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This is not a fucking love story.
“Do you, Odile Kemp, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
I don’t. I really fucking don’t.
His grip on my wrist tightens past the point of pain and it’s all I can do not to drop my carefully designed bouquet. A tiny gasp slips through my lips and tears prick at my eyes.
His glare is a warning.
Keep it together.
Stick to the plan.
Or else.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I nod.
The minister gives a gentle cough, and I drag my teary eyes from the floor up to his sympathetic gaze.
Please help me.
Please don’t make me do this.
“I’m sorry, miss. I need you to say the words out loud.”
“Y-yes,” I tremble, and his sympathies vanish as a frown takes over his features.
“The line is?—”
“I do. There. Happy now?” I snap.
He gasps in outrage and my groom growls at me.
“Wrap this up. Now.”
I don’t hear another word over the regret roaring in my ears and the panic pounding through my veins.
For Rose,I have to remind myself.I’m doing this for Rose. There’s no other choice.
I’m marrying my rapist to get my daughter back.
“Don’t hurt him! Please don’t hurt him!” It’s the first time my mother has fought for me, and the desperate sound of her sobs fills me with a new mix of terror and hope.
“It’s him or you, whore. One of you needs to learn,” my father snarls.
I don’t like him. But when I told her that, she hit me. I’m not supposed to say bad things about him, even though he’s a bad man.
Eventually my mother answers my father.
“…t-t-take him.”
“Thought as much.” He laughs, but it’s a cruel, cold sound, and nothing like the laughter I hear at nursery.
Then I’m wrenched from my mother’s arms, screaming.
I kick and hit out but it just earns me a sharp slap to the face. Soundlessly, the tears fall. I’ve already learnt to keep the sobs inside.
He’s angrier than I’ve ever seen him.
