight, then. Just to be sure.”

"Where shall we go?" He asks. "What shall we do?"

“You don’t want to choose?” Whatever it is, you assume it will end in sex. Which seems like a fair assumption.

"I would rather see what you would like to happen." He admits, smiling as he plucks another grape from the bowl.

“My favorite first dates have always been concerts.” Not that you know of any going on tonight specifically, but it’s a Friday afternoon in a big city renowned for its night life. Surely there’s something?

“Concerts or a play?” He asks. “They are running the Wicked performance here at the Sunspear Conservatory.” He informs you. “Tonight is supposed to be opening night.”

“I didn’t think you would be a musical theater guy,” you admit, but there is a grin immediately splitting your face at the suggestion. “That sounds great.”

“Good.” He agrees. “I will reserve the box. The doors open at seven but we will show up at seven-twenty.” He smirks. “Give the crowd something to gawk at.”

“Isn’t that—” The thought starts before you can stop it, forming a deep frown on your face, and he raises an eyebrow when you close your mouth abruptly. Go on, it says, as if he’s wondering if you’ll challenge him. “I was just—isn’t that rude? To the performers? To show up after they’ve begun and interrupt them with a spectacle?”

“The performance doesn’t start until 7:30.” He promises you. “My eldest daughter is working on the sets.”

“Then being rude is the farthest thing from your mind. I understand.” For someone whose career is built on the use of language, you sure do miss the mark sometimes. But you’re only human.

He is charmed by the way you seemingly process things. “Do you need to go shopping for tonight?” He asks, reaching to pull his wallet out of his jacket pocket and opening it to pull out a black credit and sliding it across the table.

“Considering I’m wearing the nicest thing I own?” Your cheeks burn with light embarrassment. But you haven’t been to any event that required a cocktail dress in years, so you’d sold or given those things away when you moved last time. “Probably.”

“Then I want you to treat yourself.” He checks his watch and smiles. “Go to the Dueling Suns Boutique.” He tells you. “It’s Ellaria’s exclusive line.”

This is probably going to be the strangest shopping trip you’ve ever gone on, but you nod your understanding and decide you’ll splurge on a cab to bring you back to your place after so that you’re not carrying a garment bag and whatever else through the city. “Should I meet you at the theater or would you like my address?”

He pull his phone out of his jacket and announces your full name, date of birth, your address and your phone number with a smug smirk.

“That’s…” you frown again. “Concerning. Though I suppose you have access to my visa information if you want it, don’t you?”

“My team just did a precursor background check on you.” He assures you, nodding towards a very unassuming man in a casual Henley and jeans, his glasses and messenger bag making him look like just another patron.

Given his subtle head nod, you don't swivel your neck or anything to see where he's looking. You shift in your seat, leaning forward, and adjust your position to get a look at where he has indicated. "Oh," you murmur quietly. "I wondered why you didn't have a security detail."

“My brother insists.” He rolls his eyes. “As if I cannot protect myself.”

"If you are always looking over your shoulder, how can you ever relax?"

“I am always relaxed.” Oberyn assures you. “Today is not the day I die.”

"Good." A small tucks into the corner of your mouth. "Because you have a date tonight."

“Then I should probably let you go shopping.” He is reluctant to let you go, but he knows you will be less inclined to get it done if he is there. “I shall pick you up at six-thirty.” He winks as he stands. “Expect to not come home tonight.”

You might be more bothered about how very certain he is of that, except that you've literally agreed to it already. To spending time with him. Sleeping with him. Going anywhere and everywhere he wants. And if you're honest? You can't even say that you wouldn't go home with him if he had just been a random hot guy you met out in the world. He is as magnetic as he is confident, and you're not going to pretend to be unaffected by it.

******

The short walk does little to clear your head but the cool air feels nice in your overheated skin. November in Dorne is by no means cold, only there is the barest crisp being carried by the wind today and it is doing you a world of good.

By the time you arrive at the door of Dueling Suns’ flagship boutique shop you’re feeling windswept and anticipatory, and maybe even the first pangs of excitement.

The moment the door opens, Ellaria knows this is the woman Oberyn had called her about. Watches as you pause in the doors and look like a helpless doe, startled by the sudden change of scene. Her lips curve and she knows this will be fun. Pushing off the lounge she had been draped across, she lifts a bangled hand. “Welcome in.” She calls breezily.

“Oh!” Startled by the musical voice in such an otherwise quiet space — music is playing but only very softly — you jump a little and spin on your heel. “Hello?”

“Hello yourself.” You have that starstruck quality everyone who first meets Oberyn has and she tucks her smile back as she glides towards you. She can see why he immediately decided on you. Even as impulsive as he can be, his instincts are good. “Anything I can help you with?”

“I—“ She’s stunning. That’s the honest first thought you have about the elegant, confident woman who walks up to you. She’s definitely Ellaria Sand — you’ve seen her in advertisements and magazines. “I need an outfit, I suppose? A—a dress. For tonight.”

“Ohhhhh a dress for the evening should always be one that is easily removed.” She smirks and quirks a brow at you. “By a or multiple lover’s hands, of course. How formal do you need?” She knows, but she is curious to see what you tell her.

“I’m not entirely sure?” You admit, feeling a bit silly about it. “He’s taking me to the theater, and his daughter is involved in the production so I’d like to look as nice as possible. Out of respect for her hard work as much as for him.” Did he tell her? You wonder, shifting your leather tote bag a little higher on your shoulder. Does she know who you are? Who you’re seeing? Or is it conceited to think he would find you important enough to tell her about so soon?

“Very exciting.” She murmurs as she reaches out to take one of your arms and curls it around her own. “Have you fucked him yet?” She admires your statement about Obara’s work on the production, deciding that she is going to absolutely love having you around.

“Oh gosh no.” You giggle a little, not able to stop yourself. “I just met him…maybe an hour ago?”

“So he moves fast.” She chuckles. “Or maybe you do.”

Feeling momentarily brave — or perhaps crazy — you offer her a smile. “I think you would know far better than I would, Ms. Sand.”

She looks impressed that you would call her by her name. “I have spent more than a few years with Oberyn.” She admits with a matching smirk. “And I admire and hate that he saw you first.”

“If I understand the offer he made to me correctly,” and you suppose you do. He was not exactly subtle. “I am…meant to be shared.”

Ellaria chuckles. “That is only if it is agreeable.” She admits. “You are not a whore from the brothels in ancient times. You have a say.”

“I would have already told him no if I had a strong objection,” you assure her, but you wrap one arm around your front and use both hands to hold onto the strap of your bag — far more insecurity showing in your body language than you intended. “I would be very grateful if you would help me choose something for tonight. He told me to come here, so I have to think it was because he wanted us to meet.”

“Of course he did.” She smirks as she affirms your theory. “He would want to know my opinion and how I like you.” She leans in. “He called to tell me all about you as soon as you walked out of the coffee shop, darling.”

The heat in your cheeks burns, but not in embarrassment. Much faster than you had believed you could be, you’ve warmed to the idea that this entire arrangement might not only be beneficial but pleasurable. “Then I hope not to disappoint either of you.”

“It is hard to disappoint a man who finds pleasure in everything.” She remarks, “but it makes it sweeter to find things that delight him. And you will find yourself wanting to do just that.”

“I don’t find that very hard to believe at all.” No, you really don’t. Not when you’re already wondering what his favorite color is so you can wear it tonight.

She sees you looking around, she knows exactly what you are thinking. “Yellow and red are his favorite colors.” She surveys you professionally. “I am thinking red lingerie under a new burnt orange dress I have designed.” She decides. “It will look fabulous.”

You grin, biting your lip. “Was I that obvious?”

“Every new lover wants to impress the one undressing them.” She assures you, already knowing you will be lovers with her too. She understands why Oberyn offered for you instantly. “Do you wax or shave?” She asks. “Or are you natural?”

Apparently there is no such thing as a personal question with these two, you think, holding back an amused smirk. Maybe it's more like a teasing grin. Something that is both together that curls up in the corner of your mouth and makes you feel lighter with each passing moment. "I used to shave, but I stopped," you tell her, letting her lead the way across the boutique's showroom.

“Perfect.” She chuckles. “Oberyn prefers exploring the jungle in exotic lands.” She jokes.

Before you can stop yourself, you burst out into a snort of laughter and then cover your mouth immediately. "Good to know," you laugh, deciding that telling Ellaria Sand why you came to her shop was very much the right idea.

“Now, we will strip you down and get you all ready to entice.” She titters playfully, knowing that she is going to tease Oberyn about seeing you nude first. “Most importantly, do you prefer heels or flats? I cannot stand heels, but without them I would have no ass at all.”

"I usually wear heels." It's become habit over the years, and you've come to like the way they help your posture.

“So we can have a slightly longer hem.” She nods. “I have just the thing.”

"Oh?" You follow after her, surprised when she pauses slightly to loop her arm through yours. "Already?"

“A dress I just finished.” She admits. “Apparently I was making it for you. It will look fabulous with your skin color.”

She ushers you toward a back room — a sort of private area that you presume is for specialty clients or for meetings — and drops you onto a buttery soft leather sofa before slipping away through a doorway that you can't see behind. Presumably she has workspace here, if something she just finished it already in the building, and you try not to wonder what Oberyn might have said to her while she is gone.

It takes her a few minutes but when she comes back, she is holding a beautiful creation on a hanger. “What do you think?” She asks with a smirk.

The floor-length gown is strapless, with dramatic peaks in the bodice to draw attention to your chest and a gathered, rouched waist that erupts in an elaborately beaded sun reminiscent in the emblem of the Sun of Dorne. From the sharp line of one of the sun ray's, the voluminous skirt slits cleanly open. It will reveal almost the entirety of your left leg, about halfway up your thigh if you're gauging correctly.

It's a stunning work of art. It's also intimidating in its elegance and would be, by far, the fanciest thing you have ever worn.

"Oh, wow..." you breath softly, eyes blown wide.

She smiles at your reaction, imagining the dress on you and she thinks that it would fit over your curves perfectly. "Take off your clothes." She orders, aware that the staff will not come back here with the door closed.

“I—” Right away your face is burning and your expression turns bashful. There is a decent set of well-fitting and even matching underwear underneath your current clothes, but you hasn’t planned on undressing in front of anyone today. So much for that plan, you think, seeing your purse down on the sofa beside you and standing again. “You two really prefer the direct method, don’t you?”

"Is there any other way?" Ellaria snorts and shakes her head. "It cuts through the bullshit."

“There are lots of other ways. But I appreciate that neither of you will leave me guessing your intent.” And possibly because of that very thing, you reach for the zipper on your dress with the knowledge that this moment is something quite normal — trying on clothes — and something powerful — crossing a small line of intimacy with the partner of the man who made you a deal just an hour ago.

She doesn't look away. Ellaria Sand doesn't have a modest bone in her body and her eyes aren't shy as you pull the zipper of your dress down and shrug it off your shoulders. The bra is plain and serviceable, but she hates bras overall.

“I wasn’t planning on anyone seeing these,” you remind her quietly, rather self-conscious about the cheaply produced mass market underwear set when you remember a couture fashion designer is the one studying you in them but you fold your dress neatly and set it on top of your purse without shame. Self-consciousness is different than shame, and you’re not embarrassed of not being rich. You just wish you had nicer things to show off to a potential — future — lover.

"There is nothing wrong with that," she shrugs slightly. "I have found that basic cotton is better than the finest lingerie." She pauses. "When you wear underwear."

“Which tells me that you don’t.” It would be an odd thing to say if she, like most people did. So you have to assume otherwise.

"Most of the time I do not." She admits shamelessly. "It's easier to fuck that way. Fewer barriers."

“And your appetite is as voracious as Oberyn’s?” It must be, you figure, and step forward when Ellaria beckons you closer and starts unzipping the gown in her hands.

