by Stella Gray
“I still don’t understand what he’s getting out of this.”
“Oh, Tori,” Michelle said, shaking her head. “You know how men are about shiny objects. But just think—this is someone who can take care of you. Give you security.”
“What more could you ask for?” my father added. “He’ll be able to give you everything you want.”
“You have no idea what I want!” I said, shocking myself. I never talked back to him.
But I still had dreams of my own. Dreams I’d assumed I would get to pursue before settling down with someone. And now my college plans were off the table. Because my father needed me to drop everything that mattered so I could be a trophy wife to the son of his ally.
“Is this about your little underwater basket-weaving degree? You still want that? Well, guess what. Your new husband can afford it,” he said.
I pressed my lips together, gazing out the window while I collected myself. He had a point. This situation could benefit me. My father would get what he wanted, and maybe I could, too. Plus, he wasn’t wrong about Stefan being good looking. And I’d be his.
At least until I got my degree. Four years, maybe eight if I decided I wanted my doctorate.
I could stand to be married to a man as handsome as Stefan for a few years. Couldn’t I? Sharing a home, a life…a bed.
My head was swimming.
“This was always the plan, Tori,” my father said. “This man—his family—can provide you with anything you could possibly dream of. I’m offering you the chance to have a life of luxury and ease. You should be thanking me for finding you such a match.”
“It’s just…so much to think about,” I said, my temples suddenly throbbing.
“Then stop thinking!” my father ordered.
Michelle put her hand on his shoulder. “Mitch. You catch more flies with honey.”
“I don’t know what to do,” I whispered. “I feel trapped.”
“Dance with him,” Michelle suggested, turning toward me. “Go back out there and take a turn around that ballroom and see how it feels to be in his arms. Then you can decide what you want to do. I know you’ll make the right decision.”
“I suggest you take your stepmother’s advice,” my father said, a warning in his voice.
I nodded my acquiescence. Michelle’s words had been kinder than his, but the implication was clear—you can dance with him, but in the end you’re going to marry him, no matter what.
I guess I did know something, after all. I knew I had no choice.
Tori
Chapter 3
“The princess returns,” Stefan said, flashing a devilish smirk as I approached.
I had marched back out to the ballroom with my chin up, determined to approach this proposal with an open mind. Now I was standing in front of my maybe-fiancé, trying to reconcile his flirting with the formal, gentlemanly front he’d put up when my parents had been standing there.
I liked him better this way.
“I thought you might’ve run away with a stable boy or something,” he teased. “Not that I would have blamed you. You looked shell-shocked. Though I’ll admit, this whole situation is…”
“I believe the Latin term is ‘insanus maximus,’” I blurted, then immediately regretted it.
But Stefan just tilted his head and laughed, in the same full-throated, infectious way I’d seen earlier. This time I joined in, and when we shared a smile afterward there was an undeniable spark of heat between us. This was good. Chemistry. Attraction. And he’d enjoyed my Latin joke. Whatever lay ahead of us, we would at least have that.
“You are…not what I expected,” he said. “It’s a pleasant surprise.”
“And I hadn’t expected this at all,” I said.
At the end of the day, I knew I was lucky. My father could be trying to marry me off to someone like Congressman Ellis—wealthy, well-connected, but several times my age. Instead, he’d found me a young, handsome man with devastating green eyes and a laugh I already loved.
It still didn’t feel real.
“I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot,” Stefan said as the orchestra began to play a waltz. “In the interest of starting over, may I have this dance?”
“You laughed at my nerd humor, so I guess you’ve earned it,” I said with a smile, and took his hand.
He was a good dancer. Incredible, actually. As I fell in step with him, a hum of electricity seemed to buzz between our bodies, his palm hot against mine.
“Your dress is stunning,” he said as we spun around the dance floor. “You look like a fairytale princess. My sister Emzee’s favorite when she was little, I think. The one with the mouse friends and the missing shoe…”
“Cinderella,” I murmured, suddenly struck shy again. His voice was low and soothing, his breath warm in my ear, giving me goosebumps.
“Right. The one with the carriage made from a squash. Completely impractical.”
I laughed, missing one of the steps. “It was a pumpkin, actually.”
“Ah yes,” he said, guiding us back in time with the music. “I’ve always liked pumpkins. They’re the spirit of Halloween. The one night of the year when everyone wears a mask.”
“Do you often wear masks?” I asked. I was trying to tease, but I also wanted an answer.
“We all do,” he said. I couldn’t read his expression, and I wondered what he kept hidden beneath that handsome exterior. Darkness? Danger? Loss?
I realized I was staring when those lips curved up into a smile. “You’re studying me like a book, Victoria Lindsey.”
“Sorry.” I dropped my gaze, my cheeks suddenly burning.
“Don’t apologize. I’ve been warned you’re an academic. An inquisitive mind is nothing to be ashamed of. Just remember what they say about curiosity and the cat.”
Every word out of his mouth sounded erotic. I trained my eyes on his feet and the swish of my dress against the floor, taking several breaths to cool off before I spoke again.
