Trophy Wife

by Alessandra Torre

  * * *

  The female in question, hereafter referred to as “Wife”, will be restricted from contact with any past relationships, regardless of gender and familial relation, with the exception of Wife’s Father, Harold Tapers. Wife will be allowed weekly visits with Harold Tapers, and will have use of Husband’s private plane and pilot to conduct these visits.

  * * *

  I frown. Nathan had acted as if I had no family, yet here is my father’s name. Harold Tapers. Weekly visits. Private plane. I underline the words, the line a little wobbly in its execution.

  * * *

  Husband agrees to pay for any and all medical bills pertaining to Mr. Tapers, hereafter referred to as “Father”, for the duration of the Marriage, in addition to accepting financial obligation for said Father’s living expenses.

  * * *

  Somewhere inside my chest, there is a release of stress, a cracking of bones, something that opens my lungs wider and allows my first full breath in years. I blink, my eyes damp, and let out a shaky breath.

  * * *

  Wife will not be given any cash, but will be assigned two (2) credit cards for her personal shopping and travel needs. She will be allowed the purchase of one new car every two years, but current car must be traded in on the new vehicle purchase.

  * * *

  I continue reading, thinking about my father’s medical tests that insurance denied, the medication copays, the—I force myself to stop, to take another breath, to read on.

  * * *

  Wife is entering into this agreement in the possession of Ten Thousand Dollars ($10,000.00). Such property is listed in Marital Prenuptial Agreement and will be and remains the property of the Wife and the Husband will have no right to or interest in such present property.

  Wife will be allowed to have hobbies, given that those hobbies do not take her away from the Marital Home at times inconvenient to Husband. Wife will be allowed to have friends, but they must be pre-approved by Husband, social standing being of primary importance in the Marriage. If friendships become unpleasing to Husband, they will be terminated by Wife.

  * * *

  It sounds like I’m entering into a 1950’s marriage. I put a frowny face next to the words pre-approved and unpleasing. Not that it really matters. I haven’t had real friends in a really long time. I won’t be pulling at the bit for new ones.

  * * *

  Wife agrees to terminate all ties with previous occupation, residence, and lifestyle. She will consent to a Legal Name Change (Candace Dumont) and will keep all details of her prior lifestyle confidential.

  * * *

  I turn to the next page, where the contract turns to our marital sexual lifestyle, desexualized by staunch and clinical terms.

  * * *

  Wife will submit to Husband in all matters sexual. She will not have the right to dictate sexual positions, fornication locations, or duration thereof. Husband agrees that his Sexual Expectations will be limited to one (1) Sexual Penetration Act per day, with the understanding that Wife can initiate additional Sexual Acts if she chooses. Husband is not required to perform Sexual Acts with Wife.

  * * *

  I shift in the chair, both freaked-out and aroused by the words. I’m not surprised that he’d want control of our sex life. Dominance seems to be his thing. I take a small sip of the ice water that sits at my place, and fight the urge to fan myself.

  * * *

  Wife will maintain a strict regimen of Birth Control Pills. If and when Husband and Wife decide to have children, an Amendment to this Marriage Agreement will be agreed upon. Wife agrees that, in the event of an Unplanned Pregnancy, she will not terminate the pregnancy unless she has written approval from Husband.

  * * *

  Children? How long does he expect our fake marriage to last? I set down the contract. It appears to be a carefully controlled fairytale. All of the luxuries of a dream lifestyle, hold the freedom and romance. I am almost grateful for the bulleted points, the discussion of every aspect of my future life as Wife. It is all here, in these eight pages. The instruction manual for the next chapter in my life. And, as unromantic as this arrangement is, as segmented and dictating as Nathan appears to be, he is also—through these eight pages—transparent. A known evil, when the last couple of years have been a landmine of unknown ones.

  * * *

  I flip to the final page, the last line very simple and very permanent.

  * * *

  The Marriage will be executed within thirty (30) days of this agreement.

  * * *

  Below that, a signature block, his name already scrawled in thick blue ink above his name. I move down to my own, rolling the pen softly in my fingers as I stare at the solid line that could change my life forever.

  II

  TO HOLD

  Life as a trophy wife? Piece of freaking cake.

  NATHAN

  He unlocks the suite and steps inside, his eyes meeting Drew’s, who gives a stiff nod and takes the pen from the blonde who will become his new wife. Striding forward, Nathan holds out a hand for the pages.

  * * *

  She’s watching him. He can feel her gaze, as he checks her signature and re-caps the pen. He glances up, and she holds his stare for a moment, then glances away.