"He says that I am more so." She chuckles as she works. "But I would have to say he is the one that can go all night fucking without sleep." She hums. "I need my beauty rest."

Ellaria holds the dress up for you to step under, and you hum quietly. “If rest is what makes you beautiful, I’m surprised to find you awake.”

She's a little surprised by the compliment but she smiles. "You are very sweet."

“It’s not difficult to give a compliment when it’s the truth,” you tell her honestly.

“Beauty is relative, but then again, you are also stunning.” She hums, straightening the dress before she starts to slide the zipper up.

“That’s very sweet of you to say.” She could easily hate you. Or dismiss you. Or worse still, not care at all.

“I don’t say things that I don’t mean.” She promises.

“Then I’m very flattered.” And not just by her words. The dramatic reddish sienna color of the dress’s fabric is accented by the amber and gold beads that make up the sun at your hip and waist. It turns your waistline into something eye catching and entrancing, and even you can’t look away from the mirror.

“You should be.” She hums in approval as she looks over your shoulder. “I was right. This is your dress.”

“It’s a work of art…” The peaks of the bodice draw attention to your chest, of course, but then sends it out to your shoulders and décolletage. The slit in the skirt hits your mid-thigh and drags the eye away by force to the length of your leg. And still, every look returns to the sun.

“Clothes are art.” Ellaria agrees. “It can display our personality.”

“I don’t know that I’m this bold,” you admit, finding her eyes in the mirror. “But I like that you think I could be.”

“Sometimes you only have to be bold on certain occasions.” She admits with a tilt of her head. “But this dress is the one for tonight.”

"What would you think..." Biting your lip as you look at your reflection again, you play with the skirt where it slits over your thigh, and tilt your head in thought. "About stockings? Like...a garter belt and stockings? I feel like this calls for it."

Her smile starts slow and grows to a wide smirk. “Oh you are going to drive him crazy.” She predicts with an approving laugh.

The two of you work in a flurry of laughter, and by the time you leave Ellaria's boutique she has outfitted you with not only the gown, but a full set of red lace undergarments, a pair of amber-gold heels that match the sunburst beading on the gown, and a clutch purse made of the same material as the dress with a sunburst clasp. She tucks you into a cab with a kiss to each of your cheeks and sends you home to get ready with a pleased smirk on her face.

Ellaria hums to herself as she walks back into the boutique and chuckles. Things are about to become very interesting.

It's about two hours later, after a cup of tea and a snack followed by the most intense everything shower of your life, that you dress in everything Ellaria had deemed perfect for you. Going on faith, because your little student's apartment doesn't have a full length mirror, you're still trying to make sense of the make up tutorial you found on YouTube and praying you did up the whole garter-belt-and-lace-bodice situation correctly when your phone rings.

The number registers but it’s not one that you recognize. “Dove, are you ready?” Oberyn’s voice comes over the line as soon as you pick up. “Ellaria said she had found you the perfect dress and that you had been sent home to get ready.”

"Ellaria found me a masterpiece," you tell him, letting the warm rush of first-date anticipation roll through you. "Let me get my purse and I'll be right down."

“Do not rush.” Oberyn hums. “We will be here until you arrive.”

One more check in the mirror. One more time rooting through your clutch to make sure everything is there. He had said to not plan on coming home tonight but you weren’t sure how you were supposed to pack an overnight bag to match an evening gown, so you’d carefully put a few things in your tote and hoped you would be able to leave it in the car during the play. By the time you make it downstairs you’re nervous as all hell and a small crowd has gathered in the lobby of your building.

Oberyn had been recognized, not that he was trying to be discreet. He talks with the men and women that have gathered around him. Playing the elegant Royal and concerned diplomat despite Doran complains that he doesn’t take his role seriously. The man complains when Oberyn often maintains the country when his brother is ill.

When you first catch sight of him from the end of the hallway, your breath catches immediately. He's wearing an exquisitely cut black tuxedo with a Dornish sun emblazoned in embroidery and beads exploding outward from his shoulder. The reddish-orange shirt he has underneath is just a shade darker than your dress, but all the same you have to wonder if Ellaria had told him what to wear tonight.

It half occurs to you that you're not sure if you ought to curtsy to him, but by the time your feet have brought you within just a few feet of Prince Oberyn, your mouth has already opened. "You look wonderful."

He turns and his eyes sparkle in delight as he lets his gaze rake up and down your form slowly. “Dove, words do not begin to describe how enchanting you are.” He promises as he takes your hand and brings it up to his lips.

In a room full of people who hush and then immediately begin to whisper behind their hands, you do curtsy now — but more of a gesture of thanks and accepting his compliment than anything else. "I would hate for you to go a whole night without anything to brag about. So I made it me," you tease.

He chuckles, a smirk of approval on his face and he nods. “Then I will have plenty to brag about.” He assures you.

It's just a show, of course, but he seems to enjoy it. Hopefully you'll have a chance to thank Ellaria for allowing you to be a frame for her art to hang on. "Shall we?"

He shoots the crowd an amused look, but he tilts his head as he offers you his arm. “Our evening awaits us, Dove.” He hums. “We should not be late for it.”

He leads you out to the curb where his gleaming sports car is waiting and opens the door to help you inside. When he spies your tote bag in addition to your purse, he raises an eyebrow. "You said to plan not to come home," you remind him, hoping you hadn't made some kind of faux paus.

He chuckles as he takes the bag to stow. “And I see you took me seriously.” He hums. “But you wouldn’t have had to prance around naked unless you wish to.”

"I thought as much," you admit, having spent quite a while thinking of how he has such endless reach and bottomless resources. "But I'm a creature of habit. Besides, if all goes well, I'll be moving soon enough. I can simply leave some things behind at the palace." And what a bizarre fucking sentence that is to say out loud.

He smirks as he closes the door and rounds the hood to climb in beside you. “I must commend Ellaria for her choice of dress,” he hums as his hand briefly touches your thigh.

"When I saw your choice of suit, I thought she must have picked out you clothes for tonight, too." His hand is hot, radiating burning desire right from his palm. "We nearly match."

“My sun knows what I had planned to wear.” He snorts. “She knows me well after so many years together.”

“You’re a formidable duo when you’re apart.” For the last few hours you’d found yourself thinking about both of them and you’re not afraid to admit it. “Together must make you utterly magnetic.”

He chuckles as he pulls his hand back to drive. “You will find out, I am sure.”

Most of the drive is spent listening to and talking about music. Oberyn’s appetite is voracious in all things, including the arts; and he seems to listen to just about everything. Or at the very least, he has sampled it.

By the time he pulls up in front of the theater you have listened to a dozen different things together and enjoyed talking about all of them.

“Don’t be nervous.” He tells you. “Everyone here will wonder who you are and be envious.”

"I very much doubt anyone will be looking at me when you look like that," you murmur, shaking your head at him in what is already a fond exasperation.

“You underestimate your power.” Oberyn snorts as the door is opened for you as soon as his car comes to a stop. His security was already in place.

No, you think, sliding as neatly out of the car as you can manage in a gown larger than you've ever worn before. I just know the power of celebrity.

You chuckle quietly. “Of course we do.”

He chuckles and looks over the theatre as if he was overlooking his kingdom. Which is true in a way. “Have you eaten or were you too nervous?” He asks.

“I managed a snack,” you admit, feeling a little called out. Or was this what all his first dates were like?

He chuckles. “I have bought out the Table of Dorne for the cast and crew after the play.” He explains. “My gift for Obara tonight.” He grins. “I figured it was better than flowers.” He admits. “We can join them or we can go back to the palace to eat.”

“That was very kind of you to do.” He settles you in your seat and takes the one next to you, making the empty box rather intimate. “Why don’t we see how we feel when the show is over?”

It’s a very sensible idea and it makes him grin as he agrees. “Of course, Dove.” He coos as he slides his hand back to your thigh as the lights start to flicker.

After the opening number, the waiter appears silently on Oberyn's other side to hand you each a full champagne glass and leave the bottle in an ice bucket at his side. The atmosphere of luxury is as unmistakable as the feeling of Oberyn's fingers heating the skin of your thigh as he toys with the slit in your gown. It's a miracle, then, that he makes it through the entire first act and two glasses of champagne before he discovers the lacy top of your stockings just as the house lights are coming up for intermission.

“Fuck.” His head snaps towards you, eyes darkening as he looks from your face to your thigh. “You—”

"I..." Even though his reaction is obviously positive, your face is burning with potential embarrassment. "Ellaria helped me choose a set. I thought you might like them."

“Like them? I love the idea of such elegant wrappings awaiting my discovery.” He smirks. “Would you like to ride my cock during the second act?” He teases boldly.

"I don't think I'm quite ready to add exhibitionism to my list of accomplishments," you tease right back. Though through the course of the first act the heat of him beside you has been as intoxicating as the champagne. "Besides," you hum, "we haven't even kissed yet."

“I suppose you require that before, hm?” It’s a joke, but he winks at you playfully.

"I'm afraid I do." And you aren't willing to bend on that particular rule.

“That is perfectly acceptable.” He agrees, not quite as picky but he can understand why you would want the intimacy of kissing before other acts.

"Call me old fashioned," you murmur, shrugging one shoulder.

"There is nothing wrong with that." He smirks. "Sometimes the old ways are best. I prefer the old gods over the new."

"My first boyfriend was the worst kisser in the world." Years later, the fact of it makes you smile. You were just a kid back then and so was he. How could either of you possibly be expected to know what the hell you were doing? "But I thought it was me doing something wrong. Like I was the one who didn't know what I was doing. Until the first time he tried to feel me up and ended up pulling my nipple so hard I screamed." You snort, shaking your head. "And...not in the good way. Since then I've used kissing as my barometer. If my date isn't a good kisser it's generally a good indication that I won't enjoy the other stuff with them, either."

“That is a good gauge.” He smiles as he pulls you close when he helps you stand and smirks as his eyes flicker down to your lips. “I am an excellent kisser.” He promises.

“I would expect nothing less,” you tell him honestly. His body against yours is like a promise licking through you in anticipation. “From a man with eight children.”

He chuckles and lifts a brow. “You make me think of having number nine.” He admits shamelessly. “Especially in this dress.”

“Is that so?” Sliding your hands up the lapels of his suit, you’ve forgotten everything else in the world but the man in front of you. Even if he’s only teasing you, it’s a surprisingly sweet sentiment. “Then I suppose you’d better kiss me.”

It’s completely spontaneous, but it feels perfect. He doesn’t worry about the photos being taken as he leans in and captures your mouth for a first, devastating kiss. Completely taking charge from the moment that your lips touch his, Oberyn makes sure to show you how skilled he is.

He starts simply, letting it build naturally to a crescendo that — while not indecent from the outside — has your knees buckling and your thin-as-air panties soaked all the way through. Dizzy well before he pulls back to inspect your reaction, your hands grasp his lapels that much tighter so you don’t lose your balance.

He watches your eyes as they start to clear, cloudy with lust and he smirks. “That is just a sample of what is to come.” He promises.

“Dammit.” You mumble under your breath, but with that same breath you giggle, too.

“Disappointed?” He knows you aren’t and he’s a bit smug about it, but no more cocky than normal.

“I really thought I was going to be able to hold out a little,” you admit, dissolving into an amused and slightly giddy laugh. “Rather uncharacteristically cocky of me.”

“You assumed that you would sleep in my bed tonight and remained untouched?” It’s his turn to grin. “How unrealistic.”

That’s not precisely what you meant, but that smile looks so good on him that you don’t argue. “I thought I would at least hold out on being a pile of goo until after the play.”

“Then you have not understood the complete delight I have in those thigh high garters.” He coos in your ear, pulling back to wink sinfully at you.

“If they weren’t my idea, I’d say I was set up.” But you do remember the delight on Ellaria’s face when you suggested in, and now you understand why. She knew how he would react.

