2

My father simply calls me Girl, as he did my sister. No doubt, even twenty-odd years later, he’s still disappointed we aren’t boys.

Boys get names, girls get… well… married off to cement alliances.

I know what she expects from me, and I hate that in the next instant I turn in my chair and offer Marco a smile. As the only daughter left, I

need to be good, to be here. Even when I want to be anywhere else. I have a duty to fulfill, an obligation, as my mother has called it many times over. I owe this to them, my parents, and family name.

“Thank you, I chose this dress because I thought you would like it.”

An outright fucking lie since my mother chose the almost indecently short red A-line dress with cap sleeves and a low-cut neckline. I prefer my slacks and silk blouse combo when I need to dress up. Not Marco, he likes his girls leggy, and since my five foot three frame didn’t lean toward leggy, my mother opted to show as much of my legs as possible and hope for the best.

As I sit here awaiting my fate, I feel like a head of cattle at auction. Any minute now, he will pin a tag to my ear and haul me off to the slaughterhouse. The thought makes me laugh, but I hide it behind my hand as I return to my dinner.

Marco clears his throat and continues to draw my parents into conversation. It’s hopeless, but I like to watch him flounder.

“How are the wedding preparations going? Is there anything I can help with?”

An actual conversation at dinner is a battle twenty years in the making for me. My parents don’t speak to each other unless absolutely necessary, and even then, it’s always to the point. There is no joy, no love, or happiness. Everything is stiff and cold. A family that is anything but a family.

Nevertheless, my mother has no problem speaking to Marco. “The planning is complete, my dear. As long as you two show up at the church on time, everything will be perfect.”

My mother plans parties like the CIA plans covert missions. By the end of the thing, someone’s likely eviscerated, and everyone wonders how it got pulled off. I knew my wedding day would be the same. Sadly, I wasn’t asked to pick flowers or even the cake. My mother did everything, even though it was my wedding. I try not to be bitter about it since, technically, this isn’t a marriage, but a business transaction. It’s easier to stomach if I think of it that way.

Marco reaches out and takes my hand from my wine glass, cupping it in his like a parent might hold a child’s. He gives the room a shining smile, and I want to puke. “I’m so glad you ladies have everything in order. I know my mother has been up to her ears in decorating the home we’ll move into once we are married.”

I fight with the urge to rip my hand from his. Each of his clammy fingers digs into mine, applying pressure, and laying claim. Why he feels the need to do so here with only my parents watching, I can’t figure out.

I lift my chin and look up at him again. Oh. The pressure of his claim is for me. I was hoping, once we married, we might be friends. That I could go about my business, and he his, and that we would meet up for dinner on occasion. Sure, he’d have other lovers, something I wouldn’t be allowed, but we’d be on the same page. It would be more of a partnership than a decree.

But I can see by the look in his eyes, he won’t be happy until he has my complete submission—my money, my family name, my life as his own.

A tiny thing inside of me dies because, for the very first time since my sister’s death, I can see a glimmer of why she did it. Why she’d take her own life when she always had so much to live for. It wasn’t Marco they had betrothed her to, but his older brother, Antonio. Who walked away completely unaffected and was now engaged to the only Marino daughter. At this rate, the five families risked more cross-breeding than the royal families of Europe.

Marco stands abruptly and buttons his black suit jacket with a smirk. He saunters to the bar on the far side of the dining room like he already owns the place. I drop my gaze to my food once more. I should eat more, but I can’t stomach it right now. A moment passes, and he returns to his seat, grabbing my hand and pressing my fingers around an old-fashioned. I try not to cringe. I fucking hate rye whiskey.

Something he should know by now, since I declined his offer to make a drink for me when he first arrived. Not to mention I’ve told him at least three times since our marriage contract negotiations began. I’d much rather toss the drink in his face and retreat to my room, but that’s not an option. I don’t want to risk another scolding from my mother or a beating from my father, so I lift the drink to my lips and take a sip. I try to hide the sour face I’m making with a smile, but I can’t imagine it looks good.

I watch as he finishes his drink, and I abandon mine, placing it on the table next to my still partially filled plate of food.

“Would you like dessert, Marco?” My mother’s gaze flashes with disapproval as she looks down at my plate and back up at me.

“Oh no, I’m stuffed,” he declines and pats his stomach like a child.

Thank the lord. If I had to endure one more stiff minute of this meal, I was going to explode. Turning to me, he says, “Walk me out, Celia.” Finally, something I am more than happy to do for him.

“I look forward to having you as my son-in-law,” my father says, shaking hands with Marco. Marco leans into my father’s ear and whispers something low. I shove from my chair and move to stand near the entrance to the dining room. Men’s conversations aren’t meant to be heard by women, so it’s best to stand and act like you hear nothing at all.

Once Marco pulls away, it’s a short walk through the foyer to the door, and I open it wide, resisting the urge to shove him out and slam it closed. I’ll have to get used to his presence since, in a short while, he’ll be my husband.

With a finger, Marco tilts my chin up, painfully, since he has almost a foot of height on me. For a moment, I think he might kiss me. Please don’t. Please don’t. Please don’t. I chant in my head. His lips tip up at the sides, almost like he knows what I’m thinking.

“I really think you could be exceptionally beautiful, Celia. Once we’re married, as my wedding gift to you, I’ll take you to this plastic surgeon I know. I’m sure they can do something about, well…” he breaks off, and I can feel the heat of his stare on my scar, “well, that.”

I blink because anything coming out of my mouth might spew lava along with it. It takes a bit of willpower to stop myself from lashing out at him, but somehow, I do. Forcing the corner of my lips up into a smile, I say, “I hope you have a wonderful evening, Marco. I’m sure without this scar, I will be much more beautiful.”

“I can’t wait for you to become my wife.” He smirks and then grabs my hand, placing a chaste kiss against the top. I stop myself from pulling away and merely nod, knowing that, if anything, I would wait a million years for us to marry.