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Those words bound me forever to this monster of a man.
“You may kiss your bride,” the priest said.
Dominic lifted my veil, and I sobbed harder at the thought of what came next. Never before did I imagine my first kiss to be with a man who despised me, and I especially did not imagine it to be in front of nearly three hundred strangers on my wedding day. But, here we were with Dominic preparing himself to steal the first part of my innocence.
Ignoring my tears, Dominic made a big show of sweeping me into his arms before placing a sweet, chaste kiss on my lips. I cried harder as the crowd went wild.
“Smile, Sasha,” he commanded in his rough voice as he took my hand and led me down the aisle amongst cheers and rose pedals. I tried my best to bottle my emotions and smile pretty, but I felt dazed by the day’s events.
The cool air on my face as we finally reached the doorway of the church brought me out of my stupor. People threw rose petals on us, and photographers snapped pictures as we made our way towards the car. I wanted to scream and shout at all of them for not helping me.
“Where are we going?” I asked Dominic as we settled into the limo. I didn’t want to talk to him, but I honestly had no idea what came next. My family had taken care of all the planning, and no one deemed to tell me anything about it.
The largesse of my wedding dress made sitting next to each other impossible, and the distance gave me space to think and take in the events of the last hour.
“Take this,” he said in response, handing me a tissue box. “Wipe your face and fix your makeup. I don’t want to walk into our reception with you looking the way you do.”
His words stung, but I said nothing. Not only did my new husband scare me, but I was too tired to fight so early on into our marriage. Instead, I began dabbing my eyes like the good girl I was raised to be.
The ceremony had been long. Catholic ceremonies always were and considering ours needed to be conducted in both the Orthodox and the Roman way, I was surprised people even agreed to stay.
I was exhausted, and I wanted nothing more than to strip off my heavy dress and take a nap.
Readings, followed by mass, followed by a sermon, followed by vows, and then finally the kiss. So much pomp and circumstance for a wedding we all dreaded. Away from the crowds and the pressure, my tears abated, as I wiped my face and began reapplying my make-up.
No use crying now.I thought. Nothing could be done.
“How do I look?” I asked after applying a fresh coat of lipstick. I silently thanked Nadia for insisting on outfitting the limo with emergency supplies.
Dominic took my face in his large hands, gently turning me one way and then another. Despite feeling like cattle under the auction appraisers, I kept my mouth shut and allowed him to inspect me.
“You look like a child,” he said with disgust before releasing me from his grip.
Tears welled once more as his words hit their intended mark. This time though, I refused to allow them to fall, not wanting to give my new husband the satisfaction. Instead, I took the opportunity to study him myself.
Dominic Blanchi had the look of a powerful man. If circumstances had been different, I might have giggled with my cousin Nadia as I looked at his handsome features.
Even I had to admit that while he might be a murdering psychopath, the word handsome did not even come close to covering his appeal. He was all sharp angles with the type of cheekbones models starved themselves to achieve. His jawline was sharp and freshly shaven, and with his hair slicked off his face, I could see the beautiful blues of his eyes. Whenever I imagined Dominic Blanchi, I pictured some meaty, hairy man similar to the made men who worked for my father.
Instead, he looked like a fit twenty-five-year-old who might have been found in the pages of some high-end male magazine. The power that he exuded made me squirm uncomfortably in my seat.
“Do you want a glass of champagne?” he asked, breaking me out of my thoughts.
“I’m not old enough to drink,” I reminded him, shaking my head to decline.
“I won’t tell,” he said, pouring me a glass despite my protest.
I took the glass. My parents never let me have alcohol. It was unsightly for a young woman to drink. I was supposed to be prim and proper.
But I reminded myself that what my parents thought no longer mattered.
“To partnership,” he said, raising his glass to mine. I grimaced at the words. They reminded me of what our marriage truly was, a way for powerful men to become more powerful at my expense.
“Come on, Sasha,” he ordered when I refused to toast. “Cheers your new husband.”
I grimaced at his command but once more refused to fight. Something inside me felt compelled to give into him.
I blamed my upbringing.