“Then I must thank you for the pleasure of the discovery.” He had assumed Ellaria had chosen it, but now he knows that there is a delightfully naughty streak inside you.

"Think there's room enough in this box to stretch our legs a little before act two starts?" Somehow leaving the relatively privacy of this little oasis sounds unnecessary almost to the point of being unpleasant, even though you're technically on full display up here. No one is going to barge in or bother you. It's just you and Oberyn here.

“Of course.” He motions to the back of the box. “Through that panel is a private rest room.” He tells you. “So you don’t even have to leave.”

"The perks of dating royalty, huh?" There are, you're finding, many of those. But it seems to you that Oberyn likes to be teased so you're not going to pass up the chance.

He chuckles and shrugs. “I guess there should be a few.” He jokes as he smirks at you.

"But not too many," you tease, pressing a kiss to his cheek before you step away to go toward the bathroom. "We wouldn't want to show off or anything."

“No, showing off is frowned upon.” He snorts, knowing Doran wishes he was a little more discreet but he can’t help the tabloids love him.

"I'll remember that," you promise him, and make a mental note to make sure that all of the reading up you do on him and on Ellaria stays just on your electronic devices. No buying of magazines or looking up things at the library.

He smirks as he pulls you close again. “Never said I followed any rules but my own.” He reminds you before pressing his lips to yours again.

******

The applause after the final bow is thunderous enough to shake the building, and you and Oberyn are on your feet with the rest of the audience. It doesn't die down for long, explosive minutes, and when it does he loops one arm back around your waist to draw you into his side.

“Would you like to meet the cast?” Oberyn asks as he leans into you.

"Would you still like to have dinner with your daughter?" He had set up a party for them after all. You're more than happy to be on his arm for the evening.

He looks around the theatre and then back at you to shake his head. “Unless you would like to go?” He asks. “I’ll let Obara celebrate without her father watching.”

"I want to do whatever you want to do." More than just feeling very amenable to his whims tonight, you feel soft and fuzzy and you're enjoying just being with him far more than you expected.

“Then why don’t we go back to the palace and we can tour your apartment?” He hums with a smirk.

"That sounds very...intimate..." You hum back, moving easily with him when he turns toward the back of the box toward the exit.

“We should test the bed.” He chuckles. “And the chaise, perhaps the table, and the tub.”

"Is there a sofa? Surely we ought to test the sofa. And closely inspect the rugs." The two of you laugh as you walk out together.

“I see you understand.” He approves as the cameras flash, capturing the teasing grins and the delighted humor between the two of you.

******

The so-called apartment is nearly as big as the house you grew up in. The sprawling space that has been designated for you is made up of six rooms where each one is spacious enough to be its own studio apartment just based on square footage alone. The parlor, bedroom (with balcony, of course), kitchen, bathroom, miniature library (which he assures you can be restocked with anything you desire from the larger palace library) and spare room ("For anything you wish", Oberyn promises) are yours to decorate, redecorate, and inhabit as you see fit for as long as you and Oberyn continue to see each other. He calls it a courtesy. You call it the utter definition of luxury.

“What do you think?” Oberyn asks as he glances around the living room as he watches you examine the space with a sense of awe. “Will it do?”

"Will it do?" You huff, reeling back around to look at him with your eyebrows raised. "Oberyn, this is...it's an entire fucking house! It's stunning and so much more than—" When you laugh in disbelief it comes out breathy and blustery. "It's beautiful, and it's so much more than I could have hoped for, let alone imagined."

“Good.” He looks extremely pleased with your approval and nods. “Then it is yours.” He tells you as he spreads his arms. “Welcome home.” He coos. “The Water Gardens awaits your arrival.”

“I’d like to see them in the morning light, if that’s okay?” Looking around you, you drift closer to Oberyn without effort.

“They are particularly beautiful in the morning light.” He muses, watching as the light in your eyes shift to something needy.

“I think it’s all beautiful,” you admit. When he opens his arm to offer you a place at his side, you slip in easily.

He hums as he feels you relax and it’s surprising how comfortable you feel with him. He had expected some growing pains but it had been relatively simple. “Now what shall we do with the rest of our evening?” He teases. “Are you hungry or shall we work up an appetite?”

“I think,” you murmur, slipping your arm around him just like he’s holding you. “I’d like to share that first meal when we’re both good and exhausted.”

“Then we shall.” He hums as he turns you towards him and grips your chin in his hand. “Take off your clothes.” He orders, although it’s his own hand that is reaching for the zipper under your arm.

“So you both say that, hmm?” Ellaria’s voice is still in your head saying the same words, and you wonder which of them taught the other the tone they now share.

He chuckles and smirks proudly. “I taught my lovely paramour that one.” He confesses. “I said it to her ten minutes after meeting.”

“Ten minutes, mm?” His hand is burning hot at your side as he draws the zipper on your dress down and you stuck in a breath of anticipation. “So you’ve been moving quite slow with me today?”

“To be fair….” He leans in and ghosts his lips over yours. “You were not about to sell yourself to a brothel to eat.” He knows that some of Ellaria’s story has become public, but not all of it.

Your eyes widen to double their usual size and your lips purse, holding in a shocked gasp. “No,” you shake your head quickly. “No. Nothing like that.”

He hums and as he moves to slide the straps off your shoulders to let them drop down. “No, we have a different story.” He teases as he runs his fingers over your skin.

He moves the straps aside, beginning to peel the gown off of you in tantalizing steps, but stops short when he spies the snapped edge of your red lace bralette appear.

“What is this?” He asks, voice brimming with coy delight.

“Some more…intricate wrapping for your gift,” you tell him, sucking in a breath as his fingers brush your skin.

“You are a gift.” He deduces and his eyes dance in excitement. “One that I am most eager to unwrap.”

******

He looks divine when he’s slick with a thin sheen of sweat, purring contentedly into the crook of your neck like an oversexed house cat. Your hands still wander over each other as you catch your breath, limbs tangled in each other and in the sheets in equal measure.

“Now I think we have worked up a sufficient appetite.” He rumbles playfully. “What would you like to eat?” He asks. “I believe the main kitchen was serving lamb, but they can make anything you wish.”

"I'm not picky." Nuzzling your nose into his shoulder, you sigh deeply and let the satisfaction roll through you like another wave of pure pleasure. "As much as I'd like to, I can't have you for dinner."

“I think that there is a way to make that happen.” He teases. “But I think it will take a while to fill you up.”

"Lover." A dulcet voice tsks from the doorway. "Do not be greedy. She needs real food with the way you make her scream."

Oberyn’s head lifts and he smirks as his lover props against the door lazily, watching the two of you in bed. She is just missing a cigarette in her hand to complete the unbothered look. He nuzzle back into you possessive and squeezes your breast. “She is a screamer, isn’t she?” He is proud of that and squeezes again. “The halls echoed with her bellows of pleasure.”

“I’m right here, you two.” To your own surprise, you don’t hurry to cover up or get bashful in front of Oberyn’s long term partner. Maybe you would have if you hadn’t met her already, but this woman had literally dressed you in order that he could undress you later on.

Oberyn chuckles and kisses your cheek before he drags himself up to one elbow. “We have our own delivery service, Dove.” He muses as he motions towards the door. “My paramour has brought you fuel for the next round.”

Ellaria emerges from the shadow with a tray laden down with all manner of things she managed to cajole the kitchen staff into accumulating for her to bring upstairs.

She loves him so much and it is so obvious that you smile at the glow of it instead of feeling out of place between them. There’s just something very welcoming in how they behave with a third partner. Or maybe they particularly like you?

Well, a girl can hope.

“Are you delivering?” You ask her when she steps up to the bed. “Or…staying?”

“That depends on how you feel about it.” She admits, eyes roaming greedily over the flesh on display by both of you. “I would love to stay, but understand if I shouldn’t.”

“Shouldn’t?” You look to Oberyn, wondering if he has some kind of objection to sharing a new lover so soon.

He can tell you don’t understand so he explains. “If you feel uncomfortable, Dove.” He clarifies. “Some don’t like to play as a group right away.”

“Well…” Reaching out, you pick up one of the water glasses from the tray and take a sip. “We can’t know until we try.”

“She is magnificent.” Ellaria coos as she slips the tray onto the bed. “I had the kitchen make lamb sandwiches and there is a crock of French onion soup to soothe your throat from screaming.” She teases as she swipes a finger through the cream on a dessert cake.

“I wasn’t that loud, was I?”

Oberyn climbs out of the bed with no shame to saunter into the bathroom. Ellaria watches his ass as he walks out before turning to you with a grin. “Our youngest kept asking why someone was praying so loud.” She teases.

“Oh my God…” For the first time since arriving at the palace, you cover your face in embarrassment and giggle so hard you almost snort. “Oops?”

She laughs with you and picks up a date out of a bowl. “She knows her father has lovers.” She tells you. “Even if the mechanics of what that means doesn’t quite compute yet.”

“It’s not my goal to speed her education,” you assure Ellaria. “Especially since I assume she’s…quite young?”

“Six.” She pops the date into her mouth and smirks. “That might be why Oberyn has been making noise about having another baby.”

The grapes in the fruit bowl look perfect. Too tantalizing to ignore. You pull one from the bunch and pop it in your mouth. “Does he just like having young kids around? Or is it a pregnancy kink?”

“Both.” She giggles. “The man has been a father since he was fourteen years old.” She tells you. “He was born to be a dad. And he loves a pregnant body.” She sprawls out on the bed. “It is why we have four together.”

“I really thought that was an exaggeration,” you admit, popping another grape into your mouth. “Fourteen is so young. But…he really loves them all, doesn’t he?”

“Every single one of them.” She tells you proudly. “Refuses to let them be sent off to boarding school.” It had been a custom to be educated abroad but he had flat refused to have his daughters sent away. It is why Dorne has built up amazing schools.

“I read that he did away with having a palace nanny, too?” Another grape. But the sandwiches Ellaria brought are too enticing, and you reach for half of one next. “They said it was because he wanted to spend as much time with them as he could, but I can’t believe you don’t have some help.”

“Oh we did.” She admits. “But the nanny the palace wanted was too strict.” She grins. “Plus his third daughter was the last nanny’s child.”

This time you really do snort. “Is she really?”

She nods and takes a grape for herself. “You think that she could resist Oberyn?” She jokes.

“Considering I’m sitting up in his bed wearing just my stockings?” You shrug one shoulder unapologetically. “I certainly can’t judge.”

“He left those on?” Nosey and with zero sense of personal space, Ellaria lifts the covers and chuckles when she sees them, slightly skewed from activities. “Marvelous.” She hums, smirking at you. “Wear them as often as you can, it will drive him mad.”

“Thank you.” It might feel a little odd to say, but the circumstance is unconventional and everyone here has given their consent to whatever this moment of madness will lead to. “For taking care of me this afternoon.”

“Anytime,” she waves away your thanks as if dressing a woman to sleep with her partner was nothing but a Tuesday. “I think that you will need to come in and pick some other things.” She tells you. “Plus I can introduce you to my other designer friends. They make fabulous clothes.”

Sounds daunting, you think, chewing a bite of the the remarkably delicious — or maybe you’re just starving — sandwich. It does sound daunting. Like you’ll be instructed. A spectacle, potentially.

But won’t being seen with Oberyn make you that already?

Of course it will. So why get hung up on it after you’ve already agreed? “Absolutely,” you tell Ellaria. “I’ll have plenty of time outside of my research.”

“Good.” She looks delighted that you accepted, like she had been anticipating you declining. “We will have lunch, get drunk and spend a small fortune shopping.”

Seeing as the only time you’ve ever shopped recklessly was today, with her, you nod through another bite of your sandwich and laugh in quiet disbelief — so you’re sitting laughing with a delighted Ellaria when Oberyn reappears in the room.

