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Except the one woman I’ve been lined up to marry since I was a teenager, Gabriella Bakhtin, doesn’t need my money, and yet she seems as determined as ever to go ahead with this farce designed by parents who see children as pawns and not humans.
To the average person, it sounds impossible—some twisted version of a modern-day arranged marriage in twenty-first-century United States—but when you’re dealing with power-hungry families like ours, the need to hold onto the power gained becomes a disease, and the fear of losing any, an albatross around their necks.
Our parents decided long ago that we’d be the perfect match to render both our families indestructible. Her family is political. Mine pulls strings for the rich and powerful behind the scenes, in turn becoming one of the wealthiest and most powerful in the state itself.
This union is a way to allay the fears of both of our fathers, and to assert their control over their children, a form of dehumanization that my father has revelled in since my earliest memory, and whether their children want it or not is irrelevant in their eyes.
I've told Gabriella the truth more times than I can count: I don't love her. I can’t loveanyone. Not anymore, anyway. If I get married, it will be out a sense of duty to my family. I've informed her that she deserves better and six months ago, let her know I had no interest in marrying her, but she’s still determined to go through with this fraud.
At times, I have wondered if it isn’t the best thing for me—marrying someone who knows full well I won’t love her, and who accepts my limitations, as well as my needs and proclivities, which are rather…singular.
For one, I require unequivocal submission. I allow safe words of course, but expect the women I date to submit to me and I don’t apologize for it. So far, none have offered resistance, which is just how I like it… though I suspect the spitfire to my right would not go down without a fight…
As for Gabriella, I imagine that compared to some of the abusive assholes she’s encountered in our circles, I’m a somewhat safe bet, other than the fact that I feel nothing for her. But then, I feel nothing for any woman.
It’s not a choice. It’s this thing I’ve been afflicted with since that day. And I’ve come to accept that no amount of therapy can undo it.
Which is why the fact that I see only one fucking thing in a room of two hundred people, with flowers and crystals glistening at every turn and my friend about to be married, not only unsettles me, it fucks with everything I know about myself.
I don’t care for Indigo. Not really. Ican’t.I know that.
And yet, when I dove into the water today, I was propelled by some force I didn’t recognize, and when I saw the fool she was dumping standing behind her, I fought the urge to break his face, and when I saw her skin fall pale as she received a message on her phone, I wanted to know everything about every part of her life… something I’ve had to restrain myself from finding out against her will.
I don’t know exactly what has happened to me since I met her, but I intend to solve this fucking problem as soon as I can. I can’t keep allowing myself to be tormented like this.
Later tonight, I’m going to explain to her in detail exactly what I want to do to that indecent little body of hers… and what I can give her after I’ve made her come over and over again—precisely, nothing.
Once I've fucked her mercilessly with her hands bound behind her back, and made her scream my name in a type of pleasure I know she’s never felt, I should finally be able to get this insubordinate little brat out of my fucking system.
I just need to make sure she understands the rules of a game she may not have played before, but that I know from the way her body reacts when I come near here that she’ll want to.
Carolyn’s fidgeting has me removing my gaze from Indigo’s beautiful profile as Anne sends the first couple down the aisle.
“You’ll be fine,” says Nisha as Indie squeezes the bride’s arm.
“Just think of all the booze you can glug down once it’s over,” adds Indigo, making Carrie burst into a nervous chuckle as she clutches her chest.
“Right, next two,” announces Anne, urging Kennedy and Nisha down the aisle to the gentle lullaby of Canon in D.
“Indigo,” Anne spits out in exasperation after they disappear to the other side of the partition. “Put your hand under Greyson’s arm and hold on.” She grabs Indie’s hand, seeming to spot something around her wrist.
My head pivots down and I see a frail strand of blue cotton wrapped around her wrist as her hand clutches a small bouquet of white roses tied in a burgundy ribbon.
“Didn’t I say no jewelry?” snaps Anne as Carolyn turns to talk to her uncle.
“Oh, our yoga master gave it to us. It’s for protection and centering this week.”
Anne cocks an eyebrow. “We’re not at some hippy retreat here, Indie. Can you take it off, please?”
Anne goes as if to untie the knot, but Indie pulls her hand away. “I'm already going through enough wearing this dress. You can barely see the string. It’s staying on.”
Anne takes a step backwards and peeks down the aisle before tapping Gideon on the shoulder, setting him and his partner Sarah off.
“And what exactly is wrong with the dress?”
Indie glances down at her chest sheathed by the strapless coral dress, rimmed with pale lace, before scanning the room to check that Carrie and her uncle aren’t listening.
“I don’t have the same body shape as the waifs around here,” whispers Indie. “They look like goddesses in these dresses while I look like a freaking… high-class hooker.
