by LJ Shen
“Yes,” I admitted. “My heart has room for him. He just needs to claim it.” My honesty rattled me. I didn’t know why I opened up to Ms. Sterling like this. Maybe because she did the same to me, offering me a clandestine peek into her own life.
“Then, my dear girl”—she cupped my cheeks with her cold, veiny hands—“to answer your question, Wolfe is capable of feeling whatever you feel toward him but much, much stronger. More resilient and more powerful. For everything he does, he does thoroughly and brilliantly. Most of all, love.”
I’d asked Ms. Sterling to tell Wolfe not to come to my bed that night, and he hadn’t. Since it was the night before the wedding, he chalked the fact that I stayed in my room for dinner up to nerves. He did insist that Ms. Sterling bring me my dinner upstairs and made sure that I ate it.
There were waffles drowning in maple syrup and peanut butter straight from the diner down the road. He obviously did not care for a swooning bride tomorrow morning.
I didn’t sleep a wink.
At five in the morning, Ms. Sterling walked into my room, bristling and singing with a herd of stylists at her heels. Clara, Mama, and Andrea also came along, whisking me off the bed like Cinderella waking up with the help of tiny furry creatures and canaries. I decided to push aside the fact that my father was a bastard and my fiancé was a heartless man, determined to enjoy the day. As far as I could tell, I only had one wedding to celebrate in this lifetime. Might as well make the best out of it.
I wore a rose-gold Vera Wang wedding dress with floral lace appliqués and a pleated tulle skirt. My hair flowed down in luscious waves all the way to the small of my back, complete with a Swarovski tiara. My bouquet was simple and contained only white roses. When I arrived at the Little Italy church where we were to get married—honoring my family’s tradition—the place was already swarming with media vans and dozens of local journalists. My heart accelerated. I didn’t even talk to my husband the night before our wedding. Didn’t have the chance to confront him about the horrid things he once again said about me to my father. According to him, he was going to toss me away when I got old. The reality of my situation sank in at that moment.
We hadn’t gone on one date (the diner was an apology, not a date, and the entire time I shoveled food into my mouth, he worked on his phone). We hadn’t texted regularly. We never slept in each other’s bed. We never talked for the sake of talking.
No matter how I tried to spin it, my relationship with Wolfe Keaton was doomed.
I walked down the aisle to find my seamlessly dressed, clean-shaven fiancé waiting for me by the priest with a solemn look on his face. Next to him stood Preston Bishop and Bryan Hatch. It did not escape me that Wolfe Keaton had no real friends. Only work friends he could benefit from. I didn’t have any real friends, either. Clara and Ms. Sterling were triple my age. Andrea, my cousin, was twenty-four, but she was mostly there for me out of pity. She worked in a salon and dated Made Men regularly, though she always said she wouldn’t let them touch her, not even a kiss. My mother was twice my age. This left both Wolfe and me in vulnerable positions. We were both lonely and guarded. Wounded and distrusting.
The ceremony went off without a hitch, and once we were pronounced husband and wife, Wolfe offered me a chaste peck on the lips. He was more concerned about the cameras flashing in front of us, and making sure we looked nice and proper, than our first kiss as a married couple. We still hadn’t spoken one word to each other the entire day, and it was nearly noon.
We drove in silence from the church to my parents’ house. I wasn’t sure this would not escalate into a fight had I confronted him about what I’d heard yesterday, and I didn’t want to kill the already-charged mood. After the engagement incident, Wolfe had sent out a list of demands which were to be met if my father had wanted us to set foot in his house. Sure enough, the house was filled with people who were pre-approved by my husband. Unsurprisingly, Angelo was not there, but his parents arrived, congratulated me curtly, dropped off their gifts, and shot straight for the door. People were talking, laughing, and congratulating us before the grand dinner when I turned to my husband and spoke the first words since we tied the knot and made it official.
“Have you done something to Angelo?”