“You two seem to get along.” He observes with a smirk of happiness as he saunters over to the bed. He’s not bothered to cover his nudity and his lean body is on display. “Gossiping about me?” He teases as he leans in and plucks some fruit off the tray. “I love to hear about myself.”

“Actually?” He solicits kisses from both of you and gets them, temporarily cutting off your thoughts. “Ellaria was just offering to take me shopping.”

“She so enjoys it.” He chuckles, reaching for his paramour’s hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it. “She will dress you up like a doll.” He warns. “Speaking of that, I have bought Loreza a new doll.” He tells her mother. “One of those she has been begging for.”

“The American doll?” Ellaria hums in amusement. “That seems fitting, now that we have an American in the house.”

He hadn’t really thought of it that way but he chuckles. “She will be haunting you.” He explains. “She loves Americans. So expect a million questions.”

“You got your daughter an American Girl doll?” The thought of being a novelty in his household amuses you, but the sweetness of the gesture is what really impresses itself upon you. “I had one when I was little. Felicity. The Revolutionary girl.”

“Really?” He looks at that in interest as he manages to stretch himself out between you and Ellaria, immediately beginning to graze on the food in front of him. “Do you still have it?”

“She’s at my parent’s house.” He eats at a dizzying slow pace, while you have annihilated your sandwich as if under contract for its life. “I didn’t bring a lot to Dorne when I moved.”

“Anything you wish to bring over, we can have a plane sent.” Oberyn tells you as he picks up a cup of wine and takes a sip.

“Maybe I’ll bring some things back after Thanksgiving,” you muse, pouring another glass of water for yourself and topping off Oberyn’s.

He frowns for a moment before nodding. “Yes, the day you eat so much you fall asleep.” He jokes, smiling to show you he’s kidding.

“It’s my mother’s favorite holiday,” you tell him, shaking your head despite laughing. He’s far too fucking charming for his own good, really. “She invites the entire family for the whole day, and I haven’t been since I moved out here so I promised I would make the effort this year.”

“I see.” He knows that he would not stop you from going. “Family is important, Dove.” He tells you, feeding a date to Ellaria and the offering you a grape since he has observed you like the purple ones best. “No matter how they come.”

“It’s an excuse to see my dad.” The grape is a welcome sweet treat, and you smirk when Oberyn’s thumb drags on your lip. “I won’t stay long. The weekend at most.”

“Then spend as much time as you like.” His own parents are both gone and while he was closer to his dear mother than his father, he misses them both. Just like he misses his beloved Elia. “We will be here when you return.”

“I can’t take my mother for more than a few days,” you admit, leaning back in the pillows.

Ellaria laughs and nods. “I understand completely.” She snorts. “My mother turned me out at fifteen because she said I was trying to seduce her husband.” She curls her lip in disgust. “The bastard was trying to crawl into my bed.”

“My mother isn’t quite so vile.” In fact you sort of regret bringing it up since Ellaria’s experience was so dreadful. “She just…has a favorite. And it definitely is not me.”

“I see.” Ellaria shakes her head. “I don’t know if I could love my children any more than the other.” She admits. “Every relationship is different yet beautiful.”

“Anyway.” The pointed word cuts through the conversation, cutting it to a different direction. “All that is to say, I think I’ll bring some more things back with me, if that’s all right.”

“There is plenty of room for you bring back whatever you wish.” Oberyn gestures around and smirks. “Decorate away. This is your space to make your own.”

The first time you asked your father what he wanted from you, he answered without looking up from his paper: „Loyalty." By the time you turned twelve, you knew what that meant. You knew the names of your family’s allies and enemies. You knew how to smile in a room full of men who wouldn’t hesitate to slit your father’s throat if it gave them leverage. By fifteen, you could read body language better than most security teams. And by eighteen, you had learned how to disappear in plain sight—to be present, but never truly seen. It was safer that way.

Sometimes, in quiet corners of your mind, you tried to imagine what you would have wanted. If you’d been allowed wants. A slow kind of life, maybe. A bookstore job. A walk to work. A tiny, cluttered apartment filled with yellow light and chipped teacups. You didn’t dream in detail. It was too dangerous to build something in your head you could never have. But you had flashes. A voice laughing in the kitchen. Bare feet on warm tile. Hands that touched you without calculation.

It sounded like freedom. 

It wasn’t supposed to be anything. Just another afternoon — the same routine, the same hollow quiet of the Moretti estate.

You were in the garden, reading. The sun was warm but pale, filtered through the tall cypress trees your mother once insisted on planting. You couldn’t focus on the words in front of you. The book was open in your lap, but your thoughts had drifted. Somewhere far.

You only noticed Carmine, your father's secretary, standing in the conservatory doorway because the birds stopped chirping.

“He wants to see you,” Carmine said. “Now.”

There was something in his voice. Not urgent, not angry, just final.

You didn’t ask who ‘he’ meant. You never had to.

The walk to your father’s study felt longer than it was. Your feet moved without thought, slow and deliberate over marble and carpet. The portraits lining the hallway watched as you passed. Your mother’s among them. She seemed too soft to belong here. Still smiling, even in paint.

The door was open. Victor Moretti stood at the window with his hands clasped behind his back. He had the look of a man carved from marble. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the stiff line of his spine. Tall, broad-shouldered and immaculately dressed in a dark suit tailored so precisely it seemed stitched to his frame. His hair, once black, had gone a sharp silver at the temples — not from age, but from a lifetime of decisions that weighed too heavily. His face was angular, clean-shaven, his skin weathered but never soft. Deep lines etched themselves between his brows, across his mouth — not from laughter, but from years of commanding men and burying friends. His presence alone was a warning: cold, composed and dangerous. The kind of man whose stillness spoke louder than most people’s fury. The afternoon light made the smoke from his cigar curl and catch like thread.

You hovered in the doorway. He didn’t turn. Minutes passed. Or maybe just seconds that felt too long. Then, without warning or preamble, he spoke.

"In two weeks," he said, “you’ll marry Joel Miller.”

You blinked.

The words didn’t register at first. As if he’d told you something far away, in a different language, or something so absurd it couldn’t be real.

Your fingers tightened at your sides. Your breath stuck somewhere between your ribs and your throat.

“What?”

Victor turned. Slowly and calmly. As if you’d asked him what time dinner would be served.

He moved to his desk, picked up a folder you hadn’t noticed until now. Pages filled with names and signatures and logistics.

“The wedding is arranged. On neutral ground. Their security will coordinate with ours.”

You stepped into the room without realizing. “You’re marrying me off?”

His eyes snapped to yours. “I’m securing peace.”

“To Joel Miller?”

“To the man who can end a war,” he said. “A man with influence, discipline, and a willingness to hold his territory without theatrics. Our men have died. Their men have died. This ends it.”

Your jaw clenched. “I’ve never even met him.”

“You will. We have arranged for you to be transferred to his estate two days prior to your wedding.”

“I—what?”

“No before contact,” he said, returning to the window like he couldn’t be bothered to explain again. “That was his condition. And mine.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Letters can be intercepted. Calls can be traced. Until the vows are spoken, we trust nothing.””

A cold wave rolled through your chest. “You didn’t even ask me.”

Your father turned again. He looked at you like you’d said something naive.

“This isn’t about you,” he said. “This is about the family. About keeping our name, our territory, our people alive.”

“And I’m just what?” You almost choked on it. “Collateral?”

“You’re a Moretti,” he said sharply. “You carry a name worth more than sentiment. Worth more than your personal comfort.” He paced to the other side of the desk, placing the folder down with deliberate precision. “This marriage guarantees stability. Safety. It guarantees legacy.”

You stared at him, the room spinning. “And what about me?”

“What about you?” he replied, genuinely puzzled. “You will have everything you need. The Millers have means. More than enough. You will not want for anything—security, comfort, position. A household that respects its own. Joel Miller is not a reckless man. That alone is more than most women in our circles can hope for.”

You swallowed hard. “Have you even asked him? Does he want this?”

“He agreed,” Victor said without hesitation. “Weeks ago.”

Your stomach dropped. “Weeks—? You planned this without telling me?”

He frowned at your tone. “We executed strategy. That is what leaders do. What families like ours require.”

“So it’s already done,” you whispered.

“It has been done,” he corrected. “Your hesitation changes nothing.”

You shook your head slowly, disbelieving. “You’re asking me to marry a stranger to fix your mistakes.”

His jaw tensed, but he did not raise his voice. He rarely needed to. “I am asking you to uphold your duty. This family built everything you stand on. This alliance protects what remains.”

He stepped closer, hands clasped behind his back again, posture unyielding.

“You will be safe with him,” he said. “Our wars have made targets. Your future is more secure in his house.”

You flinched. “So this is for my safety?”

“For the family’s safety,” he corrected. “But yes—you benefit. Consider it… mutual interest.”

“And if I refuse?” You stared at him in silence. Every word drove deeper, like the walls were closing in.

“This is the cost,” he said. “Of peace. Of honor.”

“No,” you whispered. “It’s the cost of your convenience.”

His jaw shifted, barely. But he didn’t take the bait. “You’ll wear white,” he said instead. “You’ll be civil. You’ll make it binding.” He paused, smoothing his suit jacket as if that settled the matter. “You`ll see. In time, you’ll come to appreciate what’s been arranged for you.”

He turned his back to you. You stood there for another moment, trying to make sense of the air in your lungs — how it suddenly felt too thick, too still. Then you stepped out of the study with your chin lifted, the door clicking shut behind you like a final verdict. Your heartbeat thudded firmly beneath your ribs, loud enough you could feel it rather than hear it.

The hallway stretched ahead, long and dim, lined with portraits and polished sconces. You walked slowly, each footfall softer than it felt, your thoughts gathering in uneven waves rather than sharp fragments.

Married in two weeks. To a man chosen for you; agreed upon without you.

It wasn’t surprise that took hold of you. Your father rarely presented choices disguised as anything else. But something deeper, a dull ache of comprehension settled into place.

This is my role.  This has always been my role.

You had known it, in theory. You had just hoped life might allow a sliver of something gentler before the inevitable arrived.

You kept walking, trying to breathe through the heaviness in your chest. Footsteps appeared from around the corner. One of the younger maids approached carrying a stack of folded table linens. She stopped when she saw you.

“Oh — miss?” she said, uncertain, shifting the linens in her arms. “Your father asked me to prepare— I mean, —” 

Her words faltered as she caught the expression you hadn’t meant to show. Her eyes widened a little, sympathy rising unbidden, and that, more than anything, made your stomach tighten.

“Should I get you something? Water? Tea?”

“No,” you said, managing small control in your voice. “Thank you. I’m just… going to my room.”

She nodded quickly, stepping aside. She didn’t press, and you were grateful for that. 

You inhaled slowly. This is happening. This is decided. And you will walk forward, because you must. 

At the end of the hallway, you stopped. The light from the sconces flickered gently across your mother’s portrait. Her face looked calm, kind, untouched by the weight that now pressed into your chest. You reached out and let your fingertips graze the corner of the frame, a silent apology or maybe a question you couldn’t put into words.

Wedding preparations began the next morning.  

They arrived in quiet waves at first. Calls, measurements, whispered conversations behind closed doors. And then the house filled with people. Designers, stylists, planners, all with portfolios in hand and questions in their mouths. They brought silk, ivory, diamonds, lace. Boxes and racks and sketchbooks. They laid everything out like weapons on a table.

But none of it felt like yours.

They dressed you in gowns that shimmered in the sunlight, veils that trailed like ghosts behind you. They held mirrors in front of your face and waited for you to smile.

You didn’t smile. You sat still while they pinned and fussed, nodded when they demanded your opinion, even though your mind was somewhere else entirely. The weight of the announcement still hadn’t settled. It felt suffocating.

