by L. G. Davis
Father William clears his throat. “Everyone ready? Can we get started?”
“Absolutely.” Dylan clasps his hands in front of him. He looks so happy.
The minister greets us all again, talks about the importance of marriage, reads some verses from the Bible, then asks us to repeat the important words. Gazing into each other’s eyes, Dylan and I promise ourselves to each other. We promise not to hurt the other. We promise to be there in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish till death do us part.
“I do,” Dylan says the two words that seal the deal.
“I do,” I also say after the priest.
We exchange rings, and Father William pronounces us husband and wife and turns to Dylan with a bright smile. “In that case, you may kiss your bride.” Thalia takes my bouquet from me so I can be free to wrap my arms around my husband’s neck. I tip my head back and Dylan pulls me close and lowers his lips on mine. The moment our lips touch, any shred of guilt or doubt melts from the edges of my heart and I start to breathe. I start to live.
It takes a while for us to pull apart, but once we do, we’re both breathless and happy.
After the exchange of vows, the minister and both our witnesses wish us well, then Shaun brings out the champagne to toast to our future together. There are two bottles, one with alcohol and one without. Dylan now knows that I don’t drink because of what alcohol had done to my family.
The waiting staff emerge from below deck with an elegant cupcake wedding cake from The Cake Palace and platters of mouthwatering canapés. We enjoy the food in a relaxed and happy atmosphere.
Our wedding may seem simple from the outside, but it’s everything I could ever wish for.
After the short celebration, our guests leave us on the boat, allowing us to enjoy our time together as husband and wife.
“You made the right decision,” Thalia whispers to me before she steps off the boat. “You two are perfect for each other. And he adores you. Enjoy your honeymoon in Africa. Do send me a postcard, if you remember.”
“Of course, I’ll do that.” I kiss her cheek. “Expect lots of them.”
As I watch my friend walk off the boat, I wish for her that she finds a man that makes her as happy as Dylan makes me. She had finally gathered up the courage to break things off with Kevin, and to both our relief, all she got were a few insults and a slamming of the door.
“Pass on my greetings to everyone at BJHS.”
“Will do, sweetie.”
After our dream honeymoon under the African sun, I’ll be moving with Dylan to New York. Margaret and the other staff members were sad when I said I’ll no longer be a part of the team, but they all wished me well.
Being away from Corlake will give me the chance to start over with a blank slate, to hopefully distance myself from the toxic memories. I’ve already applied to several schools in New York. Dylan says I don’t need to work because we don’t need the money, but I value my independence too much, and teaching math is my passion.
But tonight, we’re staying the night in Corlake. As much as it brought me pain, this town is where I’ve spent my entire life. I need to say goodbye properly.
After everyone leaves, Dylan and I remain on the boat for another hour, kissing and laughing, planning our future, eating imported French truffles, and drinking the rest of the champagne, while listening to the waves rolling.
Once darkness falls, Dylan drives us to the Brookside Hotel, a luxury five-star hotel that had also belonged to his father.
As soon as we step into the lobby, cheers ring out as both guests and staff shout out words of congratulations.
Some local reporters approach us, shoving microphones in our faces, tossing questions at us.
Dylan does his best to shield me from the reporters, holding me close to his side in a protective gesture as we disappear into the elevator.
“I can’t believe word of our wedding has already spread.” He hits the button to the top floor and gathers me into his arms.
“Nothing stays hidden for long here.” I lean my head against his warm chest.
“At least the reporters out here are not as aggressive as the ones in New York.” He plants a kiss on the top of my head. “Hopefully, no one will follow us to Africa.”
“I hope so, too,” I say, exhaustion washing over me. I look forward to a hot shower before slipping into bed with my husband. After weeks and months of trying to keep my head above water, I’m finally out of the storm. I can rest and learn to enjoy life.
Every table in the presidential suite is covered with roses, candles flickering between them. The glinting chandeliers add to the sparkle. Although I appreciate the luxury, I only have eyes for Dylan.
I turn my head to the side as he kisses my neck. My skin tingles when he moves his lips from my neck to my lips.
“Babe, would you mind if I take a shower?” I whisper against his lips. “I want to get rid of all the makeup and hairspray.”
“Sure. Go ahead. I need to make a call first, then I might join you. Should I order up room service for later?”
“That’ll be nice. You make the choice.” I fold my arms in front of my chest. “I do have one request, Mr. Baxter.”
“Anything for my beautiful wife.” He pulls his phone from his pocket.
“After the shower, no more phone calls.”
“That’s a promise.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m still under the hot shower and Dylan still hasn’t shown up. His call must be taking longer than he had planned.
After another five minutes, I turn off the water and walk out, steam rising from my skin.
Stepping out of the bathroom, one towel is wrapped around my body while I’m drying my hair with another.
Dylan is out on the spacious balcony, phone pressed to his ear, shoulders shaking as though he’s having an argument with the person he’s talking to. Not again.
Poor guy. He doesn’t seem to get a break.
I’m about to join him outside, but his words make their way through the slit in the balcony sliding doors and barrel into me.