“Please call me Tori. Nobody calls me Victoria unless I’m in trouble.”
“Maybe you are in trouble.”
He smiled, and I had to look away again. His flirting was over the top, but it had its intended effect on me. Was he doing this on purpose, to sway me? And if so, did I really mind?
His hand was firm on the small of my back as we passed close by the orchestra. With the tiniest pressure, he directed me where to go. Dancing with him was like a dream.
This whole thing was like a dream.
Still, this was marriage we were talking about. I was standing in front of the man I might spend the rest of my life with, and he was practically a stranger.
Not practically: literally. I didn’t know anything about him.
“How old are you?” I asked.
“Twenty-six,” he offered with a small quirk of his mouth.
He didn’t ask my age. It seemed he’d been given plenty of information about me already. I bet he’d even been forewarned about my tendency to spout awkward, unexpected facts about the history of certain words and languages. But even if he’d been given tips or advice on how to talk to me, how to flirt with me, we seemed to have a chemistry that couldn’t be faked.
“You mentioned you had a sister?” I prompted. “Emzee?”
“Yes. She’s a photographer—Mara Zoric. She works closely with our agency.”
“Oh, of course! I’ve seen her stuff before. Not just in fashion. I think it was National Geographic—the mosaic tombs in Marrakech?”
He looks surprised. “Yes. She was so proud of that assignment.”
I grin. “You’re all so accomplished. Are you the oldest of your siblings?”
Stefan nodded, and told me about his younger brother Luka, who was living the dream of all 25-year-olds by draining his trust fund and getting a little too close to KZM’s models. But, I was assured, he was a smart boy who had an MBA and a good heart. He just had some growing up to do.
As we both warmed to the c
onversation, my nerves eased, and little tidbits of information started coming back to me.
KZ Modeling was in the news enough that I could recall some of the articles that had been written about the company, its models, and Stefan’s family. Their names were just as likely to appear in the headlines of Buzzfeed as they were in The Wall Street Journal.
“And what does your mother do?” I asked, but the moment I did, I remembered what I had read. I also remembered how I’d felt reading it. As if we shared a sort of kinship.
“She died,” Stefan said. “When I was six.”
“I’m sorry,” I told him. “Mine too. I was two.”
“She was beautiful,” he mused. “She used to paint.”
I smiled. “All I have are photographs. I wish I could remember her.”
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. At least, in this, we understood each other.
“I noticed your surname has Slavic roots,” I finally said, trying to steer the conversation toward something easier. “Where is your family from, originally?”
“Serbia. But I was born and raised here,” he said. “My grandmother always made the best paštete, but that’s the extent of my ancestral knowledge. Are you a fan of pastries?”
“I adore them,” I admitted. “I’ve always wanted to travel to the Balkans. Mainly to hear the spoken languages. The Cyrillic alphabet is so cool.”
“I’m sure a trip could be arranged,” he said. He slid his hand upward, coming to rest on my spine just below my shoulder blades. “Perhaps in the near future.”
“I’d be amenable to that,” I told him.
He tilted his head. “Amenable.” He smiled. “Not a word I hear often.”
“It’s a great word,” I said. “From the 1590s. A combination of the French word mener, to lead, and the Latin minare, which meant to drive cattle with shouts. Funny how specific some words are, isn’t it? Who would have imagined that someone would need a word to describe getting cows out of the way?”
Stefan went silent. I couldn’t blame him.
My father was right. Men weren’t interested in smart women—especially ones who babble on about the historic roots of words when they should be flirting and waltzing.
“Ah, there I go again.” I could feel my cheeks burning. “Not to worry though. I don’t always go off on these tangents about words and their meanings…”
Except I did. Shut up, Tori, I told myself. Men like mystery. Be mysterious.
“I didn’t know about the root of the word,” Stefan said slowly. “But I do know some of its modern synonyms. Flexible,” he spun me under his arm gracefully. “Pliant.” He pulled me back into his arms. “Responsive.”
He said the last in a husky whisper.
Oh.
I had always considered language to hold a sensuality of its own. But I had never imagined the power it could have coming from the mouth of a man like Stefan.
Responsive.
I felt responsive in his arms. Very responsive.
His hand was like a brand on my back, radiating heat down my body. For the first time since my father had announced that I would be marrying this man, I allowed myself to imagine what that would be like. What it would entail, to be man and wife in all regards.
Another shiver spread through me.
No doubt a man like Stefan, who handled himself with confidence and control on the dance floor, would be just as skilled in the bedroom. The hot, taut pull between my legs tightened even further. Unable to help myself, I moved a little closer, my eyes darting up to meet his. He was staring at me. Intensely.
“Why don’t we get some air?” he asked, his voice low.
“Yes,” I agreed breathlessly. “It’s much too warm in here.”
I let him lead me out onto the balcony. It was quiet out there except for the muffled sounds of the party, shut away behind closed doors. We were alone.