You didn't feel ready. You weren’t sure you ever would. You had no real friends. Not outside these walls. Your father never allowed it. You’d been privately tutored since childhood, a rotating cast of polished professionals who taught you how to calculate and converse, but never how to connect. Your world was made up of quiet halls and measured silences. Of reading alone, and watching people live from a distance.

And a marriage? Romance was something you’d only observed, never touched. You knew the mechanics, the politics, the risk, but not the warmth. Not the spark. No one had ever held your hand just to feel it. No one had ever looked at you like you were a choice, not a consequence.

You wondered what kind of person you would’ve become if you hadn’t grown up in a house full of ghosts and rules. Would you have spoken louder? Smiled more? Worn your hair differently? Been brave enough to say no?

Now, that version of you would have to die. Quietly. With dignity. The girl who loved books and warmth and wanted too much, she didn’t belong in the house of Moretti.  And certainly not in the arms of a man like Joel Miller. 

The Millers, that much you knew, were not like the Morettis. They were careful. Controlled. Their business dealings were cleaner, their violence quieter. Based in South Austin, they operated with precision rather than spectacle. They didn’t leave bodies in the street; they made them vanish. They were strategic, unflinching. Dangerous in a different way.

There had been conflict between your families for as long as you could remember. It had   started with conflicting territories and grew bloodier each year. Names were scratched off ledgers. Men disappeared. Deals collapsed. It wasn’t personal, it was business. Until, of course, it became both. And now, as if none of that ever happened, your father had decided it was time for peace.

A marriage. Your marriage with their head, Joel Miller.

He was the kind of man people only spoke of in private and a hushed voice. Older than you, yes, but not ancient. You didn’t know him personally. But you knew what people said: Known for keeping his house in order. Known for not tolerating weakness, for not making emotional decisions. He wasn’t cruel, people said. He was calculated. Respected. Feared where necessary. The kind of man who didn’t need to raise his voice to make a room fall silent. You’d heard rumors of what he’d done when he was younger. The bodies left behind, the messages sent in blood. But those stories always came secondhand, told in hushed tones, eyes darting over shoulders.

You didn’t know if any of it was true. You didn’t want to know.

You tried to stick to your habits. You always read while eating breakfast, though you rarely remembered what you’d read. You liked your tea bitter. You kept your wavy hair pulled back when alone but let it fall loose if you wanted to feel like someone softer, someone less rehearsed.

In the mornings, Anna often brought you a tray of toast and jam without asking, the way she had since you were ten. She was more than a housekeeper — she was the closest thing to a constant you’d ever had. With her soft gray bun, quick eyes, and quiet hands, Anna moved through the world like someone who had seen too much and learned to carry it silently.

“You didn’t touch your eggs again,” she said, setting the tray down.

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“You never are, these days.”

“It’s the nerves,” you said, though even that sounded like someone else’s excuse. Anna paused, the teapot hovering. “Nerves, or anger?” 

You looked up. “Does it matter?”

“Only if you plan to swallow one and not the other.” Her eyes softened as she poured. “Eat a little, cara mia. You’ll need your strength.”

The endearment startled you. No one in this house called you anything tender.

“You sound like you think I’m marching to war,” you tried to joke.

“You’re a Moretti,” Anna said. “You’ve been at war since you were born.”

You traced the rim of your cup. “Do you think it’s possible to feel like a guest in your own life?”

Anna’s hands stilled. “I think sometimes we’re made to feel that way. But it doesn’t last forever.”

“How would you know?” you asked quietly. 

She looked at you for a long time. “Because I’ve served this family for thirty years. I’ve seen winters end.”

You weren’t so sure.

Each night, you went to bed a little heavier. And then, one night, when the house was finally quiet and the corridors empty, you slipped out of bed and climbed the attic stairs.

You hadn’t been up there in years. The air was thick with dust and memory. Furniture under old sheets, boxes labeled in your mother’s handwriting. A single bulb flickered when you pulled the cord. You weren’t looking for anything. You just wanted to breathe. And then you found the box.

It was tucked in the farthest corner of the room, nearly hidden behind a cedar trunk. Covered in linen. Tied with worn ribbon. Inside was a garment wrapped in tissue paper so delicate it nearly crumbled in your hands.

Your mother’s wedding dress.

It was simple. Ivory silk, long-sleeved, high-necked, with tiny handmade lace details that looked like they’d been stitched with patience instead of money. No beads. No glitter. Just something pure.

You sat down on the attic floor, the fabric spread across your lap like snowfall. No one had told you to come here. No one had offered this to you. And maybe that’s why it felt like the only real choice you had left. If you had to be a bride, then let it be in the only thing that ever felt like love.

You folded it gently and took it back to your room, your arms wrapped tightly around it like a secret. You tried not to imagine what Joel Miller would think when he saw you in it. Tried not to imagine him at all. But his name sat heavy in your mind. Not like a man, but more like a verdict.

The two weeks passed in a blur until finally the wedding was only two days away.

You had packed your suitcase yourself. You had folded your mother’s dress with reverence, laying it gently in a protective case lined with linen. Everything else was modest, neutral. A few blouses, a warm cardigan, a worn paperback, your old wool socks.

You decided to wear a beige coat for the drive. It wasn’t new or particularly fashionable, but it was warm, modest and elegant in its simplicity. The kind of thing your mother might have chosen. Your hair brushed your shoulders when you leaned over the case, the loose strands clinging from static. You caught sight of your reflection in the mirror—neither girl nor woman.

From the front steps, you glanced back at the house that had always been your home, even if it had never quite felt like one. The windows were dark, the lights already dimmed. You didn’t expect anyone to come out and say goodbye. You’d said your farewells in silence, the way you always had.

Your final conversation with your father had been brief. He hadn’t looked up from his papers when you entered the study.

"The car will be here at seven. Don’t be late."

No goodbye. No parting words. Just another order. You’d nodded. Not because you agreed, but because it was already done.

A black car arrived just after dusk. One of your father’s drivers opened the door for you. The city lights bled away as the car slipped across the river, through the hills of South Austin, toward Miller territory. The air felt different here, quieter, somehow, and thicker. You sat still as the engine hummed beneath you, hands resting in your lap, watching the headlights sweep over trees and fading fences. The suitcase with your dress had been loaded into the trunk, sealed behind you like everything else from your old life.

You told yourself not to expect anything — no kindness, no warmth — but still, part of you couldn’t help imagining the moment you would finally meet Joel Miller. What would he look like up close? Would his eyes be cold? Would he speak first? Would he reach for your hand or keep his at his sides?

That flicker of anticipation curled uncomfortably in your stomach. You hadn’t been raised to believe in fairy tales. But something inside of you silently hoped for a warmer welcome than the good bye in your father's house had been.

When the gates of the Miller estate opened, they did so without sound. Smooth and controlled. The grounds were vast, the house itself coldly elegant. Not ostentatious, but deeply intentional. Stone walls and clean lines. 

When the car came to a hold a man stepped forward. Tall, maybe mid-thirties, with soft eyes and a tired smile that didn’t quite reach the corners of his mouth. He wore a dark wool coat and had the kind of presence that wasn’t commanding, but comforting. He opened your door and offered his hand. You took it.

“Miss Moretti?” he asked gently. He had kind eyes, a tired but genuine smile, and a posture that carried no threat at all.

You nodded.

“Yes,” you said softly. “I’m… yes.”

“I’m Tommy. Joel’s brother," he said gently, offering a respectful nod. “Welcome.” His voice held none of the edge you were used to. No calculation. Just warmth, laced with something like sympathy. 

“It’s good to have you here,” he said. Quiet, sincere.

You attempted a polite smile. “Thank you for receiving me.”

Beside him stood another man, broader, darker around the eyes, his height adding a quiet gravity to the entryway.

“This is Elias,” Tommy said with a small gesture. “He helps run security.”

Elias dipped his chin in greeting. “Ma’am.”

You nodded back, your voice barely above a breath. “Hello.”

Tommy stepped aside slightly. “Come on in. You must be tired from the long drive.” He said it like a simple fact, not a commentary on your state, but the warmth in his tone eased a small knot in your chest.

You stepped into the foyer. It smelled faintly of cedar and old stone. Almost immediately, your gaze drifted past them toward the darker end of the hall, hoping for a silhouette, a figure, that name you’d been circling in your mind like a bruise.

He wasn’t there.

You tried to hide your reaction, kept your expression smooth, your mouth composed, but your disappointment was a tangible thing. A flicker in your eyes, a pause in your breath. 

Tommy noticed. He gifted you a small, understanding half-smile. “He wanted to be here,” he said quietly. “But he had something to take care of. Something he wanted to handle himself.”

You nodded once, quickly. “Of course.” You didn’t know why your chest tightened at the emptiness of the doorway.

He didn’t elaborate, and you didn’t ask. But there was a softness in his voice, as if he understood more than he let on. Tommy wasn’t trying to be cruel, you realised that. Still, Joel Miller `s absence felt colder than you expected.

Before you could speak, Tommy added. "Joel will meet you for breakfast. Tomorrow morning. Just the two of you."

You nodded, unsure how to feel — relief, anxiety, dread — but grateful, at least, for the warning. “Yes,” you said. “That sounds fine.”

A woman entered the foyer through a door on the left. Tommy turned towards her.

“This is Marta,” he said. “She’s the good soul of the household. She keeps the place running and all of us in line.”

Older than Anna, with soft, lined hands and a sharpness behind her warm gaze, Marta gave you a kind look. “Welcome, dear. You must be exhausted.”

“A bit,” you admitted, your voice small. “It’s been… a full day.”

“Come,” she said gently. “Let me show you to your room.”

Tommy gave a barely-there nod when you glanced at him before following her. “If you need anything,” he said, hands in his pockets, voice mild, “we’re close by.”

“Thank you,” you said. “Truly.”

Upstairs, your room waited at the end of a large corridor. It was lavender-scented and soft-lit. Your suitcases had already been placed on the velvet bench at the foot of the bed. 

“Well,” Marta said, voice gentle, “I’ve a tray prepared in the kitchen. Something light. Broth, some bread, a bit of fruit. You’ve eaten nothing since afternoon, I expect.”

Your stomach twisted. Not with hunger, but with exhaustion. “Thank you,” you said, forcing a small smile. “But I… I don’t think I could manage anything tonight.”

Marta studied your face, not with scrutiny but with experience. “All right. I’ll have it kept warm till later, just in case.”

“That’s kind of you,” you whispered.

Marta paused in the doorway. “I’ll be nearby if you need me.”

You mustered a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

She slipped out, closing the door quietly behind her.

You stood there a long moment, listening to the quiet. Then you walked to the window. The Miller estate stretched out before you in rows of stone paths and manicured hedges, all of it glowing silver in the moonlight. Distant, guarded. Like everything else in your life. You pressed your fingers to the cold glass. Breathed. You had never felt farther from yourself.

The light woke you early.

For a moment, you didn’t remember where you were. The ceiling above you was high, plastered smooth, the walls the color of bone. The curtains breathed softly in the draft, stirring the faint scent of cedar and something else—coffee, maybe, and baked bread. Not Moretti marble, not cold and polished, but something lived-in and solid. Then you remembered—the car, the gates, the estate. The marriage.

You rose slowly, bare feet meeting the cool wood floor. The air had that strange early-hour stillness, when the world was awake but hadn’t spoken yet. You crossed to the window and pushed the curtains back.

The Miller estate stretched beneath you like a painting. Morning sunlight spilled over stone terraces, the kind of warm, amber light that softened the edges of everything it touched. A garden unfolded below—rows of rosemary and sage, cypress trees standing like sentinels, a gravel path curving toward a courtyard lined with arched columns. Beyond it, the distant shimmer of the river.

It wasn’t ostentatious. It was deliberate. Measured. You found yourself wondering what kind of man built a place like this.

