The Marriage Dare

by Wylder, Penny

  The voices blend too much together for me to catch entire questions, but I get the gist. What are we doing together? Why are we here? How do I feel about her father's crimes? And of course, the question that she just warned me about, and that I knew would come up, why would a billionaire like me associate with someone so closely tied to scamming and cheating?

  A Cartier employee holds open the door for us, and we slip inside. The walls are well insulated here, and as soon as the door shuts the noise cuts off like we pressed pause on the radio. Monica looks uncomfortable, and I know that she heard what the reporters were asking. I turn her toward me and use a finger to tilt her chin up, but she still avoids my eyes. "Look at me, Princess." She does. "When I said I don't care about that, I meant it. I know it's not an easy thing, but try not to let it get to you. They don't know you."

  "You barely know me," she says. "They've been following me for years."

  "Has any of what they've said about you ever been true?"

  She laughs. “Barely.”

  "Then fuck them all," I say. "They're doing their job and they're trying to get a story. But there's no story for them to find. Now let me buy you some jewelry."

  That does the trick. Monica smiles a little, even though it doesn't reach her eyes. I think I can get her to forget, at least for a little while. The atmosphere at Cartier is quiet and peaceful, and we have total freedom to look at or try on anything that we want. But for the first little while, as we're roaming around, Monica doesn't try on anything. She comments on how beautiful the diamonds are, and how she kind of likes one thing or another but nothing truly grabs her attention.

  I give her a little space, looking over the jewelry myself. There are some pieces here that cost more money than some people make in a lifetime. But Monica is worth that. And I've always had a rule— though she doesn't know it— whenever I buy an item of luxury, I donate the same amount to charity. I don't think I could live with myself any other way. I spent too much of my life poor to blindly spend money like it's water. I'll have to find out if there are charities she would like to support before I make the donation for this.

  I stop when I see a necklace. It's that similar feeling to when I saw Monica in the casino for the first time. A gut deep knowing of ‘that's the one.’ The necklace itself is silver, a beautiful twisting chain. And on it, a teardrop diamond contained in a swirling silver cage that looks like a blooming flower or vines. It's incredibly understated compared to some of the other jewelry in the store, but that's the one. I think that she'll like it.

  I raise my hand for one of the attendants and she comes rushing over. "Put this on our bill," I say. "And have it sent over to my suite at the Brazen Hotel. Today please."

  "Of course, Mr. Argent.” She immediately starts working on packing up the necklace, and I move to rejoin Monica before she notices that I bought something. I find her near a display of rings in a corner of the store. And when I see what she's looking at, I know I made the right decision. All these rings are silver, and understated. The display itself is in the corner, like it's been hidden away because this style is less popular.

  "Do you like these?" I asked.

  Monica nods. "I think they're beautiful."

  "What do you like about them?" I want to know why she's drawn to things.

  She tilts her head, still looking at the rings, and thinks. "I like that they’re unassuming. Not that there's anything wrong with being the center of attention, I'm just tired of it. Everyone's already going to know that we’re married. I don't need to remind them with a ring the size of my head," she says. Then she smiles and adds an afterthought. "Plus, they're pretty."

  “They are that," I say. "Which one?"

  She points. "I want to try that one." Her finger is over the glass, hovering over a simple silver ring with a round diamond. The band twists and curls around the stone on either side. The attendant who's been shadowing her steps up and opens the display case and pulls it out. He holds it out to Monica on its display rod. She goes to pick it up but I stop her. "Let me," I say.

  She does. I take the ring and hold her hand, softly slipping the ring onto her finger. A thrill runs up my spine, like déjà vu but looking forward. Like feeling what I'm going to feel in the future. The ring fits almost perfectly. It's a tiny bit loose.

  "What you think?"

  She's staring down at our joined hands, and I can feel her shaking a little bit. I don't blame her in the slightest, this feels like a lot even to me. The ring looks perfect on her hand. I hope she agrees.

  "I love it," she says.

  I love it too, but the emotions welling up in my chest leave me no room to say it. I point to the simple silver bands— one bright and one dark— that rest next to where Monica's ring was. "Can we see those?" I ask.

  The attendant brings out the rings, clearly a matching set, and I put the bright one on next to the ring Monica is already wearing. I slip my own on, though it's a bit too tight.

  Monica is staring at her hand, completely enraptured.

  "I think choosing these is going to be a lot easier than I thought it would be."

  “Yeah,” she breathes. "I can't imagine anything else."

  I look at the attendant. "We'll take these then. Can they be sized today?”

  "Yes, sir. We'll take your measurements. It looks like they're pretty close. For you, Mr. Argent, we’ll have them done in an hour."

  “Perfect,” I say. "We'll go get lunch and come back."

  He quickly takes our measurements and we test a couple of ring sizes making sure that everything is comfortable. And when we’re satisfied, he disappears into the back without another word.

  “Is that it?” Monica asks.

  “That’s it. What do you feel like for lunch?"

  She shakes her head. “Honestly I have no idea. It's been a while since I got to choose food based on desire and not economy."

  I pull her close as we make our way back to the door. “Let me rephrase the question then. What’s your favorite type of food?”

