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* * *
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.