“Wrong. I didn’t just marry her for the money.” His words are a furious whisper, drenched in annoyance. “Of course, the inheritance is important to me. But she’s important to me, as well.” He loosens his tie. “I’m sorry. It’s too late. It’s done.”
I stumble back as though someone has punched me in the face, his words ringing in my ears.
He didn’t just marry me for the money? What’s he talking about? Who is he talking to?
I’m shaking as I perch on the edge of the bed, my hands clutching the sheets.
My mind is still reeling when he finally ends his call and joins me in one of the two bedrooms.
“I thought you’d be in the shower. I’m sorry I took so long.” He places his phone on a dresser. “Come here, Mrs. Baxter.” He opens his arms, but I don’t move from the bed. My eyes are fixed on his face.
“Before anything happens here, I need an answer to something.” My voice is trembling as it carries the words from my mouth.
“Are you okay?” He comes to the bed and sits down next to me, wrapping an arm around my waist. I pull away, but he doesn’t let me go. “What’s going on?”
“You tell me.” I rise from the bed. “What did you mean when you said you didn’t just marry me for the money?”
A frown forms between his eyes. “What ... What are you talking about?”
“Were you married before?”
“No, of course not. You know that.”
“I’m the only woman you’ve ever exchanged marriage vows with?”
“Of course.” He stands up and approaches me, but I step away. “Where are you going with this? Why all these questions?”
“I overhead your phone conversation. You said you didn’t just marry me for the money.”
A shadow crosses his features but it disappears just as quickly. “You heard wrong.” There’s something in his eyes, something resembling guilt.
I move to stand in front of him, arms folded. “Tell me the truth. Why did you marry me, really?”
“Because I love you.” His words are firm and they sound honest, but my heart reads between the lines.
“I know there’s something you’re keeping from me. Tell me now, or I’ll walk out of this room.”
“All right.” He moves away from me and collapses onto the bed, drops his head into his hands with a sigh. “When my father died, the conditions of me receiving his inheritance were that I get married within six months after his death.”
“So you found the first willing woman to fall in love with you?” A bubble of laughter forms inside my throat and explodes from my lips. “This was all just a game?” Weakened by his revelation, I collapse against a wall for support. “You played me?”
“No.” His head snaps up. “That’s not true. It’s not like that at all.” He buries his fingers into his hair. “At first, yes, I was on the lookout for someone to marry. And then—”
“You didn’t expect to fall in love with me; is that it?”
“Yes,” he says in a croak. “You have to believe me. Every single word I said to you … about how much you mean to me is the truth. I married you for love.”
“No, you married me for money.” My voice rises. “That’s why you wanted to get married as soon as possible. It wasn’t because you couldn’t wait to spend the rest of your life with me.”
“Please.” He gets to his feet and crosses the room toward me, lays his hands on my shoulders. “I love you so much, Paige. That’s not a lie. I did marry you for the right reasons.” He tucks a strand of damp hair behind my ear. “Say you believe me.”
“No. No, I don’t.” Tears well up in my throat. “I don’t even know what other lies you’ve told me. It was cruel of you to pretend you cared about me ... about my brother.” I back away from him, raise my hands to stop him from approaching me. “Oh my God. You chose me because I was weak and desperate. My loneliness made me an easy target, didn’t it?”
He doesn’t respond. After a moment of silence, he nods. “At the beginning my intentions may not have been pure, but you mean the world to me.”
“I don’t know what to believe right now.” I bite my trembling lip. “I can’t do this. I can’t.” My voice fades to a whisper. “I’ll sleep in the other room.”
As I turn my back on him, the doorbell rings. Without thinking, I yank the door open.
A butler pushes in a tray of food and a bottle of champagne. “The champagne is a wedding gift from the staff, Sir,” he says.
“We’re no longer hungry,” I say, not bothering to check with Dylan.
The butler glances past me at Dylan.
“Thank you,” Dylan says to the butler. “You can leave it there.” He points to one side of the room. The butler’s eyes keep moving between Dylan and me as he does what he’s told. Then he nods at both of us and disappears from the suite.
I’m too angry to care that he must have sensed the tension between us, that he must have seen the tears on my cheeks. I don’t care what gossip he’ll share with his colleagues once he gets downstairs, or about the news spreading across town like wildfire. All I care about right now is being alone to think.
With Dylan still begging me to believe him, I grab the silver bucket with the bottle of champagne and disappear into the other room.
Devastated that my future is ending before it even starts, I pop open the champagne bottle. For the first time in my life, I have my first taste of alcohol—straight from the bottle.
Chapter 23
My eyelids are heavy and sore as I pull them apart. For someone who was very upset, I slept deep. Maybe it was the alcohol.
I draw in a breath, but instead of oxygen filling my body with life and strength, the air settles heavy in the center of my chest, making it hard to breathe.
My stomach roils at the remnant taste of alcohol still coating my tongue. I’d had only two gulps of the champagne before coming to my senses and climbing under the sheets, covered in guilt and regret.
