by Shen, L. J.
“I can’t believe I’m getting married again,” I whispered to her more than to anyone else.
“It’s not too late to change your mind,” Sailor reminded me. “Really. Ask any Julia Roberts movie out there.”
“Cut it out,” Belle warned our redheaded friend. “We’re going to give the asshole the benefit of the doubt, at least for today.”
“You’re right.” Sailor rubbed at her nose. “Sorry, Pers.”
The event coordinator shoved her head past our open window.
“We’re all set. My God, you look like a movie star, Persephone. Hunter is waiting for you by the church’s doors. He is the person giving you away, correct?”
“Actually,” Belle piped, lacing her arm in mine, “we’re all going to give her away.”
“Reluctantly.” Sailor laughed.
And so I walked down the aisle with a herd of my friends and family, feeling loved, cherished, and protected.
Just not by the man I was marrying.
After weeks of not seeing him, his presence hit me like a wrecking ball.
Everything about Cillian standing in a full tux in front of a minister reminded me why I’d been pathetically obsessed with him before Paxton.
Why giving him up had been the hardest thing I had to do.
He was tall, dark, and commanding, dripping untamed power and magnetism money couldn’t buy. He stared directly at me as I walked down the aisle, clutching my bouquet in a death grip. A live band began playing “Arrival of the Queen of Sheba” by Handel. The guests stood, whispering and murmuring. Aisling was right. There were hundreds of people in this place, and most of them, I didn’t know.
That was when it hit me.
Cillian didn’t ignore the wedding.
He simply ignored me.
He sent out invitations promoting the idea of him being a family man.
Bastard even chose a song for me to walk to the chapel.
In other words, he was involved in all the parts that mattered to him, and I wasn’t one of them.
My heart jackhammered, and my mouth dried around the rich tang of champagne.
My eyes flicked to his golden-specked ones. He looked calm, serene, utterly unaffected.
“Did he tell you he doesn’t have any feelings? He takes pride in that.”
Sailor’s voice drifted back into my memory.
He did. Multiple times.
Still, I wanted to whack him with my bouquet and yell at him to feel something while swearing his alliance to me.
I stopped in front of him, certain the imprint of my heart could be seen through my dress every time it slammed against my rib cage.
Minister Smith began the ceremony. My eyes dropped to Kill’s lips, which were pursed in mild displeasure.
Those lips were going to meet mine in a few moments for the first time.
A dream come true for eighteen-year-old Persy.
A travesty for twenty-six-year-old me.
Minister Smith finished his part, then paused, clearing his throat.
“Before we proceed, the groom has a few words he wants to say.”
He does?
Never had I wanted to throw up more than the moment Kill Fitzpatrick gazed down at me with an easy smile, producing a dove-white ribbon from his breast pocket.
“Love is a fickle emotion, Persephone my dear. Fortuitous, unreliable, and prone to changes. People fall in and out of love at the drop of a hat. They get divorced. They cheat. They get cheated on.”
My eyes bugged out of their sockets. Was my soon-to-be husband aware he was standing in a church? I half-expected him to burst into flames in front of my eyes, swirling into dark smoke, descending straight to hell where he belonged.
Kill began fastening the ribbon over both our right hands with confident expertise.
“The thing is, you can’t rely on love. Which is why I intend to offer you something far more consistent. Commitment, friendship, and loyalty. I promise to give you my protection, no matter the price.” He proceeded to tie our left hands together with the same ribbon, locking us to one another tightly. His words sounded genuine yet reticent. Dry, but somehow real. “I will never turn my back on us. We will fall in and out of love many times, but I promise to find my way back to you. To put us back together even when the temptation to break things off is too much. And when love feels far away…” He pressed his forehead to mine, his lips moving over mine. “I will bring it right back to our doorstep.”
Our hands were firmly tied together. We stared at each other.
Too close.
Too intimate.
Too exposed.
Our guests stared, wide-eyed, in shock and awe. My mouth hung open, a mixture of fascination, surprise, and most dangerous of all—sheer bliss swirled in my chest.
“This is…beautiful.” The reverend let out a breath. We said our vows. I didn’t puke, despite wanting to, bad. “I pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride. God knows you want to.” He chuckled, making everyone in the church erupt in wild laugher.
Cillian tugged me using our bandaged hands, jerking me into his firm body. He dived down with eyes that turned from calm, rich gold to smoldering, molten lava. My breath caught in the back of my throat as he crushed his lips over mine with devastating warmth, bringing our hands to his chest and lacing our fingers together. His lips were possessive, demanding; his almost-familiar fragrance of dry cedar and shaved wood made my knees weak.
“Kiss me back,” he growled.
He pulled our tied wrists, righting me back up to my feet. I slid limply over his body, too dazed to function. Kill deepened our kiss, devouring me, opening his mouth and connecting his tongue with mine. It was deliberately rough, and heated, and sexy, and new. I’d never been kissed this way before. The claps, whistles, and cheers drowned under the white-hot desire washing over me. I forgot where we were and what we were doing. All I cared about was the demanding pressure from his delicious mouth, and the way our hearts rioted in unison, beating wildly against one another.