There was significance in this exchange. Our first conversation was about another man. Another man I’d lusted after not too long ago. He continued shaking hands, nodding and smiling brightly, the public figure that he was.
“I told you I will not be so tolerant toward Angelo should a third incident occur. Though I profoundly apologize for jumping to conclusions about what you did with him, there’s no denying that he tried to cross the line and coax an engaged woman.”
“What did you do?”
He grinned, turning to look at me fully now from the guests fighting for his attention.
“He’s currently under investigation for his involvement in his father’s business. No need to worry, darling. I’m sure he’s found a good lawyer by now. Maybe Kristen hired the same one. I just got her fired from her job for crossing approximately five-hundred red lines and losing all her credibility.”
“You snitched on a family from The Outfit?” I balled my fists, barely containing my rage. He blinked at me as though he had no idea who I was or why I was talking to him.
“I gave them what they deserved to make sure they never get near what’s mine again.”
Me. I was his.
“What will happen to him?” I sucked in a breath.
He shrugged. “They’ll probably scare him to death and let him go. As for Kristen, her career is officially over. Not that you should care.”
“You are despicable.”
“You are delicious,” he whispered under his breath, dismissing my rage, if not enjoying it a little. Ms. Sterling was somewhere in the crowd, probably taking pictures, and I wished she was here to referee the situation and explain his behavior now. “And officially now my wife. You do know we need to soil our sheets with blood, right?”
I shuddered at his words. I was counting on Wolfe to never agree to participate in this tradition, being a senator and all. But I forgot how much joy he’d had torturing my father—and what was more awful than proof he’d slept with his daughter?
“I think I’m all out of blood after the last time.” I smiled against the rim of my wine glass in which I drank orange juice. He didn’t have to know that it was spiked with enough vodka to drown a poodle. Thank you, Clara.
“It’s not in your nature to pledge defeat, my darling wife. I assure you, we can produce blood if we try hard.”
“I want a divorce,” I groaned, not really taking him seriously, but not completely joking, either.
He chuckled. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me till my last breath.”
Or until you replace me with a newer model.
“Then let’s both hope it will occur soon.”
Two hours into the celebration, Wolfe and I finally parted ways. I went to the bathroom, taking my time with the voluminous tulle as I attempted to pee. I managed it, though it took me a good fifteen minutes to complete the task unscathed. I washed my hands, opened the door and padded outside, back toward the party, when I heard something crashing in the room next door. I stopped in my tracks, turning my head toward one of the guest rooms on the ground floor. Scowling, I made my way to the source of the noise. If someone was drunk and vandalizing my parents’ house, I sure was going to give them a piece of my mind. I stopped in front of the open door of the room, my eyes widening in disbelief as the scene in front of me trickled into my conscience.
My mother was lying on the bed, my father standing above her, roaring at her, flecks of his saliva raining down on her face. Underneath them was a shattered glass of brandy. He stomped on it, thick glass flying under his Oxfords across the carpet.
“What kind of example are you setting for her? Getting her ready for her big day when she neglected her father and talked back to me yesterday? In front of that devil! She
made me look like a fool, and you? You make me look like an idiot for marrying you.”
She spat on his face. “Cheater.”
He raised his arm, the back of his hand ready to smack her across the face. I didn’t think. I jumped to Mama’s defense, yelling “No!” as I came between them. I had intended to push my father away, but I wasn’t quick or strong enough. He ended up slapping me across the face, hard. I staggered down, falling next to my mother, elbowing her rib in the process. My cheek burned, and my eyes stung. The pain spread from my neck to my eye, and I felt like my entire face was in flames. I blinked and swayed, righting myself and leaning against the mattress, shaking my head. God, it hurt. How many times had he hit her? Before and after he handed me to Wolfe? Before or after she found out that he was cheating and confronted him?
“Great timing, Francesca.” He chuckled bitterly, kicking a shard of glass my way. “Just in time to see all the mess you’ve created.”