A soft knock drew you back. When you opened the door, Marta stood waiting with a small, approving smile and a tray balanced on one arm. “You slept well, I hope?” 

You managed a small smile. “I did, thank you.”

“Mr. Miller asked me to let you know breakfast is ready,” she said, her voice kind but measured. “He’s waiting for you on the terrace.”

You froze. “He—he’s waiting?”

Marta nodded, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Yes,” she said simply. “He’s an early riser.”

Your heart stuttered. “Please tell him I’ll be there soon. I just need to… get dressed.”

She gave a small, knowing smile. “Of course. Take your time, dear.”

When the door closed behind her, you exhaled slowly and turned toward your suitcase.

You crouched beside it, fingers tracing the worn leather edges before opening the clasp. Inside, everything was still folded the way you’d left it, neat and careful. 

You sifted through the layers: ivory blouse, beige cardigan, charcoal skirt. Your hand paused on something softer: a moss-green skirt made of light wool, one of the few pieces you’d bought yourself years ago on a rare afternoon alone. Your father would’ve called it too modest, too plain. You remembered liking it precisely because of that. It made you feel like someone gentler, someone who didn’t have to impress or protect.

You laid it across the bed and reached for a blouse that was white, crisp, and soft at the collar. You caught your reflection in the mirror as you unbuttoned your nightdress. Your hair was mussed from sleep, falling just to your shoulders in loose waves. You brushed it back, fingers trembling slightly.

“He’s just a man,” you whispered under your breath. “Just a man.”

But the words didn’t convince you.

You’d seen men all your life—business partners, soldiers, guards, men who bowed to your father or feared him—but this was different. This was a man you would have to share air with, space with. A man who would expect something of you.

As you dressed, you spoke softly to yourself, the way you used to before walking into your father’s study as a child. “You can do this,” you whispered again to your reflection. “He’s just a man. Nothing more.”

You buttoned the blouse carefully, smoothing the fabric over your ribs, tucking it into the waistband of the skirt. Your hands paused at your throat. You’d worn a simple gold chain for years, your mother’s. Your fingertips lingered on it for a moment.

When you slipped on your shoes—low heels, polished but unremarkable—you hesitated again at the mirror. The girl who looked back at you didn’t seem frightened, though her pulse betrayed her. She looked composed. Polite. Controlled. The perfect Moretti daughter, ready to face her future like a well-trained diplomat.

Only the small tremor in your breath gave you away.

The hallway smelled faintly of strong coffee. Your steps barely made a sound on the rug. As you descended, you caught fragments of sound, a chair scraping, a low voice.

And then you saw him.

Joel Miller stood on the terrace, half-turned toward the sunlight.

He wasn’t what you’d expected. He was worse—and better.

Broad shoulders filled the linen shirt he wore, the sleeves rolled casually to his elbows. The fabric stretched slightly when he moved, revealing the kind of strength that came from work, not vanity. His trousers were dark, pressed, the line of them clean against his frame. A leather belt, a wristwatch that gleamed faintly when the sun caught it, and shoes polished enough to speak of old habits and expensive taste.

His hair was dark brown threaded with silver at the temples, the kind that told you more about experience than age. It curled slightly where it met his neck. A few days’ worth of beard shadowed his jaw: patchy in places, uneven, but somehow deliberate. It gave him a rugged edge that softened nothing.

He turned slightly, hearing your steps. And when his eyes met yours, the world seemed to go very still.

Warm, deep brown, the color of old whiskey and tired kindness. They held you, steady and unhurried, as if he was taking the measure of what stood before him without judgment. He was handsome.

“Morning,” he said, voice low, a little rough around the edges.

You swallowed. “Good morning.”

He set his coffee down and gestured to the table. “Please. Sit.” 

You crossed the terrace, the sound of gravel and birdsong mingling in the quiet. He pulled out the chair for you. Not gallantly, but simply, as if that’s what a decent man does.

You sat. He nodded toward the table. “You hungry? Marta said you didn’t eat anything last night. I figured we’d fix that.”

You forced a small, polite smile. “It was late.”

“She worries,” he said, as if that explained everything. “And she’s usually right.”

The table was set simply: fresh bread, fruit, two cups, silver that gleamed faintly in the light. You werer aware of every movement, of the way his presence filled the space even when he was silent.

He poured your coffee himself. “Cream? Sugar?”

“Black, please.”

He nodded, setting the cup before you with quiet precision. He then slid the cup toward you, his thumb brushing the handle briefly.

And for the first time, you realized you were shaking. Not visibly, but enough that you could feel it beneath your skin. He noticed. Of course he did. His gaze softened, not pitying, but aware.

“It’s all right,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to be nervous.”

You didn’t know why, but that made your throat tighten. You looked down quickly, tracing the rim of your cup to hide it. You tried to smile. “I’m not nervous.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t call you on the lie. He just nodded once, eyes lowering briefly to his cup. A beat passed, long enough for you to feel the weight of your own denial. Then, with quiet tact, he changed the rhythm. “You sleep all right?”

“Yes,” you said quickly. “Thank you.”

“Good. Figured you might not, after the drive.”

His voice had that deep, unhurried cadence. Southern, but worn down by time. He didn’t rush his words, and somehow that made them heavier. You glanced at him over the rim of your cup and caught him studying you.

He leaned back slightly, folding his hands. “I know this ain’t what you pictured for yourself.”

You didn’t answer. You only looked at him, long enough for him to see the flicker in your eyes, the nervousness you were too proud to name.

Joel nodded once, as if she’d spoken. “Didn’t think so,” he murmured.

After a quiet moment, he stood. “Come on,” he said, his voice gentle. “Let me show you the grounds. Easier to talk when we’re not sitting across a table like strangers.”

You rose carefully, palms brushing the folds of your skirt to steady yourself. The sunlight had grown warmer, gilding the terrace and the tops of the cypress trees. 

You followed him down the terrace steps, the gravel crunching beneath your shoes. The morning air was soft now, carrying the scent of rosemary and sun-warmed stone. He slowed his pace just enough for you to walk beside him, not behind. You noticed it, even if he pretended not to.

The garden opened before you in neat rows: olive trees, a small fountain, low stone walls covered in creeping vines. Bees moved lazily between lavender blooms, and somewhere nearby, a wind chime gave a muted sigh.

“This place,” he said, glancing around, “belonged to my grandfather. He built it himself, bit by bit. Every wall. Every tree planted by hand. I try to keep it that way. Quiet.”

You nodded, your eyes tracing the lines of the stonework, the symmetry that spoke of discipline and pride. “It’s beautiful,” you said.

“Some days,” he murmured.

He stopped by the fountain, resting one hand on the cool edge. Then he looked at you. It wasn’t invasive or assessing. It was a steady, thoughtful gaze, as if he was trying to map your mood. You met his eyes for half a breath before looking away, pretending to study the trees. 

Your pulse betrayed you. You could feel it in your throat. You weren’t used to being seen without calculation. You weren’t used to being seen at all. 

You studied him again, taking in the small details: the faint scar near his temple, the way one corner of his mouth dipped lower when he spoke. Everything about him radiated control and certainty. He was the kind of man who didn’t need to prove himself because he already knew the shape of his power.

You hesitated, then heard your own voice before you’d fully decided to speak.

“Can I ask you something?”

He looked up immediately, his attention sharpening in a way that didn’t feel threatening — just present. “’Course.”

You swallowed, fingers tightening around the cup. “Why did you agree?” you asked softly. “To this marriage. To… me.” There was no challenge in your tone. Just honest confusion, wrapped in careful politeness.

He was silent for a moment, considering. The wind moved through the garden, shifting the light on his face. For a moment, all you heard was the faint hum of morning wind stirring the cypress trees. 

When he finally spoke, his voice had changed: still deep, still steady, but lower, as if he’d stepped closer without moving an inch. “Your father and I, we’ve been in each other’s way a long time,” he said calmly. “Too long. This puts an end to that. Keeps people alive on both sides. Peace don’t come free. And I’m tired of buryin’ men over somethin’ that should’ve ended years ago.”

You swallowed and looked at him.

“I don’t expect you to be happy with it,” he said, voice softer now. “But if this marriage stops all that violence—if it even slows it down—then it’s worth steppin’ into the unknown.” His gaze met yours, steady and sincere. “And I figured… well, you were steppin’ into it too. Might as well face it side by side.”

You held his gaze for a moment, the honesty in his words settling somewhere deep inside you.

“I won’t pretend this is normal,” he added after a moment. “But I’ll treat you with decency. You’ll have your space. Your safety.” A pause. “You’re not a bargaining chip in this house. Not to me.”

He said it like a promise, low and sure. Some small part of you almost believed him.You exhaled slowly, the knot in your stomach loosening by a fraction.

He turned back to the garden, his expression unreadable but his voice lower. “You’ll get used to it here. Nobody’ll bother you. You’ll have space. And time.”

The words should have sounded like reassurance, but they hit something deeper. Time. Time to think, to breathe, to remember the things you’d been trained to forget. What it was like to want something just because you wanted it.

He glanced at you again, and for the briefest second, his composure faltered. Just a flicker. The tightening of his jaw, the faint exhale through his nose. He was nervous too. Not afraid, but uncertain. 

You realised in that moment that this marriage bound him, too, to a future neither of you had chosen.

He gestured toward the far edge of the garden, where sunlight caught on the white stone of the stables. “There’s the orchard,” he said. “And the horses. My brother keeps them still — says it keeps him sane.”

You followed his gaze. And then, as if conjured by name, Tommy appeared from the stable’s shadow. He raised a hand when he spotted you both. “Mornin’!” He came closer, brushing hay from his sleeve.

His grin was easy, familiar. “Joel, Marta says the flowers came in for the ceremony. She’s losing her mind about the timing.”

Joel gave a small huff that might’ve been a laugh. “Of course she is.” Then to you, “Don’t worry — she’ll make sure everything’s perfect. She always does.”

You managed a small smile. “I don’t doubt that.”

Tommy then turned toward you with that same warm, open expression.

“Hope the room was all right for you,” he said. “Marta fussed over it half the evening.”

“It was lovely,” you said. “Really. She was very kind.”

Tommy’s smile deepened slightly, pleased. “Did you manage to get some rest at least? Long day yesterday.”

“I did,” you answered, shy but honest. “More than I expected.”

“Good,” Tommy said, nodding. “First night in a new place is never easy. Walls creak, air smells different, all that. You hear every little thing.” He straightened a bit. “Big day tomorrow,” he added, not unkindly.

“Big day,” Joel echoed quietly beside you.

Tommy lingered a moment longer, gaze flicking between the two of you. “Well,” he said at last, “I’ll leave y’all to it. Marta’s about two minutes away from havin’ a crisis over those roses.” Then he pivoted back toward the stables and disappeared into the cool shadows, leaving only the faint smell of hay and sunlight-warmed wood behind.

Joel stood in silence for a while, his hand resting on the edge of the low wall.

“I took the liberty of organizing a few things for you,” he said, almost hesitantly. “Someone will come by with what you’ll need—hair, makeup, dress handling. Marta can help, if you prefer her.”

You blinked, surprised by the quiet thoughtfulness. “You… thought of all that yourself?”

“Figured you shouldn’t have to,” he said simply.

“That’s… considerate,” you said, hesitant yourself. The word sounded clumsy on your tongue, too formal, but you meant it.

He met your eyes briefly, something faint and unspoken passing there. An acknowledgment. “The ceremony’s set for tomorow in the early afternoon,” he continued. “Private chapel out on the Prescott estate. Neutral ground. Security’s been doubled since yesterday.”

You pressed your hands together in your lap. “You’ve arranged all this so quickly.”

He nodded. “I had help. But I wanted it done right.”

“Right?” you echoed, uncertain what that meant in this world.

“Safe, tasteful,” he clarified. “Quiet. Not a spectacle.”

