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I feel numb as we walk back down the aisle, hand in hand.It’s done, I think to myself, sucking in the fresh air in quick gulps in the space between walking outside and getting back into the car.There’s no going back. At least I don’t have to dread it any longer.
David is silent on the way to the reception. These long silences in the car are something that I’m beginning to get used to, and at least he’s not trying to fuck me. I keep quiet, too, not wanting to give him an excuse to punish me in some way, to make sure that I’m humiliated for our reception.
The room that we walk into is decorated as lavishly as I could have imagined, based on what his mother said at dinner. There are pink and white flowers everywhere, roses and peonies, and every other flower in that color scheme that I could imagine, the tables draped with silk, elegantly dressed guests already mingling at the open bar. Once again, when David leads me to our sweetheart table, I ignore the decanter of wine, and he looks at me curiously.
“You don’t want a drink?” he asks, and I shrug, biting my lip.
“I’m overwhelmed,” I tell him, reaching for my water glass. “And my stomach is upset. I think wine would just make it worse.” I see him wince at the mention of my upset stomach, but I shrug it off. Maybe if he’s disgusted by the idea, he’ll leave me alone tonight.
I have to pick at the dinner, which feels like adding insult to injury. It’s exquisite, an entire menu themed around various French foods, all perfectly cooked and brought out on a series of small tasting plates. I don’t dare indulge in it as much as I want to—it’s all prone to upsetting the delicate balance I’ve found with my pregnancy nausea—and I pick at a piece of rabbit thigh with cherry compote, cursing the night that David decided to forget to use a condom. If I have to be married to this man, I’d like to at least drown my sorrows in rich food and plenty of wine, but I can’t even do that.
“Try not to look so miserable,” he murmurs at one point, as our plates are whisked away and replaced with a piece of sous-vide fish with lemon butter sauce. “You’re going to spoil everyone else’s appetite, too. You could at least manage to lookgrateful, if not happy.”
“Are you happy?” I look at him, trying to readsomethingbeyond the blank, emotionless mask that he’s kept up all day. “You can’t be. Not really—”
“I’m pleased that I have a means to do my duty to my family, produce an heir, and preserve our line and our traditions.” The words come out almost as a recitation, and he barely looks at me as he says it. A chill goes down my spine, turning my stomach, and I set my fork down.
There’s no cutting the cake together—David’s mother apparently thinks it’s a vulgar tradition—so instead, delicate china plates with slices of lemon sponge are passed around, a warm berry sauce and vanilla custard accompanying it. I pick at that, too, the resentment slowly building as I taste a sliver of the cake and wish I could immediately devour it.
David’s mother might be a self-absorbed bitch, but shedoesknow how to curate a menu.
I wonder if I might feel some heat from him when we dance, but that coldness persists, confusing me even more. If there’s one thing I’ve always been able to count on, it’s that being so close to me,touchingme, erodes David’s control. It makes the way he can so easily manipulatemyreactions almost bearable—but tonight, there’s none of that. He holds me stiffly as we move across the dance floor, barely looking at me, his hands resting lightly on my arm and on the small of my back. It’s as if he wants to touch me as little as possible, and I don’t understand it.
The reception seems to drag on forever. I’m almost relieved when David finally takes my hand and escorts me out to the polite cheers of our gathered guests. There’s still the wedding night to get through, but after that, at least, I’ll be able to sleep. And tomorrow, I’ll deal with whatever comes next.
I expect him to take us to some luxury hotel in downtown Boston, and I look at him confusedly when I realize the driver is headedoutof the city. “Where are we going?” I ask, trying to remember if he at some point mentioned a honeymoon, and I just forgot about it. I can’t imagine I’d forget something like that, though, and I very much doubt David has arranged some kind of elaborate surprise for me.
Although—I glance down at my ring, remembering how that startled me. There’s always a chance, but I’m not getting my hopes up.
“We’re going home,” David says flatly. “To my mansion. I’d like to spend my wedding night at home.”
Mywedding night. Notours. I don’t miss the pointed way that he says it, and I clench my teeth, trying not to snap back at him and to stay calm. Tonight, of all nights, I don’t think I have the energy to fight with him. I don’t have the energy to deal with whatever he’ll do to me in return.
“Where is your mansion?” I ask curiously. We’re outside of the city limits now, and I think I see a tarmac and hangar in the distance. “It’s far enough away that we need toflyto it?”
“Newport,” David says, shrugging. “A quicker trip, this way. A thirty-minute flight.”
The minute we’re on board the jet, I start to head towards the back bedroom. David grabs my wrist, his eyes narrowing. “Where are you going?”
“I was going to change.” My wedding dress isn’t horrendously uncomfortable, but that doesn’t mean I want to stay in it for the flight to Newport, and then the car ride home after that. “Is thatokaywith you?” I can’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice, and I see his expression darken.
“No, it’s not,” he says flatly. “I intend to take it off of you myself—inourbedroom. Sit down, Amalie.”
I stare at him. For one brief, heated moment, I consider rebelling, telling him to go fuck himself and stalking back to the bedroom, locking myself in there so that I can change and maybe get a half-hour’s peace. “You have got to be kidding me,” I finally manage, and David smirks, shaking his head as he steers me towards one of the soft leather seats.
“I’m not,” he says smoothly. “Now sit down, Amalie, and be grateful that I’ve decided I want to wait to take it off until we’re at home, in private.”
The threat is clear—not unlike the one he made last time we were on a flight together—and I obey before he tells me to do something else, like go down on him for the thirty minutes we’re in the air. I settle for giving him a seething glare as I sit, looking out of the window and refusing to speak to him as the plane begins to take off.
Although, for the rest of the flight, he doesn’t speak to me either.
I have no idea what his home looks like. I imagine a luxurious mansion, something over-the-top and ostentatious—and that makes the reality all the more startling when the town car pulls up in front of David’s home, and stops.
It’s old. That’s the first thing I can see—it must be on some historical register, from the architecture and the shape it’s in. Only one light illuminates the heavy, dark-wood front door, making the mansion look particularly ominous as I step out of the car and look up at it. The stone path is cracked and in need of repair, and as David opens the door to let me in, I can immediately see that goes for the rest of the house as well. Even in summer, there’s a heavy chill to the air inside, and I shiver as I follow David down the hall.
He’s clearly in the middle of renovations—or repairs, or both. I see places where the wallpaper has been peeled away, floors in need of refinishing, bare walls with the outline of art that once hung there. I almost ask him why it all looks like this, but I’m too tired to hear the answer—or to risk him throwing the question back in my face in some way.
The mansion gives me the creeps; I know that for certain. And David, as cold and aloof as he’s been since last night, is beginning to as well.
