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When I imagined my wedding night, I never expected that I’d be standing outside my beloved wife’s bedroom door, pounding on it to let me inside.

“You can’t avoid me forever!” I pounded my fist one last time against the expensive wood. 

“Of course I can. Have you seen this place? It’s fucking huge!” 

I heard what sounded like rustling. I closed my eyes, leaning my forehead against the door. I’d imagined helping Niamh out of her wedding dress, but here I was, a dog barking at the door to be let in. 

“Niamh,” I said, forcing calm into my voice. “We need to talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. I’m tired. Go away.”

I growled. I jiggled the knob, but it stayed firmly locked. Someone cleared their throat behind me, and I turned to see my secretary Arthur Laurent, who was studiously avoiding looking at the locked door.

“Would you like me to procure the key from Madam LeRoux, Your Highness?” he asked in French. While I spoke English solely with my American bride, I rarel