You nodded slowly, the word safe sitting strangely in your chest. You hadn’t realized how much you’d needed to hear it.

“Today, there’ll be a short meeting with the lawyers,” he added. “Just a formality—papers, signatures. It won’t take long.”

You gave a small nod, trying to absorb it all. You noticed how he tried to be kind, to put you at ease, and yet you felt as though you were standing at the edge of it, unable to step forward.

He seemed to sense the wave of quiet panic building beneath your composure. His posture shifted, not closer exactly, but less formal.

“You’ll be alright,” he said softly. “You’re not doing this alone.”

The words were simple, but something about the way he said them made you believe he meant it. You held his gaze a moment too long, then looked away when you felt a treacherous burning behind your eyes. He must have noticed the change in your expression, the nerves creeping back in, as for a moment, it seemed almost like he wanted to reach out to you, But he then stopped himself. His hand fell back to his side, fingers curling once before relaxing.

“Just breathe,” he said quietly. “We’ll get through the wedding, and the rest… we’ll figure it out after.”

You looked at him then, tucking a strand behind your ear, a habit from childhood. He started walking again, giving you space to follow if you wanted. The sunlight pooled around him, glinting against the watch on his wrist. 

You fell into step beside him again, the garden stretching quietly ahead. Two people, bound by names, walking side by side through borrowed sunlight, learning how to breathe in each other’s presence.

The bells from the chapel began to sound faintly across the valley, marking the hour. You felt it settle in your bones: a new chapter of your life was about to begin.

We crossed into my bedroom and Joel laid me down with my head on the pillow. I suddenly remembered I had cried in front of him and let out details I hadn't meant to about my relationship with Wes.

"Joel." My voice was raspy with sleep and I cleared my throat. It seemed to take him off-guard and his eyebrows raised as he backed away from my bed a few steps.

"Yeah?"

I pulled the covers up and curled up on my side. "Thank you. I'm sorry about tonight."

"You don't have to apologize," he reminded me, but I couldn't help it.

"If you don't feel like Saturday night pizza I'll understand." I forced a closed-mouth smile.

"Are you trying to ditch me?" He joked, mirroring my little grin.

I shook my head against the pillow, eyes still locked on his.

"Well, then decide some time tomorrow where you want to order from."

"You fly, I'll buy?"

Joel chuckled now and I was pleased to see a little life filter back into him. "Now, what kind of man would I be if I allowed you to pay?"

"A modern one."

"I'm old fashioned."

"I can tell."

"Mmm." He held a half-grin for a moment and then let out a sigh. "Are you going to be alright?"

I nodded again, but a part of me wished he would stay and cuddle up with me under the covers. I knew I wouldn't ask. I couldn't. Still, the thought lingered in my mind, comforting me like a warm blanket as I imagined his arms wrapped around me.

"Thanks for carrying me up here," I said to him. "Hope I wasn't too heavy."

Joel shook his head. "Not at all." When a brief silence lingered, he cleared his throat and took a few steps toward the door. "I'm going to lock everything up. If you need anything, let me know."

"Thank you."

Joel nodded and turned, taking the set of six or seven stairs down to the main level of the home. I heard him checking the locks and pulling the front curtains. He returned momentarily with my phone and a bottle of water.

"You didn't have to do that," I assured him.

Joel simply gave another nod and then headed through the house down to the lower level where he stayed.

For a long time I laid there awake. My mind kept reverting back to my head against Joel's chest, the scent on his clothes and the way he effortlessly carried me to my room.

He's such a gentleman, I knew.

For the first time in a long while, I wasn't thinking of Wes in my final thoughts before bed. I didn't even check my phone for missed calls or texts. It was a liberating feeling after feeling trapped and hung up for so long.

I couldn't wait for Saturday night pizza with Joel.

--------

Joel's POV

Sleeping became an impossible task. I couldn't stop thinking about her. Witnessing her pain up close gutted me, but I was thankful she trusted me enough to let it out. She clearly needed to.

I imagined Wes, the man responsible for her tears; for her trauma. And I wanted nothing more than to give him back tenfold what he gave her. Tears. Pain. A loss of peace.

Broken bones. It would be so satisfying to pummel Wes into the ground; to leave him choking on his own blood.

I told myself I had to stop. I could protect her; be there for her. Be whatever she needs really. But I knew it could destroy her if I ever did find this man on my own, and dealt with him accordingly.

I got out of bed, feeling the chill from the floor on my feet as I reached for the bottle of bourbon. At the late hour, I didn't bother with a glass. I sipped off the top of the bottle and smacked my lips when the burn of the liquor coated my throat. I needed to switch gears, to stop feeding the angry wolf inside of me.

"Fuck." I whispered the word and pinched the bridge of my nose before taking another swig. My mind drifted in the opposite direction, something more calm, more peaceful.

I imagined her asleep on the couch, finally taking a breaking from her demons. I thought of her little smile and soft stare from where she laid in bed, grateful for the simplest of good deeds. To witness her genuine glow despite her internal struggles was something that gave me hope - hope that she could heal; really heal.

She deserves your comfort, not your wrath. I had to actively remind myself of that.

Still, despite the metaphorical angel on my shoulder willing me in the right direction, the darkness inside of me lead my morbid curiosity to bring up her social media profile.

I didn't have Facebook, but hers was not set to private. I searched through what felt like endless pictures until I found one, tagging a man named Wes Fitzpatrick. I clicked on it, hating his face almost immediately. He was smug and smirking in almost every photo with no traces or hints of being in a relationship on his page. Countless women commented on pictures of him flexing, posing next to a red Audi gym selfies that made him look more like a teenager than a grown man.

Man. I scoffed at the word. This was not a man. This was a broken boy mistreating a fucking queen. Hurt people, hurt people - or so the phrase goes.

I swiped the social media app away and Googled Wes Fitzpatrick. Finding his address and place of employment was almost too easy.

23 Old Side Street. Ten minutes from here. Sneaking out to drain the oil pan on his Audi was tempting, though I kept that in my mind as just a piece of my dark fantasy. For now, anyway.

If he hurts her again, his car will be the least of his worries. My jaw was clenched and I finally ended my searches of this monster for my own sake. I capped the whiskey bottle and set it back down before laying back down in bed, staring at the ceiling.

Through those wooden boards above I imagined her sleeping. I imagined her inviting me to stay the night with her.

She's too vulnerable, I reminded myself. The last thing this woman needed was another complicated man in her life.

My eyes grew heavy, though I didn't get to sleep until after three o'clock. I was suddenly grateful that I hadn't volunteered to work overtime the next morning.

All thoughts of Wes went to the background. It was visions of her that finally calmed my nerves and lulled me to sleep in the early morning hour.

With a breath, I poured myself a hearty helping of wine and made my way to the couch, getting cozy and leaving the phone sprawled across the end table. Despite my strength to ghost his text, I couldn't stop thinking about it.

Stop, stop, stop. I focused on the movie and placed my glass gently on the floor so I could snuggle deeper beneath the blanket. With a buzz, my phone went off again.

"Fuck!" I shouted the word aloud and tossed the blanket off of me to read Wes's second text message.

I need you, baby. Please. I miss you. Come over.

There it was. The sweet talk - after cancelling our plans last minute. After ghosting me for four days because he was busy. After shoving me into a lamp, watching it shatter on the ground and then blaming me for breaking a family heirloom. Yeah, after all that.

I forgive you for breaking grandma's lamp, he added next with a winking emoji as if the memory was a cute one.

I looked down at my hand where a cut was still healing from where I fell onto a piece of broken glass from the bulb. The mark was a constant reminder of the darkness of our relationship, and here Wes was talking about it like it was some inside joke - instead of another traumatic scar on my soul. I hated him for it. More every day. He didn't even realize how much I hated him these days, because my love evened out and I wasn't strong enough to let him go.

I am strong enough, I told myself. I had it in me. I was on the verge of ending it. I just needed to cut the cord for good and move on.

The comment about the lamp was enough to sober me up and allow me to come to my senses. I can't tonight, sorry, I wrote and then set the phone down. It buzzed almost immediately.

Please. I really need you tonight.

My thumbs ghosted the numbers. I closed my eyes and my brain battled with my heart. I gritted my teeth and took a deep breath. When I opened my eyes I saw headlights roll into the driveway. Joel's truck. I swallowed hard and suddenly my decision to leave Wes hanging felt a bit easier.

Not tonight, Wes. I wrote. I'm going to bed early. Goodnight.

I set the phone down, retrieved my wine and crept to the back window. I pulled the curtain to the side just an inch and watched as Joel removed his hat to reveal a head of messy hair. I smiled to myself and then he disappeared beneath the deck toward the slider to enter the lower level. With another deep breath, I hurried to dart out the back door and rushed across the deck to lean over the side.

"Hey!" I whisper-shouted, making Joel jump as he ducked back out into the backyard so I could see him clearly. I started to giggle and he smiled up at me.

"You trying to give me a heart attack?" He joked.

I laughed again. "Want to have a drink and light a fire up here?"

"Depends," he said, "Will the neighbors start talkin'?"

"Maybe," I whispered through cupped hands, "But they're retired, they need something to gossip about. Keeps them young."

Joel laughed out loud, "Give me five minutes."

"Okay."

"Can I ask you one thing first?" He went on.

My heart sank. What did he want to ask? "Sure," I finally responded, far too timid for the simple question.

Joel cupped his hands around his mouth the way I had and whispered up, "Why are you whispering?"

I laughed harder this time and he did the same. I whispered back, "I don't know."

The two of us lingered for a moment, and then Joel agreed to come up in a few minutes while I got the gas firepit lit on the top deck. I thought it might be one of those nights, and so I brought the whole bottle of Moscato out with me, along with a plaid orange and brown blanket from inside. I left my phone on the end table.

___________

Joel's POV

My cool exterior disappeared when I stepped inside.

Fuck. My hormones were already in overdrive and I knew I needed to shut them down. I checked my hair. It was a damn mess, and I suddenly regretted pulling off my hat when I rounded into the backyard. I pulled the blue beanie back down over my head and gave myself a hearty look in the mirror.

It doesn't matter, I told myself; but suddenly it did. Still, I acknowledged that she had seen me at my best and worst since getting to know her at work - and now here at the house.

I retrieved the bottle of Woodford Reserve, topped off my glass with the bourbon neat and brought it with me up the stairs to the back deck where she waited by the fire, sipping wine.

"No bourbon?" I asked, swallowing hard as I watched her sip the wine with a little smirk.

"Maybe after one more you'll convince me." She raised her glass and I gave a nod, clinking my glass to hers as I settled into the Adirondack seat to her right. "I'm sorry I cancelled pizza night."

"Drink by the fire night is just as good," I assured her with a wink that I immediately wish I could take back. I witnessed the blush in her cheeks and I hoped I hadn't made her feel awkward. It was the last thing I wanted to make her feel, especially after all of her painful nights recently.

"It certainly is," she responded, leaning over to tap her glass to mine again. The small act calmed my nerves, as I was certain she didn't take my wink the wrong way.

A moment passed and we both sat in silence, alternating breathy sighs into the cool, night air. Sipping bourbon in this weather was especially pleasant and I found myself swallowed up by the calm until she spoke again.

"Thank you, Joel."

I turned, taken a bit offguard by her words. I felt my eyebrows press together. "For what?"

"For... just being here."

I smiled and then let a fleeting chuckle slip. "I haven't done much but you're welcome."

"You have," she countered. "Just having you here has helped me. I feel less lonely.. and safe. So.. thank you."

"You're welcome." I raised my glass an inch or so and then took a sip. My heart felt like it was on fire but I had to keep actively telling myself to switch it off, though that never happened. "I owe you a lot more than you owe me, believe me."

"No, you..." She began and shook her head and took a sip of wine.