  * * *

  “So…” she sits back in the chair, adjusting the bodice of the sundress. “I guess you and I are getting married.”

  * * *

  “It would appear so.” He tucks the pen in his jacket, and drops a plastic bag on the table, pushing it toward her. “Your new phone.”

  * * *

  She perks up, leaning forward and opening the bag, her expression changing when she sees the simple flip phone. “Wow,” she muses, with all of the enthusiasm of an aloof cat. “You shouldn't have.”

  * * *

  “As my wife, you won’t be on social media, or communicating with anyone from your old life.” He nods to Drew, who pulls her purse off of the floor and rummages through it, tossing a cracked iPhone, the case covered in fake diamonds, toward him. He glances at it, then sets it down on the table.

  * * *

  “Hey!” she half stands, pushing back from the table, and his eyes drop to her outfit, the expensive fabric hanging well off her curves. After they reach Nashville, and the Fenton team begins, she’ll look even better. Fake marriage or not, he damn well isn’t going to have a rough looking wife. “Give me that!” she gestures to the iPhone.

  * * *

  He doesn’t move. “Think of this as a job, Candace. I am your new employer. You can’t have a phone at work. You can’t have a past at work. If you want to quit and walk out that door tomorrow—fine. But while you are married to me, you will follow my rules.”

  * * *

  “Your rules seem ridiculous,” she snaps back. “You’re not going to chain me to a basement wall somewhere, are you?” Her forehead pinches, and a flash of alarm shows, as she considers this new possibility.

  * * *

  “I can assure you, there will be no basements or imprisonment involved. Though if you’d like to be tied up, that is certainly something I can arrange.” He presses his lips together in an attempt to halt the grin.

  * * *

  She likes that. She pretends she doesn’t, her glare intensifying, a snort of irritation coming out, but she fucking likes it. Right now, if he walks forward and pushes her back in that chair, his fingers sliding up her bare thigh, to the crotch of those silk panties, she’ll be wet. Just the thought of it, of her stretched across his bed, her skin pink, her ankles spread … it is getting him hard. And that is going to be a serious problem, his reactions to her. He is supposed to be marrying her for a purpose, something he's forgetting every time their eyes meet.

  * * *

  “We should head out.” Drew pockets her phone. “There’s a storm coming we should get in front of.”

  * * *

  “Where are we going?” She pushes to her feet, and there is almost a child
like quality to her movements, a hesitant excitement at the adventure ahead.

  * * *

  “Nashville,” he supplies. “My—our house there. And don’t worry, it doesn’t have a basement.”

  * * *

  She rolls her eyes at the response, slipping the cheap purse over her shoulder and stepping past him. Drew follows, a warning in his gaze. A warning Nathan chooses to ignore.

  CHAPTER 13

  There’s no basement, no chains, just a line of private planes, Nathan’s second lackey—Mark—helping me inside. The trip doesn’t take long, and Nathan doesn’t pull out his dick, the entire ride completed without any interaction at all. It appears I am marrying a non-talker.

  * * *

  Marrying. I swallow, and look out the window, unsure whether to pinch or slap myself. Is this actually happening? The decision leaves an odd taste in my mouth, my tongue unsure whether to celebrate the flavor or spit it out.

  * * *

  The limo slows, coming to a stop before a large neighborhood gate. Nathan glances up from his phone, listening to the conversation between his security man—Drew—and the guard. “Drew’s giving them your information.” He glances at me, and it’s the first eye contact we’ve had in hours. “They’ll quickly learn your face.”

  * * *

  My chances of death and dismemberment diminish slightly. I let out a breath, then think of something. “My car—it’s still at Sammy’s.” I picture my sad Subaru, bird droppings collecting on its blue paint, pollen coating its surface, drunk patrons writing crude remarks in the dusty windows.

  * * *

  “We are having it, and all of your belongings, moved to a storage unit.” He looks down at his phone, as if that snippet of information doesn’t dump out my innards and stomp right through them.

  * * *

  “Who is doing all that?” I turn in my seat, facing him, my question ignored. I reach out a hand, covering his phone’s screen. He sighs, his jaw tightening, and when he glances up, the irritation in his eyes almost causes me to back off. Almost. “I have personal items in there. I don’t want one of your guys going through all of my stuff.”

  * * *

  “Fine,” he snaps, and holds out his phone. “Call one of your friends. Tell them they have a week to pack up your shit. I’ll have movers pick up any boxes from your old house then.” He waits, his phone outstretched, and it looks a hell of a lot nicer than my new one.

