Page 3 of An Inconvenient Marriage
I watched my father walk to the desk by the window of my hotel room. Beyond the glass, it was a beautiful day. The sun was shining brightly, but it wasn’t too hot. No sign of wind or rain.
The perfect day for a wedding.
I’d dreamt about mine, as all little girls do. And it didn’t matter how often the venue or the dress in my imaginings changed, that I married for love never did. For as long as I could remember, I’d wanted the white-picket-fence life.
The one where your husband adores you and the laughter of your children light you up from the inside.
And even when—especially when—the cruel fingers of reality snapped its claws into me and whispered in my ear how no one would want a used rag doll, I never stopped dreaming. Never stopped hoping.
And now look where all that hoping and dreaming had gotten me. I wasn’t marrying for love. I was doing it as an escape from a life I could no longer live.
Pushing pause on my thoughts, I forced my attention back to my father just in time to see him pick up my sketchbook. My heart thundered against my ribs and, without thinking, I rushed forward and snatched it from him.
A mistake.
And if it were any other day, his palm would have connected with my cheek already.
“Sorry,” I sputtered, hugging the book closer to my chest.
My father glared. “Give it here.”
“Please, no.”
He moved fast, clutching a fistful of my hair with one hand and yanking my sketchbook from me with the other. Releasing me with a shove, he flicked through the pages one by one.
My heart sped up, sadness already spreading through me like a wildfire. Because I knew what was coming. And if my father hadn’t stopped by earlier than I thought he would, I would have had time to hide my sketches before he could destroy them.
As if reading my thoughts, he ripped the pages piece by piece until there was nothing left. His hand was on my face not even a second later, squeezing my cheeks to the point of pain.
“I told you, I fucking told you, your hobby was on hold until you’ve completed your mission. Didn’t I tell you that?”
The question wasn’t rhetorical, and since he was holding me so tight, it was hard to nod, but I managed a small one.
“Then why the hell is it here? Did you think it was more important to doodle in your little book than go over our plan?”
There was no right answer here. No matter what I said, it would just land me in more trouble than I already was. Because how dare I have dreams of becoming a fashion designer? Of becoming something more than Trent Stevens’ daughter?
My father’s mouth opened, to spew insults at me, no doubt, but before he could utter a single one, a knock sounded on the door, followed by, “Room service.”
His glare flicked to me in question, and all I could do was lift my shoulders in a shrug. I hadn’t ordered anything, and I was certain he hadn’t either.
Another knock sounded.
My father threw what was left of my sketchbook on the floor, then dug fingers into my cheeks once more. “Consider this your first and final warning. If you don’t do what I need from you, not going to that stupid school will be the least of your petty little worries.”
His voice had an extra helping of venom that slithered over my skin. That wasn’t a warning, it was a threat, and I was absolutely terrified.
“I won’t let you down.” The words fell from my lips, soft and shaky.
His icy-eyed gaze roamed over my body, and his face twisted with disgust. “You already have.”
With that, he shoved me back and walked to the door. A cart with cloches was wheeled in not even a second after he’d left.
“Your breakfast, ma’am.”
I eyed the room attendant. He couldn’t have been much younger than my twenty-one years, but even he had more freedom than me.
With an inward sigh, I wrung my hands together and schooled my features.