My mother burst into tears on the bed, covering her face in her hands with shame.
She didn’t want to deal with the messy situation, so she disappeared inside herself, tucked under the layers of her sorrow and her grief. After years of playing the dutiful, perfect wife, she finally crumpled. I had to face Arthur myself. Brave whatever he became as a result of Wolfe’s blackmail.
I looked up, my back rod-straight.
“How many times have you hit her?” I felt my nostrils flaring, my mouth thinning with disgust.
“Not enough to teach her to behave properly.” He flashed me a sickening smirk, swaying lightly in place. He was drunk. Hammered, more like. I picked up a large shard of glass for protection, taking a step back and raising it between us to use as a weapon. I knew for a fact that one of the things Wolfe had insisted on before we’d agreed to celebrate our marriage here was absolutely no weapons. There was even a metal detector at the front gate. Even if my father hid a gun somewhere around here, it wasn’t on him.
“Is that true, Mama?” I spoke to her but kept staring at him. She sniffed a weak denial from the bed.
“Leave it, Vita Mia. He is just upset about the wedding, is all.”
“I couldn’t care less if he sold her on the black market after the utter disrespect she exhibited to me since he took her in. The only thing I care about is saving face and making sure the two of them don’t do anything embarrassing.” My father rolled up his sleeves as though he was ready to disarm me.
I knew he spoke the truth.
I pointed the shard at him. “Let Mama go. Let’s settle this alone.”
“There’s nothing to settle, and you are not my peer. I will not discuss my matters with you.”
“You will not raise your hand to my mother,” I said, my voice barely shaking. I wanted to add a request for him to try not to kill my lawful husband, too, but let’s admit it—it wasn’t my job to take care of Wolfe. He made it perfectly clear that he couldn’t care less about me.
“Or…what? You’ll go running to your husband? I’ve eaten bigger, more powerful men than him for breakfast, so don’t think you can talk back to me now. Have you given him the goods, Francesca? Before marriage?” Papa took another menacing step in my direction. I shrank into myself but didn’t cower, waving the glass in his face in warning.
“Did you suck Wolfe Keaton’s cock just as all the other stupid girls in Chicago who were dumb enough to think they were different did? It wouldn’t surprise me in the least. You were always too silly for your own good. Pretty, but silly.”
“Papa!” I yelled, swallowing back a lump of tears. How could he say things that? And how come it still hurt when he said those things even though I knew he did not deserve my love or regard?
“You’re drunk.” I wasn’t sure if I pointed it out to myself or to him. My cheek was still on fire. I wanted to erase the last fifteen minutes from my mind permanently. “And pathetic.”
“I am fed up and on the verge of ruining your lives,” he countered.
“Mama, come,” I urged her.
“I think I’ll stay here and take a nap.” She curled up higher on the bed into a fetal position, still in her pearls and deep green silk dress.
A nap. Right. My mother was still insistent on not defying her husband even after everything he’d done. I shook my head, turned around, and left the room, squeezing the glass so hard inside my hand, I felt the trickle of blood running over my dress. I stopped in the bathroom again, cleaning myself up and making sure there were no visible stains on my dress, then returned to the party, knowing that the combination of my parents and myself both going MIA at the same time was a recipe for gossip disaster. I stumbled into guests, disoriented and woozy, and ignored the worried glances and spearing gazes. I found Ms. Sterling at the bar, trying appetizers. I threw myself between her arms, ignoring the small platter of food she was holding. It dropped, crab cakes and deviled-egg rolls spilling on the floor.
“Can we go upstairs?” I heaved. “I need help reapplying my makeup.”
She opened her mouth when a firm hand grabbed my shoulder and turned me around. I came face to face with my new husband, who stared me down through dark lashes and furrowed brows.
I’d never seen him so angry in my entire life.
“What happened to your face?” he demanded. I immediately brought my hand to my cheek, rubbing it and laughing off the embarrassment. Luckily, his tone was controlled enough that we didn’t have an audience.