I felt his smile on my lips as he withdrew slowly. Calculatingly. I blinked, still drugged from the unexpected kiss that screamed things I didn’t dare whisper. But when I looked up, he was the same cold and detached monster.
Icy, poker-faced, and completely out of reach.
I glanced unsurely at the pews.
The entire back row was full of photographers, journalists, and cameramen, recording the tender moment we shared.
The speech.
The hand-fastening.
That kiss.
They weren’t for me. They were for them. Lies, carefully designed to fit Kill Fitzpatrick’s new narrative: a loving husband. A changed man. A reformed villain.
I stumbled backward, twisting my wrists around the tight knot, trying to escape him.
“Now now,” he whispered under his breath. “You’re not going to get the fairy tale, Flower Girl, so you might as well sell it to other people. Smile big.”
“You’re not my Prince Charming,” I blurted out, my thoughts going back to the conversation I’d had with my sister in her car the night I told her about my engagement. “You’re the villain.”
“Fear is my greatest asset.” He tipped his head down, pretending to nuzzle my throat, his hoarse, low baritone reverberating deep inside me. “But what are villains, my dear wife, if not misunderstood heroes?”
Even though I decided against throwing a party, there was a grand dinner hosted at Avebury Court Manor in honor of my sham marriage.
I’d met Jane and Gerald Fitzpatrick countless of times before. I’d been to their mansion practically every week for my takeout night with the girls. But save for the dinner in which we broke the news, this was the first time I was there as their eldest son’s bride and not the timid, polite friend of their daughter’s.
I could tell by the courteous smiles and awkwardness that they knew this wasn’t a love match. Jane glanced at me almost apologetically while Gerald kept checking on me
as though he was sure I would bolt out of their house the minute they looked away.
My own parents were dazzled by the luxury the Fitzpatricks lived in. Dad drooled over the fifteen-car garage, and I was pretty sure Mom was on the verge of making sweet love to the kitchen tiles. Both were awestruck by the butterfly garden Gerald had created for his wife, probably to remind her she was trapped in this marriage forever.
Conversation between the families was stilted. Gerald, my dad, and Cillian did most of the talking, filling the uncomfortable silence with safe topics such as the Boston Celtics, street food, and past legendary athletes. I shoved my food around on my plate, occasionally answering a question aimed my way.
Being ignored by Cillian while he wasn’t mine was devastating.
But being ignored by him when I was his wife was going to be soul-crushing.
In the past few weeks, I’d been pampered beyond belief. Had a stylist arrive at my apartment with three sets of wardrobes. I’d received an obnoxious number of engagement rings, was moving into a brand-new apartment, and had my Paxton and debt problems taken care of. But nothing—other than having Byrne and Kaminski off my back—was worth the sacrifice of my freedom to someone who didn’t truly want me. Only wanted my womb and my ability to raise his children.
When dinner was over and we kissed and hugged everyone goodbye, Cillian led me by the small of my back to his Aston Martin, opening the door for me while everyone stood at the door, waving goodbye. He was the image of a perfect gentleman.
During the drive, I kept silent. I wasn’t sure what pissed me off more—the fact he acted like he cared in front of the cameras and our families, or that I was stupid enough to buy it.
Probably the latter.
“The wedding went smoothly,” Kill observed, his eyes on the road as the vehicle skidded through the pastoral neighborhoods of Back Bay. The evening frost bit at my skin; the sunny weather of the morning was replaced with dark gloom.
A chill ran down my spine. He was my Hades, and I came to him willingly.
“I’m glad you think so.” I looked out the window with my arms folded over my chest. I hunted the sky for a cloud, desperate to see Auntie Tilda again, but all I saw was a consistent blanket of black velvet.
“Is the apartment to your satisfaction?”
“Tonight will be my first night there,” I answered curtly. “I’m sure I’m going to love it.”
Why wouldn’t I? It was in the most exclusive building in Boston. With five-star hotel amenities, a chef’s kitchen, Subzero appliances, heated flooring, and Italian-imported furniture.
And…I couldn’t care less.
About any of it.
If anything, I was bummed I couldn’t stay at Belle’s, where at least I’d have her body heat against mine every morning when she crawled into bed. Where I had conversation, and happy moments, and weekends making food in the tiny kitchenette with a glass of wine.
I hated everything about this conversation with my husband.
The clinical politeness.
The lack of intimacy.
How I now knew what his lips felt like.
“Why did you ask the orchestra to play ‘The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba?’ Why not ‘Bridal Chorus?’” I blurted out.
“I don’t like Wagner.”
“Because he is loved?” I teased.
“No, because he was a Nazi,” he answered plainly.
I shot him a sidelong glance, surprised.
“Interesting.”
“Not particularly. You may want to broaden your pool of interests.”
Turning toward him fully, I smirked.
“So you don’t consume products that are loosely connected to racism. By that logic, you don’t drive a Ford, wear Hugo Boss, or use Kodak products.”
“I drive an Aston Martin, wear Kiton and Brioni, and no to using Kodak.”
“Careful, hubs, or I’ll suspect you have a soul.”
“Nobody has a soul. What I have is a few working brain cells and loose principles.”