  * * *

  I glance down at it, then turn, leaning on the armrest and looking out the window. “Never mind.” I blow out a breath. “Just have your guys do it.” My pride can’t tell him the truth. I don’t think I have a friend who’d want to bother with it.

  * * *

  We slow down again, a monstrous mansion to our right, and stop before another set of gates. A bit overkill. The gates open and I lean forward, curious.

  * * *

  The limo pulls around the drive, thick bushes passing, the home unveiled as we roll forward. It's a voyeur’s dream, glass the primary building material, and I look through the house and at the view, rolling hills and the glitter of a lake visible. “Your Windex budget must be out of control.”

  * * *

  “I wouldn’t know.” He reaches out, placing a hand on my bare knee, halting my reach for the door handle. “I’ll have Drew show you around. He can answer any questions you may have.”

  * * *

  “You’re not coming in?” I watch as he releases my knee, his eyes already back on his phone. My door is opened, and I hold up a hand to block the glare.

  * * *

  “I’m heading to the office.” He nods in the general direction of the house, and it’s as strong as a push. I accept Drew’s hand and step from the car, distracted by the thought of Nathan as I inhale everything about this new world.

  * * *

  Honeysuckle, the scent faint on the air, the bright green lawn punctuated by blocks of flowerbeds, all spilling with colors and textures, the soft sound of a sprinkler humming in the background. The home is white and modern, the glass walls showcasing low-slung furniture and bold art. A few years ago, I’d flipped through an Architectural Digest and torn out pages of a home like this. A few years ago, I’d have given anything for it. Now, I would have been happy with hot water and a genie to remove all of my debt.

  * * *

  Nathan wasn’t removing my debt, but he was doing one step better—taking care of my father. On the drive to the Destin airport, he’d presented me with two brochures, one for a facility an hour outside of Nashville—one for a facility in Jacksonville, close to Dad’s current home. I pocketed both, deciding to let my father decide, but not before I saw their rates, the figures causing my stomach to knot. For Nathan, it may be nothing. For me, and for my father, it is everything.

  * * *

  “Coming?” Drew stands at the front doors.

  * * *

  I force a smile, and step forward.

  * * *

  The tour doesn’t take long, the common areas quickly addressed. Media room. Gym. Great room. Dining room. Kitchen. We swing by Nathan’s office, and skip one hallway altogether.

  * * *

  “What’s down there?” I slow, and Drew all but pushes me forward.

  * * *

  “My room, and the laundry. You won’t have need of either.”

  * * *

  “You live here?” I stop, visions of newly-wed romantic time clashing with the idea of bumping into Drew in the middle of the night.

  * * *

  “Will that be a problem, princess?” He crosses his arms over his chest, and I can see why Nathan would hire him, his intimidation factor high, his build impressive. In my wedges, I still only come to his shoulder.

  * * *

  I shrug. “It just seems weird.”

  * * *

  We cross through the great room, and to the other end of the house. Drew opens a door, and we step into the master suite.

  * * *

  Dark tile floors. Rich blue walls. A huge bed that sits atop a fur rug. The fireplace from the great room also opens into this, and I envision myself, naked on the rug, the fire’s warmth on our bodies, Nathan above me. I swallow a smile.

  * * *

  “His bathroom is through there.” He gestures to an arched opening, and I can see a jetted tub and the edge of a shower. I turn back, and watch him move to the windows, pulling at a handle, the entire wall sliding into itself and opening to the backyard. “Your room is out here.”

  * * *

  My room? I hurry forward, stepping over the transom and almost trip down a set of steps, following him along the side of a pool and toward a guesthouse. I stop. The guesthouse is a miniature version of the main home, right down to the identical fireplace and all glass walls. It’s a fish bowl, and I can see its entire layout without setting foot inside. A bedroom, with a seating area and desk. A bathroom. Mini-kitchenette. Fireplace. My room.

  * * *

  He opens the sliding door and turns to me.

  * * *

  “I’m confused…” I glance back at the main house, that contained at least two guest rooms, if my tour’s memory serves correct. “I’m not staying with Nathan?”

  * * *

  “No.” He steps in, holding the door open for me.

  * * *

  “Why not?”

  * * *

  “Why would you?”

  * * *

  This is exasperating. “Because I’m his wife?”

  * * *

  “In name only. You’re forgetting that this is a business arrangement, not a romance.”

  * * *

  “A business arrangement where he fucks me?” It feels crude, saying the words in this environment of expense and class.

  * * *

  He sighs. “Nathan isn’t great at being told he can’t have something. I’d apologize for his actions, but you seem to enjoy them.”

  * * *

  I snap my mouth shut, no good comebac
k springing to mind.

  * * *