As I cover my face with both hands, my intuition tells me something’s wrong, but I know that already. Staring up at the glinting chandelier, memories of yesterday drip into my mind.
How I wish it were just a dream and not a nightmare that will soon be erased by the truth. How I wish my marriage wasn’t a scam, that Dylan is the man I thought he was when I fell in love with him.
The way he looked at me last night, the emotions in his eyes had told me that he wasn’t lying when he said he loves me. But that doesn’t wipe away the hurt clawing through my veins. It doesn’t erase the truth that he started out with the intention to use me.
Now what?
My head advises me to get out of the bed and walk out of Dylan’s life. But my heart, even in its broken state, is finding it hard to let go of this love I’ve found, to walk away from the first man who’s ever made me feel alive.
One thing I do know for sure is that I’ve made enough impulsive decisions in my life, and I’m not ready to make another I could end up regretting. That’s why I stayed last night.
I turn my head to the windows and focus on the sliver of light piercing through the place where the jacquard drapes meet in the middle. I wrap my arms around myself. The room is warm but my skin feels cold.
In need of a few more minutes to collect myself and gather up the courage to face Dylan, I bury myself deeper into the duvet cover, pulling it up to my chin as I turn to face the other side. I feel body heat next to me and freeze.
I’m not alone in the bed.
Dylan is fast asleep next to me, facing the other side. How dare he disregard my request to be alone after what he did?
Teeth clenched, I shove back the covers and swing my legs out of bed, ignoring the comfort offered by the shaggy carpeting that welcomes my feet.
I cross the room and yank the drapes apart. The morning light floods in.
My head swims when I spin around, expecting to have woken him. But he’s still asleep, the duvet cover hugging the length of his body, the soft curls of his hair spilling onto the ivory pillows.
The champagne bottle I started is on his nightstand, now empty.
My throat is tight with anger as I march to his side of the bed and yank the covers from his upper body.
When my eyes land on his face, I jump back, a scream trapped in my throat.
He’s not sleeping. His eyes are wide, too wide ... blank. His skin is pale, his mouth parted as though he wants to say something.
As I watch him lying there, unmoving, my world starts to spin. I don’t need to touch him to know he will never blink again, to know that his rich, honey voice will never be heard again. I’ve encountered a dead body before, my mother’s.
He’s dead, the little voice in my head taunts.
“Shut up,” I snap, drops of my saliva following the words out of my mouth, hitting Dylan’s face.
This is Dylan, my husband, the man I love, not a corpse.
A wave of panic so sudden knocks the wind from my lungs and pushes me to the carpeted floor.
“Dylan, baby, talk to me.” I shake him, the same way I shook Ryan when he’d swallowed the pills, and when I thought he had drowned. The same way I shook my mother.
My body numb with shock, I shove the rest of the duvet from his body.
My breath solidifies inside my lungs when I catch sight of the blood on his shirt, smack in the middle of his chest. The same shirt he wore to our wedding yesterday, the shirt he had been unbuttoning when I walked out on him last night.
The stain of red seems to be growing larger as I watch.
My fingers flutter to my throat.
No, this can’t be happening. It has to be a dream. I have to be stuck inside a nightmare.
Desperate to wake up, I pinch my arm but it hurts. Although nowhere near as much as my heart is hurting.
/> “It’s not funny. Wake up, Dylan. Please wake up. Honey, I believe you. I need you.” Hot tears pour from my eyes as I search for his pulse knowing deep down I won’t find one. I don’t.
I slap his cheeks, pummel his chest with my fists, but he remains still. His dead eyes continue to stare up at me but his body is like that of a statue.
Angry sobs break through me as I bury my face into the carpet, my hands pulling at my hair.
As the truth of the moment sinks deeper into my mind, a wave of nausea overcomes me.
I scramble to my trembling legs and race for the en-suite bathroom, but I don’t make it in time.
Warm, bitter bile gushes from my mouth onto the cream carpet, staining it yellow and green. My knees hit the floor and I retch until my stomach has nothing more left to give, until I’m heaving empty, alcohol-tainted air.
I sit in front of my vomit for a long time, afraid to look behind me at the horror scene.
I can’t sit here doing nothing. I should find out what happened, call someone for help.
But what would I say? How can I even start to explain what happened?
I peel myself off the floor and sway to the phone on the side of my bed. I’m about to dial, when I spot the sharp tip of a knife sticking out from underneath my pillow. It’s smeared with blood.
I shrink away from the bed, one step after the other until my back hits the cool window. My trembling hands come to my mouth, my head shaking from side to side.
Questions flood my mind, questions I’m afraid to have answers to.
This has to be a joke, some kind of prank. I couldn’t have ... I couldn’t have killed him.
My hands leave my face. I hold them in the air, watching the blood on them. His blood transferred to me when I was shaking him awake. My hands were clean when I pulled open the drapes earlier. Or were they?
I slide to the floor and draw my knees up to my chin. I was furious with Dylan last night, but not enough to kill him.
Before I fell asleep, I hated myself for loving him, for wanting desperately to give him another chance, to forgive him. Now it’s too late for anything.