"What?" I challenged.

"I've just... I've been going through something and... it just feels better, I guess... since you've moved downstairs."

I nodded, leaning forward to rest my forearms on my knees with the bourbon glass between my hands.

"You've heard me," she suspected.

"Huh?"

"Crying... out here.." 

"Oh.. uh.."

"It's something I'm working on," she added.

"I understand." I didn't, not fully. But I wanted to.

"And you've just helped.. that's all. Probably without knowing it." She looked almost intently at her wine and chuckled, "I think I need to stop drinking." 

I laughed lightly back but let it fade, not sure how far to go with my input on the matter. "Whatever it is," I said, "if you need to talk, I'll listen. I don't look the part," I chuckled again and made her smile, "But, yeah, I'm a decent listener."

"Decent, huh?" 

I smiled wider and felt the mood lighten a notch but her tone and playful eyes. "I'm good." I half-smiled and our eyes lingered a moment before I broke it with a sip of bourbon. She mirrored the act, sipping her wine and with both sighed.

"I'm getting out of a really bad situation," she went on. "He's someone I trusted.. who I shouldn't have, and since the summer I've been trying."

I hesitated and then let the question slip that had been in my mind for over a month. "Does he hit you?"

Her eyes darted to mine and I hoped I hadn't crossed a line. When her eyes welded up with tears I began to apologize profusely.

"I didn't.. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked that." Internally I felt a heat poison my veins. He hits her. I fucking knew it. 

"No, um.." Tears slid down her face and I felt my stomach knot up. I wish I hadn't said anything. Witnessing her cry in front of me was a deeper dagger into my chest than hearing her through the walls. "It's me. I just.. I need to.." She took a breath and her eyes met mine again.

I wasn't the best with affection. I didn't know when to hug somebody, or how long to do it. But right then, I rose to my feet and when she rose to hers I knew I was on the right track. Her body melted into mine and I held her hard as she cried. She cried like I had never seen a woman cry. It was sustained and unbreakable, despite my hand running up and down her back, and my desperate, "Shh.. it's okay," in her ear. My eyes shut and I just held her, because I knew it was exactly what she needed. My heart, once hardened as stone, began to break for her. My wrath was gone - for now., and all I could do was hold her against me.

"I'm sorry." She breathed the words aloud, "Joel, I'm-"

"Don't be sorry." I held her closer and instinctively kissed her forehead. She leaned into me harder and finally let her sobs transform into deep, unhitched breaths. "You're okay."

"I'm not," she whispered back. "I'm sorry to cry to you."

"You need to," I assured her, "You can't do this all by yourself." I wanted to say those words to her since the summer.

She cried some more and I never let her go until she finally took her final, deep breath and pulled back.

"I'm so embarrassed." She began to dry her eyes.

"Don't be."

"I am."

I ran a thumb against her cheek, pushing her tears away. "You don't deserve to feel this way."

"I do it to myself."

"No." I shook my head, "You don't."

"I've let him. I can put an end to it. I just don't. I can't. I don't know why."

"You can." I looked her in the eyes and she struggled to look right at me. "I'll help you. I'll do whatever you need." She tried to compose herself. "Don't cry out here by yourself. Come to me. I'll listen."

"Why?"

"Because.." I swallowed hard.

"It's not your burden to carry, Joel."

"That's what friends do for each other." I put a hand on her face and quickly removed it when her eyes met mine. "You gave me a place to live, because that's what friends do. I'm here. I got you. I won't say a word to anyone else if you don't want me to, but you got me." Her eyes continued to race back and forth as if reading mine and I went on, "Okay? Don't do this alone."

Her bottom lip trembled and she gave a little nod before leaning back into my chest. I closed my eyes and held her. We stood just like that for a while. It might have been minutes. Maybe more. Maybe less. I didn't really know. When she sniffed in and pulled back, we locked eyes again from a few inches away.

"Let me get you inside," I offered.

"I ruined pizza night... and now drinks on the deck night."

I wanted to smile but I couldn't. "You didn't ruin anything."

She huffed a breath and glanced at the bottle of wine. I reached for it and then held my other hand out for her to take. Without hesitation, she took it and allowed me to lead her inside. I placed the bottle on the kitchen counter a few steps inside the door and glanced around, noting the scary movie playing on a flatscreen through a doorway that led into the living room.

"I'll just lay on the couch," she said meekly, pulling me the rest of the way into the living room.

I let out a sigh through my nose. I felt, perhaps, every emotion in that one breath. When she laid down on the couch I covered her with a blanket and sat beside her when she gave a tug on my hand.

"Can you turn off the light?" she asked, closing her eyes.

"Sure." I rose to my feet and did as she asked, noticing her phone because of the glow on her lock screen. Wes's name appeared with some pleading text message that I was dying to respond to myself but I refrained - barely. When I returned to her side, I brushed her hair back. "I'm going to lock up the back door and put the fire out."

Her lips parted as if she was going to say something else, but she simply nodded. "Okay."

The wrath returned the second I left her side. Wes. What was his last name? I wanted to see him in person. Better yet, I wanted to meet him in a dark alley. I would end him if she let me. This was worse than I had suspected. My soul would not soon forget how broken she was tonight. It was burning a hole in my chest.

I put the fire out, secured the locks on the back door, pulled the curtains and shut the blinds before returning to the living room where she laid, eyes half-dead staring at the television.

"Are you going to be okay?" I asked her.

She looked at me, eyes betraying her. Again, she opened her mouth to speak and stopped, before finally letting out what she wanted to say. "Can you stay with me until I fall asleep?"

My heart fluttered. Wrath took a back seat again. "Okay."

"You don't have to-"

"I will." I sat down on the curve of the sectional where her head rested and stretched my legs out the length of L-shaped couch.

"I'm s-"

"Don't say sorry," I interrupted, "Really.. I've been hoping you'd reach out."

"Really?"

I nodded and sighed when she put her hand on mine. "I got you."

"Thank you, Joel." Her heavy eyes struggled to remain open.

"Go to sleep."

She let out a breath and her eyes closed. I was left to wrestle with my emotions again, struggling between my empathy for the woman beside me, and the man that brought every murderous impulse to life inside my body. Love could prevail, I knew. But another thought filtered into my subconscious. Could they coexist?

And she did. She managed. Not only did she manage, she thrived - at least that's how it appeared on the outside. I worked side-by-side with her, witnessing her work her ass off and greet everyone she knew with a smile. On top of that, she had given me a place to live when I didn't have a place to go - the lower level of her split-level home. 

I had my own entrance to the house through a slider beneath the porch out back; though the two of us crossed paths now and then and agreed to have Friday night pizza together once a week, as long as our schedules called for it.

That Friday night, she cancelled. It was the first time in over a month that Friday night pizza didn't happen. Despite my budding feelings for her, that lonely night was the time I felt the sting of those feelings hit me like a Mack truck. I didn't want to admit it to myself. I told myself that it was fine; that we would resume our one-evening-a-week next Friday. I reminded myself that if any one of my friends had cancelled on me that I wouldn't bat an eye - and that's what she was, a friend.

"Yeah..," I muttered into my bourbon glass, downing the rest of it as I quietly acknowledged how full of shit I actually was. To be honest, I always thought the phrase that men and women couldn't be friends because at least one of the two would develop feelings was complete bullshit. I had been friends with women before without thinking much more of it. This time, however, felt different.

The house was unusually quiet that Friday night. She was out - with him I suspect. Wes, I think his name was. The man responsible for her nightly tears. The one who treated her as replaceable; disposable even. How could someone treat this gem of a woman as an option, or a pawn in his chess game? It infuriated me, more and more as the weeks went on. I didn't know the history, just the present; and it was something I knew could destroy her if she didn't get out soon.

She's an adult, I reminded myself. Still, it didn't take the still away or the reality of the situation. She didn't deserve this. She didn't deserve to be a broken shell of a woman inside while staying strong for everyone else in her world on the outside.

I finished the bourbon and placed the glass down the sink before deciding to blow off some steam and head out for a drink with the guys. It wasn't Friday night pizza, but it was better than sitting in that empty house alone.

I reached for a hooded sweatshirt, tossed it over my t-shirt and tossed a beanie hat down over my ears before heading out into the mid-October night.

___________

Reader POV

I shouldn't have cancelled plans with Joel. I knew it would have made me feel better, but I didn't want to accidentally spill all of my burdens out on him. The pain had dulled some since he had moved in downstairs, though I hadn't completely conquered my demons - not by a long shot. Still, having a man like Joel in the house gave me a sense of security, and our autumn weekend "date" nights out on the back deck were something I had begun to look forward to.

Then why did you cancel on him? I scolded myself. So you could cry in your car about another man? A man who treats you like you're nothing?

The skin under my eyes was tender and my eyes burned. At that moment I was grateful for the cover of darkness because I didn't want anyone to confront me about my problems should they notice I was crying. I knew I needed to break free from my 'suffer in silence' mentality. I needed to talk to someone, but I didn't have it in me - and I don't think I could ever share the whole story, even to my friends, about what I had endured at the hands of a man who once claimed to care so deeply about me.

"Fuck." I whispered the word to myself and let my forehead fall to the steering wheel. The somber playlist I had playing in the background only added to the flow of emotion that seeped from my tired eyes. I was doing this to myself at this point, and I knew it was only me that could get myself out of it. More times than I could count, I told Wes I was done - for good this time... only to go back when he sweet talked me and told me I was the only woman in the world who made him feel seen, and loved. It was a big game at this point, and I was just a fucking joke in the middle of it.

My phone chimed and I wiped tears from my damp cheeks to read it. A text message from Joel.

Going to the bar for a quick one. If you need anything let me know. Thanks again for letting me stay. It means more than you know.

I smiled, smally at first, and then it widened. I bit my bottom lip and typed back, kicking myself harder for not spending Friday evening with Joel. He was caring, handsome and stoic - and he lived downstairs. He was clean, trustworthy, strong.. a great coworker.

I cursed to myself again. Here I was crying over a man who hurt me repeatedly - in more ways than one. Who didn't give a shit about me. Who took advantage of me in my most vulnerable moments. Who wrapped me up in a vision of love, loyalty and trust only to transform into a monster of deceit, lies and abuse when I already loved him.

With a deep breath, I focused on Joel's message and let Wes fade to the background. For the first time in years, there was a light in my darkness. I hadn't been able to look at another man since becoming entangled in Wes's web, but in the past few months something had changed. Again, not fully, but it was there - a genuine pull in the opposite direction of my monster and toward something else; or someone else.

Of course, I wrote back to him, I'm sorry pizza didn't work out. Maybe tomorrow night as a makeup?

Butterflies flopped around in my stomach when he began to write back, according to the three little dots at the bottom of the screen.

Butterflies? I smiled again and used a Dunkin Donuts napkin to get rid of the stray saturation around my eyes. Another man is giving me butterflies. That's... unusual.But welcomed.

Joel's message came through a moment later: I think I can pencil you in. My treat.

I sighed, pleased to hear his response. I didn't feel like spending Saturday night in the same prison that I chose to spend Friday night.

"You're good," I whispered to myself. I flicked through my Spotify and found a more upbeat playlist before pulling the car out of the gravel lot where I had parked for my one-woman pity party. By the time I got home I felt a bit rejuvenated, and even told myself that the good cry was worth it. I needed to grieve, but moreso I knew I needed to get out. I needed to end it with Wes for good before I reached a point of no return.

I locked the doors, put my phone on a charger in my room and decided that a shower could take me the rest of the way to a therapeutic Friday night. Before hopping in, I left AMC's FearFest on the television. The thought of cozying up with a glass of wine while watching horror movies felt like my own little slice of peace.

As I passed through the living room, I glanced through the kitchen out a back picture window at the falling leaves. I took a deep breath and smiled again as my shoulders heaved up and down once.

It's reset season.