“Nothing. Just an accident.”
“Francesca…” His voice softened, and he took me by the hand—not my elbow, which was an improvement—and pulled me under an alcove between the sunroom and the drawing room. I looked down at my huge dress, determined not to cry. I wondered when I would survive an entire twenty-four hours without bawling.
“Did he hit you?” he asked quietly, bending his knees to get on my level. He stared right into my eyes, looking for that something other than the pattern of my father’s hand on my cheek to give him the okay to do what he wanted to do.
“He didn’t mean to. He wanted to slap my mother. I stopped it and got in his way.”
“Jesus.” He shook his head.
I looked sideways, blinking. “Why does it matter, Wolfe? You’re not much better than him. True, you don’t hit me, but you say mean things about me all the time. I heard you telling him that you’re with me just so we can f…have sex, and that you plan to discard me the minute I won’t look so good on your arm.”
From my periphery, I saw him straightening up to his full height, his jaw clenching in annoyance.
“You weren’t supposed to hear that.”
“You weren’t supposed to say it. You say a lot of hurtful things about me to him.”
“I was baiting him.”
“Good job. He got so pissed, he tried to hit my mom. This is partly your doing. My father is a madman, and anyone affiliated with him is a potential victim.”
“I’d never let him lay a hand on you.”
“Never, or until I’m not pretty enough to be Mrs. Keaton?”
“Never,” he enunciated. “And I’d advise you cut the bullshit. You will be Mrs. Keaton until the day you die.”
“It’s not the point!” I shouted, turning around and grabbing a glass of champagne for liquid courage, downing it in one go. He spared me the lecture. I looked around. The crowd was thinning. I’d lost track of time since the incident with my parents.
“What time is it?”
“Time for everyone to leave so we can sort out this mess,” Wolfe replied.
“And in practice?” I huffed. He twisted his wrist and pushed the sleeve of his blazer up, checking his Cartier.
“Eleven o’clock. You know they won’t leave until they escort us to the bedroom.”
I sighed. That was the tradition. He offered me his arm, and I took it. Not because I particularly wanted to spend the night with him, but because I wanted everything to be over.
Five minutes later, Senator Keaton announced that we were retiring to
our bedroom. People whistled, clapped, and cupped their mouths with delighted chuckles. He helped me up the stairs to my old bedroom, which my parents had prepared for my wedding night. People followed, throwing candy and singing drunkenly, their voices high pitched and slurred. Wolfe threw his arm over my shoulder protectively, hiding the side of my face that was still red and swelling from my father’s offense earlier that evening. I twisted my head and caught a glimpse of my parents following the crowd. They were clapping along, ducking their heads down to listen to things people shouted in their ears. My mom had a wide smile on her face, and my father had that smirk that suggested he still had the world at his feet. It broke something deep inside me to know that it was all an act.
An act I must’ve bought as a child.
The summer vacations, the beautiful Christmases, their public displays of affection during social functions.
Lies, lies, and more lies.
Wolfe closed the door behind us, locking it twice for good measure. We both looked around the room. There was pristine white linen over the king-size bed that’d been put here, replacing my twin bed especially for the occasion. I wanted to throw up. Not only because we didn’t have anything to show them—I was not going to bleed on my wedding night—but also because the idea that everyone knew we were going to have sex tonight was unsettling. I took a seat on the edge of the bed, my hands tucked under my butt, staring down at my dress.
“Do we have to?” I whispered.
“We don’t have to do anything.” He unscrewed a bottle of water and took a sip, sitting next to me. He handed me the bottle. I put it to my mouth.
“Good. Because I’m still on my period. I started it a day after I took the Plan B.” I didn’t know why I was telling him this. Only I did. And it was time I asked it.
“Why did you make me take it?”
“Are you ready for children?”
“No, but you didn’t know that. And, frankly, many would have guessed the baby was conceived after the wedding. Why did you care so much?”