  “Italian," she answers without any hesitation.

  "How do you feel about pizza?"

  "Pizza sounds fucking brilliant," she says.

  There are fewer reporters outside than when we entered the store. It makes sense. They don't need a conclusion to print a story about me and Monica shopping at Cartier. Even a tabloid reporter on their first day could make a connection and a story out of that and a picture of us entering the store. There are still some that stuck around though, asking to see the new jewelry. Granted, we didn't exit with anything. Let them make of that what they will.

  I take Monica to an amazing pizza place in Vegas. It migrated over from Chicago, and serves some of the best deep dish pizza around. As a bonus, the owners of the Las Vegas establishment know me, and we won't have a problem getting a table that's more private.

  They pride themselves on anybody being able to come to their restaurant and not be harassed, which is something that I greatly appreciate. Especially with the amount of local press that I get. National press not so much, thankfully.

  Monica doesn’t say much, and I don’t push her, even though I wonder what’s. going on inside her head. We order a pizza, and it comes quickly. We've been seated in the back of the restaurant, and aside from the person who brought our order, not even the waiters are allowed back here.

  Our silence is a testament to how good the pizza is. “Would you like a drink?" I ask.

  "Yes," she says, "that would be great. Thank you."

  "What would you like?"

  “Iced tea?"

  I stand, and button my suit coat.

  “The waiters aren’t allowed back here while we're seated," I say. "So I'll go ask for it.”

  She holds out her hand as if to stop me. “You don’t have to do that.”

  "I want to," I say, leaning over the table and pressing a kiss to her forehead. "It's no trouble."

  There are TVs on in the main restaurant, and as I walk around the corne
r the name ‘Blast’ catches my ears. Surely Monica and I aren’t being reported on live television yet, so I looked toward the TV with trepidation. Sure enough, the newscaster is commenting on the latest round of charges against Monica's father. Apparently his lawyers have exploited some flaw in testimony and evidence to get him an appeal on some of the charges.

  That old familiar anger wells up in me, but then it passes through me and doesn't take hold. It used to be that whenever I heard anything regarding the Blasts I would see red.

  So much so that I eventually began to tune it out, and started avoiding all mentions of the family and the media. Which is why when Monica showed up, I had no idea what had happened. I don't regret not knowing. I had held such a grudge that watching that drama unfold would have filled me with the kind of glee that I can't explain, and thinking about that embarrasses me. I certainly wouldn't be capable of having the relationship with Monica that I'm trying to have now if I had known about all the charges.

  But the anger passes through and out, and it's a completely relieving feeling. Without even trying, I seem to have let go of some of that anger. Even when I talk about that debt with Monica, I don't mean it literally. At least not anymore. I may have started this for revenge—and I’m going to have my fun, and my way, with her—but it’s not my main motivation anymore. Just in the short time we’ve had this deal, she’s shown me that she’s not who I thought she was. And I’m captivated by the person she’s shown me: quiet and introspective and beautiful.

  I hope she knows that. I hope she understands that when I told her I wanted her, it's the truth.

  It stuns me that so much could have changed in such a short time, but I'm not going to fight it. Change is good, and it's clearly something that I want if everything can turn so fast.

  I look again at the television and frown. What would Monica's life have been like if that man were not her father? I guess we'll never know, but we all have our own struggles. I'm getting the picture that Monica's life was not as easy as I always believed it to be.

  Grabbing the tea, I go back to the table. "Just so you know, your father was just on the news. Apparently he's getting an appeal in some of those charges.”

  Monica’s face goes pale, she looks down at the table. "I hope he doesn't get it," she mutters. And she suddenly looks at me, eyes desperate. "You know I had nothing to do with it right? I had nothing to do with any of it. I didn't know that he destroyed the neighborhood until later. I didn't know he was stealing all that money."

  I nod. "I know."

  “Okay."

  "Do you want to go get the rings?"

  "Sure," she says, looking relieved to change the subject. "I just need to use the restroom first. I'll meet you outside?"

  I nod. Outside should be just fine. Reporters knew better than to bother this place, or they'll have the cops called on them. Closer to the car I'm sure we'll have more of a problem.

  It doesn’t take long, and when Monica steps out of the restaurant, I drink in the sight of her basking in the afternoon sun. When I reach out for her hand, she gives it gladly with a smile, and we start to walk toward the car. We swing by Cartier and pick up the rings without incident, but I don't let her see the rings. Not yet. I have a plan for that. "We're not taking the limo back,” I tell her. "I wanted to drive, so I had them drop off one of my cars. Security will still follow us in another car, but I wanted us to be alone."

  Monica raises an eyebrow. "We were alone in the limo."

  I lean down and whisper in her ear. “Not so alone that if I choose to make you scream, we wouldn't be heard."

  “How are you going to do that if you're driving?" she asks, but she's blushing.

  “I’ll figure out a way.”

  Suddenly, Monica goes utterly still, stopping in her tracks. At first I think she's tripped, but she standing solidly. Her expression is sick and pale, and if I'm guessing correctly, full of fear. I follow her gaze and I encounter somebody that I haven't seen in more than a decade. I don't remember his name, but it's Monica's old boyfriend. The one who slammed me into a wall of tools in the shop.