Without his arms around me, the chill air hit me full force, and I rubbed my arms to warm myself. Suddenly, a jacket—Stefan’s jacket—was draped over my shoulders, enveloping me in his residual body heat and his rich, masculine scent.
As the jacket’s silky lining slid against my bare skin, I felt that familiar twist in my lower belly. It made no sense. I barely knew this man, but there was no denying that he did something to me.
How much of this was an act, though? If we were just two people meeting at a party, would he have looked at me twice?
God, but his jacket smelled good. Like expensive, woodsy cologne and a hint of sweet cigar smoke. I wanted to take a deep breath, but I had to pull myself together. Be direct.
“So what are your thoughts on the arrangement our fathers have orchestrated?” I asked.
“The deal was no surprise to me. I’m sure for someone your age it seems strange.”
“Strange is an understatement,” I responded. “You’re the last thing I expected as a birthday present.”
He gave me a crooked half smile.
“Not that I’m disappointed,” I rushed on, feeling my cheeks flush. “I mean, you’re actually a very nice birthday present.” I was rambling, but I couldn’t stop myself. “Wow. I am not trying to say that you are an object—though I mean, you are kind of a gift because you’re so nice to look at, but it’s more appreciation than objectification and this whole thing is just kind of weird on the whole because who does arranged marriages anymore, you know?”
I was out of breath. He quirked an eyebrow.
“You think I’m good looking?” he asked, with the confidence of someone who knew exactly how handsome they were.
I nodded. This time I was pretty sure I was bright red. Not a flattering blush at all.
“I’m surprised you don’t have a boyfriend already,” he said. “Your father told me you don’t even date.”
I held my tongue, not wanting to get on the subject of my lack of experience when it came to men. “I’ve been trying to focus on my education,” I said, which was at least half of the truth. “And honestly, I’ve discovered that most guys don’t appreciate my nonstop word vomit.”
Way to stop while you’re ahead, I chided myself.
But Stefan only laughed. “You’re funny.”
He moved closer, adjusting the lapels of his jacket around my neck. My breath caught in my throat.
“And beautiful.” He reached toward me and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, gazing into my eyes. “And much more intelligent than anyone gives you credit for.”
And that’s when I knew I could have sex with this man. It would be good between us, I was sure of it. It would be really good.
“This whole thing is happening very fast,” Stefan went on, stepping back. “But it doesn’t have to be forever. All our fathers want is for us to marry. Once that’s out of the way, we can do what we want. Make our own terms. What do you want out of this arrangement?”
“A degree,” I blurted.
Stefan raised that eyebrow again.
“I’ve already been accepted to UChicago to study linguistics,” I said. “I want to get my masters, maybe even a doctorate. But my scholarship won’t cover the whole tuition. If we’re married, maybe...” My voice trailed off hopefully. “I mean, I would pay you back. It might take awhile, but—”
“Your father isn’t supporting you with this?” he interrupted.
“No.” My smile was bitter. “I did try to talk him into letting me borrow the money…I even had his assistant put me on the calendar—scheduled an appointment with my own father—and went in with a loan agreement and a PowerPoint, totally thinking I had it in the bag.”
“What happened?”
“He told me the program is a waste of my time and his money. And that men aren’t interested in women with snobby degrees.”
“Tori.”
“God, I’m sorry. We just met. I shouldn’t even be talking to you about this. I just—it’s my dream.” My voice got husky on the last word, and I had to look away.
He turned my face back
toward him, searching my eyes. “There is nothing in this life,” he finally said, his voice deep and measured, “that is more important than forging your own path. Making your own choices. You have to live for you, not for your father.” His expression hardened. “Not everyone has the freedom or the privilege to do that.”
“How can you say that?” I scoffed. “Are you living for you? Our fathers are the ones who arranged this…whole thing. A marriage that’s going to dictate the rest of our lives. How can you call that your own path?”
He shrugged. “I’m getting exactly what I want out of this.”
“And what is that?” I asked.
Something inside Stefan shifted. It was almost as if I could see a door shutting, keeping me out, and with that I realized there was more to him than just the charming, smiling, flirtatious charade. What was I getting myself into?
“You’re going to that school,” he said. “I’ll call their finance office on Monday.”
My heart soared, but I wasn’t so easily distracted.
“Tell me why you’re agreeing to this match. Please. I already shared my reasons,” I pointed out. “Before we’re in too deep, I just need to understand your side.”
Stefan didn’t say anything for a long moment, staring out into the cool, fragrant darkness surrounding the house. It seemed like he was warring with himself, unsure what to tell me. Or how much to reveal. Finally, he nodded.
“I want to take over KZM,” he said. “I’m my father’s right-hand, but he still runs the agency. He’ll retire at some point, but he won’t give me the company if I’m not married.” He gave me a half-smile. “He’s old school that way. Doesn’t trust someone who isn’t settled down.”
I felt a kinship with Stefan in that moment. There had to be more to the story, things he wasn’t willing to tell me yet. But it was enough for now. After all, we were both using this marriage to break free from our fathers’ control, to get what we wanted. It made sense.