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1
EMERY
Fiancéis such a cruel word.
It shouldn’t be. It should be beautiful. A bond, a promise. That’s what the word means, after all. I looked it up once. Fiancé: from the French word ‘fiance,’ meaning, ‘to trust.’
But in my life, it’s none of that.
In my life, it’s a leash.
And the only thing worse than being leashed to the man who calls himself my fiancé is being forced to parade around yet another fundraising event as the blank, pretty face he uses to show the world just how deranged he isn’t.
I’m doing what I’m supposed to do in this situation: smiling like a Barbie doll on Xanax, patting his arm and stroking his frail ego and laughing at the cringe-inducing jokes of all his hapless donors.
And those things are doing what they’re supposed to do: helping these people forget about how the outer ugliness of my fiancé pales in comparison to the horrors inside of him.
“Outer ugliness” might be an understatement. My husband-to-be, esteemed Senator Malcolm Waters, has frown lines older than me, murky blue eyes like pond scum, hair like an oiled tumbleweed. He’s honestly nauseating to look at.
But the man behind the face?
Words can’t even describe how bad that is.
“Emery,” he purrs, his breath hot and damp against my neck, “I’m sure you know Mr. and Mrs. Graveston. They’re some of my biggest contributors.”
He leads me towards a middle-aged couple dripping in silk and diamonds. Their extravagant clothes should help them stand out, but they look just like every other social climbing, too-rich-for-their-own-good couple in this room. I couldn’t pick them out of a lineup if my life depended on it.
“No,” I say simply, “I don’t.”
Mrs. Graveston splutters like I just spit in her drink. She must not like being irrelevant.
“We haven’t yet had the pleasure of meeting your wife,” Mr. Graveston says, doing his best to smooth things over. God forbid he upset Senator Waters.
“Fiancée,” I correct him. “I'm not his wife. We aren’t married.”
“Not yet.” Malcolm’s hand on my hip tightens into a claw of warning. Get in line—or else. “With the big legislature package we’ve been putting together, I’m afraid I’ve had to put my personal wants on the backburner for the good of the people. But soon enough, it will be official. And you two will be invited, of course."
"We wouldn't miss it for the world,” Mr. Graveston assures him.
"Definitely not," Mrs. Graveston agrees. "I still hear people talk about the party you threw after the midterm elections."
Malcolm laughs pleasantly. "The champagne fountain was a hit."
I step away from him, pretending I see someone I know across the room. He drops his hand—and just like that, I can breathe again.
I take one step away, two steps, and feel my chest grow lighter and lighter with every foot of distance I put between the senator and myself.
It’s always like this. The ecstasy of inhaling fresh air. The adrenaline of wondering if this is the moment I make a run for it.
And it always ends like—
This.
Malcolm’s hand clamps around my wrist, hard and cruel.
“Ow!” I protest.
But he doesn’t give a shit if he’s hurting me. He pulls me in close. His dress shoes stomp on my exposed toes, but he's holding me so tightly I can't back away.
“Embarrass me like that again,” he hisses, “and see what happens.”
“I didn’t do anything.” I try to wrench my arm away, but he clamps down on me even tighter. I whimper. “Please stop. You’re hurting me.”
“Then I’m making my point.” His smile is viciously sharp to my eyes, but anyone looking on wouldn’t notice a single thing wrong. “If you think putting on a slutty dress and moping around this room is enough to fulfill our deal, then you’re even dumber than I thought.”
“You picked out this dress,” I snap.
It’s a black velvet slip dress. The straps are thin and the neckline is loose, draping down over my cleavage, but it hits me mid-calf. It’s not a long-sleeved, high-necked number like so many of the other political wives and girlfriends are wearing, but it’s fine. Suitable enough.
Malcolm releases my wrist and drags a finger up my arm to my shoulder. He follows the cut of the dress over my collarbone and then lower.
I stand still for as long as I can, trying to force myself to breathe.
We’re in a crowded room. People are watching. He can’t hurt me.
But when his finger moves towards my breasts, I jerk away from him so hard I accidentally slam into a passing waiter.
A tray of empty champagne glasses clink together perilously before one tumbles over and shatters on the floor.
I turn to the young waiter, horrified. “I’m so sorry. Let me—”
“I’ll take care of it, ma’am,” the boy says. He turns to Malcolm and does a half-bow. “Senator Waters, can I get you anything?”
“A replacement fiancée,” he drawls. “Preferably one who isn’t such a fucking embarrassment.”
The waiter laughs awkwardly. My face flames in rage, but I bite my tongue. I know what will happen if I don’t.
The same question pops into my head that always does in moments like this: How did I end up here?
I know the answers perfectly well.
I just despise them.
As soon as the waiter is gone and someone comes to sweep up the glass, Malcolm grabs my arm and tows me across the room towards the bar. He smiles and chats to people as we go, never once loosening his vise grip on me.
At the bar, he waves down the bartender and orders two drinks.
“I don’t want one,” I protest.
“I don't give a fuck what you want,” he snaps back. “Maybe a little alcohol will get you in line.”
The words cut deeper than he even realizes. I try to school my face into a neutral expression, but inside, my gut is churning with shadowy memories I’ve tried my hardest to forget.
He plucks a glass of red wine off of the bar and holds it out to me, but I just stare at it.
His nostrils flare. If we were alone, he’d force the glass into my hand.
Maybe he’d force something else, too.
Instead, out here in public, he just smiles. “Remember why we’re here, darling.”
“Oh, yes, the homeless crisis you care so much about.” I fight an eye roll. “How charitable you are, dear.”
He shakes his head. “No, I’m referencing another charity case. One that hits a little closer to home for you.”
I freeze. He can’t mean…
But yes, he does. When I look into his eyes, I know exactly what he means.
He holds out my drink again. “If you insist on misbehaving, then I’m sure my friend on the research team could find another sick little girl who needs his help. Lots of sick little girls out there, after all. What makes yours so special?”
My stomach sours, but I swallow down my distaste and take the glass.
Malcolm gives me a smug smile. “See? Wasn’t that easy? Your daughter gets the care she needs, and all you have to do is listen.”
And betray every instinct in my body. Easy.