“Nobody has a soul?” I echoed, dumbfounded. “I know you don’t believe in feelings, or God, but you don’t believe in souls, either?”
“Do you?” He took a smooth turn into our neighborhood. We lived only a few blocks away from each other.
“Of course,” I said, incredulous.
“Where is it then?” His amber eyes were still on the road. “Your soul. Anatomically.”
“Just because you can’t see something doesn’t mean it’s not in existence. Take air, for instance. Or intelligence. Or love.”
“The fact you shove the L-word into every conversation says a lot about you, you know.”
“There are no facts, Cillian my dear. Only interpretations.”
It was his turn to shoot me a disbelieving look.
“Nietzsche.”
“I married a nihilist.” I ran a hand over the soft satin of my gown. I’d spent the past few weeks reading everything Nietzsche and Heidegger like my life depended on it. “The least I could do before saying I do was to take a tour in that mind of yours. Understand your moral compass.”
“I have no morals. That’s the point of being a nihilist.”
You boycott companies and people because once upon a very long time, they stood for something you strongly disagreed with. You are nothing but morals.
Of course, pointing that out was only going to make us argue more. It was best to make him find out for himself that he wasn’t the asshole he thought he was.
He took a turn to my street and parked in front of my apartment building. A doorman stood at the entrance. I put my hand on the door handle, drawing a breath before shoving it open.
“Persephone.”
I whipped my head around, my eyes clinging to his face.
“We still haven’t discussed the conception part.”
“There’s nothing to discuss. You can start taking my calls. Better yet—call me when you’re ready to start trying. We can hit the road running and get pregnant by summer.”
I wanted children with all my heart. Was always the girl who tucked her dolls into little plastic strollers while her sister climbed on trees and skateboarded with the boys.
All I ever wanted was a family of my own. Babies and matching plaid jammies and elaborate Christmas trees with handmade decorations.
“What are my chances of convincing you to go the IVF route?” Kill asked, businesslike.
“Nonexistent,” I said flatly. “We have a deal.”
“Fine. I’ll have someone send over ovulation tests. Call me when you’re ready.”
“That’s a no from me.”
“Excuse me?” He whipped his head in my direction. Did I finally manage to anger him? Probably not, but at least he didn’t look his cool, dead self for a moment.
“I don’t want to take tests. I like the element of surprise.” I shrugged, deliberately provoking him.
“Is there a point to having sex if you are not ovulating?” To his defense, he tried. Tried to cling to the remainder of his calm with everything he had. But I intended to snap it.
“There is,” I replied sunnily.
“Do share it.”
“I’ll orgasm.”
For the first time in my life, I saw the Cillian Fitzpatrick blushing. I could swear it. Even in the dim light cast by the streetlamps, I noticed his face turning a shade I’d never seen on him before. His mouth pressed in a hard line.
“Sexual favors weren’t a part of our negotiation.”
“Sue me.” I threw the passenger door open but didn’t get out just yet. “Look, if you don’t want to touch me this much, don’t bother. You don’t have to sleep with me, Kill. But if you want me to give you a baby, that’s the route you’ll have to take. And another thing.” I turned to him. I could tell he was shocked by my bold behavior. He was counting on a watered-down version of his sister. And to an extent, I was exactly that person—romantic, sweet, always willing to help.
But I knew damn wel
l that with Kill, I had to fight back if I wanted to earn his respect, his trust, and a place in his life.
He stared at me, cracking his fingers under the stirring wheel.
“You, my darling husband, kiss like a hungry Rottweiler.”
No response.
“You really need to work on your tongue-to-lips ratio. And you use way too much saliva.”
He continued staring at me, ridiculously unmoved.
C’mon. Feel something. Anything. Anger! Wrath! Disgust! I’m insulting you.
“I guess I can teach you.” I let out a sigh.
“Hard pass.”
“But you—”
“Drop it, Persephone. In order to insult me, I’ll first have to value your opinion, and as established five minutes ago, I don’t value anything.”
“Your loss.”
“Never heard any complaints.”
“Of course you haven’t!” I got out of his car, slamming the door in his face. “You don’t pay them to grade you. Good night, hubs.”
Turning around, I walked away, feeling his eyes on me the entire time.
I entered my new golden cage, knowing full well that for all its gilded beauty, it was, after all, still a cage.
The three weeks after my wedding day were littered with almosts.
I almost called Persephone when the urge to go to Europe and satisfy my needs torched my blood. It was nothing short of a miracle I’d managed to take care of business in my shower with a hand propped over the mosaic tiles, rubbing one out like a crazed teenager.
I almost drove straight to her apartment when I spotted Sailor prancing around my office with her tiny baby bump, bringing Hunter lunch and finally looking like an expectant mother and not like a six-year-old scrawny boy who had an extra serving of Brussels sprouts.
I almost texted my wife when I saw a paparazzi picture of her in a local gossip column Devon had sent me in which she headed to a hot yoga class with her sister clad in tight yoga pants and a sports bra.
And I almost used her as a consolation prize this morning when I arrived at the office to find a billboard the size of a goddamn building—one that was directed to my office window—with my face on it, fake blood dripping from the corner of my mouth.