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How does a man normally feel on his wedding day? I imagine he’d be nervous. It would be a good kind of nerves, though, wouldn’t it? At least, if he was secure in the choice he’d made. If he knew the woman set to meet him at the altar was the right woman. The one woman he couldn’t live without. Nerves would still be natural; fear of standing up in front of so many people, making a mistake, or dropping the ring. Something like that.
If he wasn’t sure she was the right woman, though. It would be a whole other type of nervousness. Apprehension. Anxiety. A man might question everything about himself and everything about the chain of events that brought him to this moment. Standing in front of a mirror, wearing a new suit, minutes away from pledging his life to a stranger who hates him.
Because, of course, that’s how this will turn out. She might have warmed up to me somewhat, but the underlying hatred is still there. Resentment I can’t blame her for. I took her from her life without thinking. I was reacting. I was insulted and imagined I was taking it out on her father.
I had no idea I was forcing us both into an arrangement we couldn’t back out of.
It doesn’t matter now, does it? My motives. It changes nothing. After all, does a drunk driver’s regret bring back the life of the person they killed in an accident? Even if she doesn’t hate me the way she did at first, she’s going to. A little more every single day she wakes up next to me, the symbol of how she lost all control over her life. The night she first looked into my eyes was the night she signed her life over.
The night I signed my life over, as well. I just didn’t know it.
At least no one can ever say I didn’t look my best today. A trip to the barber followed by a visit to the tailor to make sure everything was fitted properly have left me looking impeccable if I do say so myself. At least she’ll have a husband who looks worthy of her when it comes time to stand together in front of that minister and tell a bunch of lies about being devoted to each other until death.
She deserves so much better than this. And there is the peril of allowing myself to get closer to her. Now that I know her better, there’s no avoiding the truth: I am in no way the man she needs or deserves, but there’s nothing we can do about it.
I have a duty to my family, my grandfather, whose voice rings out across the vast space downstairs as he requests drinks and food. He’s in high spirits, finally on the verge of witnessing everything he’s worked toward for years coming to fruition. I guess he can’t be blamed for cracking jokes and taking bets on how soon it will be before my beautiful bride gives him a great-grandchild. He’s not going to let that go, not that I would expect him to. I know him too well.
I’m sure she hears him, too, tucked away in the spare room as she prepares for what’s to come. I’m sure Grandfather considered it an act of generosity, offering to hire people to come in and do her hair, makeup, and nails. The bride must be pampered, he insisted. She went along with it because she isn’t a fool, though I could have told him she wasn’t interested, that is, if he’d have listened. This act he’s putting on is downright cruel at the heart of it. He knows she doesn’t want this any more than I do, yet he makes a big show of pretending this is in any way normal.
It was also a test, and I know it even if he doesn’t think I do. Making sure she’s loyal, that she wouldn’t hint to anybody at how unhappy she is about this arrangement. And she didn’t because she’s smart enough not to. How do I know that? Because I would have known otherwise. I would have known right away. Grandfather would have wasted no time telling me, perhaps even holding it over Alvarez’s head, that his daughter was an unfaithful liability.
I know she’s alone in there. Grandfather and Josef discussed the terms of the marriage contract earlier when the Alvarez family first arrived. But no one has been in to see Elena, not even her mother. There is so much about this family I don’t understand and wish I did, considering the fact I’m marrying into them. Marriage means inheriting a spouse’s family—especially in a marriage like this, where it was the family who arranged it in the first place. Controlling, manipulative, and self-serving.
Funny how the old superstition about a groom seeing his bride before the wedding tickles the back of my mind as I walk down the hall in her direction. What difference does it make if I see her now or not? This entire situation has been doomed from the beginning. For all I know, I might be improving our odds by tossing tradition out the window and visiting her before the ceremony. At the heart of it, tradition be damned—she deserves at least one person to check in with her before the ceremony, and if her parents can’t be bothered, it will have to be me. It should be me.
I give the door a faint rap with my knuckles. “Can I come in? I only want to see you for a minute.”
She doesn’t hesitate. “Sure. Come in.” Her voice isn’t flat or empty in the way I would have expected—if anything, it’s surprisingly light. The voice of a woman who sees no point in fighting anymore. A woman resigned to her fate. It makes me uneasy, but I open the door, prepared for whatever I find.
What I find is my bride sitting before a mirror, looking like an angel descended to earth. I already knew that dress was made for her, but the effect with the hair and the makeup and everything is overwhelming. Her upswept hairdo highlights the graceful lines of her neck, the way she holds her head high, so proud. Her already gorgeous face is breathtaking, thanks to a little skillfully applied makeup. She is every inch the beautiful bride.
And she’s mine—though not really. There’s a good chance she never will be. And now I understand what sits at the heart of my apprehension and misgivings.
I wish she had chosen me. I can’t remember another time in my life when I felt this way. When I wanted to earn someone’s trust and esteem. Not because of the family I belong to, not because she was ordered to. I want her to want me, Enzo, for myself.
I want her so deeply, so intensely, that it takes every scrap of self-control not to touch her now. I don’t want her because of my family or because I’m supposed to. I want her because she’s everything I can ever imagine wanting in a woman. Her beauty, her smarts, her kindness. That backbone of steel so cleverly concealed in what appears to be a weak, frail little body. She’s ideal—perfect.
And she wants nothing to do with me, nor will she ever. I wouldn’t know where to begin making her love me. And so it’s with a heavy heart that I greet her—still, my sentiments are genuine. “There’s never been a more beautiful bride, and there never will be.”
She appears to give a startled little gasp as she turns away from the mirror, looking almost bewildered. “Thank you, but you don’t have to say that.”
“I mean it.”
Is it that easy to make her happy? To say something kind to her? It almost doesn’t seem fair that it would be that easy. Odds are she hasn’t had many compliments given to her before now.
“You look very nice, as well.”
I’m sure she means it, but I wave a dismissive hand, nonetheless. “It’s much easier for a man.” What do I say now? I hardly remember why I came down the hall, to begin with. My palms are sweating, and my heartbeat is erratic. What do I do now? How do I reach her? I can hardly believe this matters so much.
After a moment of uncomfortable silence, she offers, “I guess everything is pretty much ready to go? It sure sounds busy down there.”
“Yes, but everything’s under control. There’s no rush. If you need another few minutes to get yourself ready, I can let everybody know.”
She offers a brave, if shaky, smile. “Do you really think it will matter? Besides, I’m as ready now as I’m ever going to be. Another few minutes won’t change anything.”
This is all wrong, even worse than I imagined. I don’t want her to sit there and take this the way she is. That’s it. That’s the problem. I want her to fight. I want her to care. The idea of her being broken and resigned leaves me feeling disappointed, conflicted, and even angry. What happened to her spirit? Is it all gone, used up? And all I’ll have for the rest of my life is the empty shell of a woman I destroyed. Some men might be satisfied with that—in fact, I’m sure many in my world would, as it would mean one less headache to deal with. A pliant, timid little wife without the backbone to speak up for herself—especially one as beautiful as the woman seated before me—is essentially the jackpot.
Not for me. I can live with a lot of things—and I’ve had to, all the decisions I’ve made in my life—but I don’t think I can bring myself to live with this. Knowing it was me who ruined her.