  Why is Monica afraid? Is she afraid that he will see us together? Or for some other reason?

  Just as quickly as she froze, she's trying to move, pulling on my hand. "Let's go, I don't want to see him."

  I don't hesitate. I start pulling her faster in the direction of the car, but I don't move fast enough.

  “Monica?”

  She's shivering, but stops. Looking at her face, he would never know that anything was wrong. She pastes a brilliant smile on, the one I recognize as her mask and speaks. "Martin? Wow, it's been such a long time."

  "Not since you went and hid under whatever rock you been living under," he says, the smile on his face cruel. "Finally decided to show your face?" I'm stunned. I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't that. Suddenly, Martin looks at me. "I know you, don't I? You're the guy that owns all those casinos."

  "I am,” I say. "I'm also the guy you put into a wall senior year of high school."

  His cruel smile suddenly turns into a sneer. "Couldn't land her in high school so you're trying again when you're rich and famous? Congratulations, Monica, on finding yourself a new sugar daddy.”

  I look to my side at Monica, and she's looking at the ground. Never in my life have I seen her look this small. She's no wallflower, and she certainly hasn't had any problem telling me to fuck off when she thinks it's necessary. Suspicion and anger work their way up to my chest. What did this man do to her?

  Martin keep speaking. "Let me give you some free advice. Stay away from this poisonous bitch and her family. You give them everything in the world, and they won't even be fucking grateful."

  Monica turns toward me, not looking, just instinctually seeking what she feels is protection. Something roars inside me. Satisfaction that she views me as safe, and fury that she feels unsafe at all. And somehow, this prick is still talking.

  “I should have ruined you when I had the chance," he says. “But it looks like you've done a pretty good job of that yourself, haven't you? How's the law career going? Anybody want to touch you? I didn't think so. Nobody will ever want a whore like you.”

  I snap, releasing Monica and springing forward. Before I can even fully comprehend what I'm doing, I've punched Martin in the mouth. Then he's on the ground and I punch him two more times. I grab him by the shirt and haul him up so that he can see Monica. "Apologize."

  "Never,” he says. "I'll never apologize to that bitch. Go figure she's got you wrapped around her slutty little fingers.”

  I hit him again, and stand over him. "Apologize, now."

  The sight of him on the ground, laughing as blood pours from his nose is disturbing. "No," he says. "You can keep hitting me, but it's never going to happen. Just remember that I was the one she fucked when you weren't good enough. All you'll ever have is my sloppy seconds.”

  I reached for Monica and she takes my hand without hesitation. There are cameras and bystanders. It's Las Vegas, of course there are. Pictures of this will likely be on the Internet within the hour. But I don’t regret a thing.

  I pull out my cell phone on the way to the car, and call my publicist. She answers on the first ring. "Daniel, I've been getting—”

  “There is a massive shitstorm coming your way," I say, “and we're going to talk about it and decide what to do. But I will be unavailable for at least three hours. Call me when that time is up." I don't give her a chance to respond before I hang up. Devon and Jack get us to the car, and split off to their own. They'll keep watching to make sure we’re not being followed by any curious onlookers.

  I open the passenger door for Monica and she slides in, and I go around to the driver’s side. I probably frightened her, and I need to explain myself. I apologize. I also would like to know what the fuck happened, if she's willing to tell me. "Listen," I say. "I'm sorry."

  But before I can get anything else out, Monica is clamoring into my lap. She settles over
me, straddling me the same way she had in the dining room. And she's kissing me. This isn't the kiss to get around what I've told her, or to punish me, or anything else. This kiss is pure fire, and we're we both going to be consumed by it.

  She pulls away, staring at me with what feels like awe. "Nobody has ever done that for me," she says.

  "What are you saying?"

  She kisses me again until we're both breathless. "Nobody has ever stood up for me like that. In my whole life, let alone since everything happened with Dad. Thank you.”

  Sick dread and anger on her behalf fill me. "Never?"

  "Never. And especially not Martin. He wanted me to be somebody that I wasn't. My parents pushed us together because his family is rich. They wanted us to get married, and they wanted it so much that it was easier just to stay with him than to get insults like that thrown at me. I tried to leave a few times, but he made me believe that nobody else would ever want me. I finally did leave him when I went to law school, and took hell from my family for it. Martin was furious. He said he felt like he had wasted the best years of his life on someone who was nothing but a whore, who wanted a sugar daddy to pay for everything. And when everything came out into the open with Dad, he was the one who spun it to make it look like I'd been a part of it all along."

  My hands tighten on her waist, and I have to know. "Did he ever hit you?"

  “No,” she breathes. “But I think he eventually would have. He came close."

  I slide my hand behind her neck and pull her in to kiss her. "I thought I had scared you."

  "And I thought you might believe him.”

  "Why?"

  She hides her face in my neck. "Because everybody else did."

  I hug her close to me, and every plan I had for the rings and the marriage certificate goes out the window. I have to do this now. Sliding my hand between our bodies, I retrieve the envelope inside my suit. "I was going to wait until later for this," I say. "But I can’t.”