Page 14 of Theirs to Possess: The Marriage Claim
Marcella captures a few shots of us looking deliriously happy. Off to the side is Brennan, carefully out of the frame but never far away.
“I’ll meet you back inside soon,”the photographer promises before hurrying away, no doubt to plaster my disheveled appearance onScandalicious.Absently I wonder how much money she’s getting for the exclusive pictures.
Once we’re alone, the wedding planner moves toward us. “Mr. and Mrs. Vale.” Nothing in her tone indicates that our behavior was unusual. “Glad you’re back.” Her hands are curled around her ever-present Bonds tablet. “In light of your…temporary absence, I made an executive decision to skip the reception line and encouraged your guests to enjoy the cocktail party.”
“Excellent choice,” Dorian approves.
So he doesn’t hate independent women. He just wants his wife to be subject to his whims and moods.
“If you’d like to set up the receiving line now, I can gather the appropriate people.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Henderson. That won’t be necessary.” He gives her a small smile. “I trust the wedding party and my wife’s parents to introduce themselves.”
“Very well.” She confirms the time for the plated dinner and dancing.
For the first time, he looks to me.
“Double check with my mother?” I suggest.
After tonight, though, I’m sure I’ll be expected to act as his hostess.Joy.
“I’ll do that.” With a nod, she speaks into her headset.
In front of us, the massive double doors are closed. I wish they could stay that way. If I could skip the next few hours, I would.
Once I’m inside, I’ll move even further away from my old life and deeper into Dorian’s realm.
The sound of a quartet drifts toward us. Because of the endless hours I spent seeped in instruction on classical music, I recognize “Air on G String.” The yawn-inducing piece is not one I’d have chosen in a million years.
Who’s to blame for the selection? Mrs. Henderson? Or my mother? I know for a fact it wouldn’t have been Margaux. She doesn’t like baroque any more than I do. Tonight the music seems to have a slightly funereal sound to it.
I scoff.
So maybe it is fitting after all.
“Shall we go in, darling?”
His grip on me tightens a little more, letting me know I don’t have a choice. But it’s his tone—dripping with false concern—that bothers me the most.
Part of me wants to resist, stall a few minutes longer. Yet I suddenly want a glass of champagne or, even better, something much stronger.
“Remember,” Dorian murmurs against my ear, his breath warm and threatening, “smile like you mean it.”
At Dorian’s nod, Brennan pulls open the heavy doors. My heart thunders as I’m assaulted by the atmosphere of the reception.
Along with the string quartet, there’s a low buzz from the conversation, the clinking of crystal, and the quiet lull of a world that operates on power and reputation. A gilded cage.
On the small stage, the music abruptly stops.
The leader—at least that’s who I assume it is—stands and reaches for the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen!”
The guests direct their attention to him.
“Please welcome Dorian and Isla Vale!”
It’s the first time I’ve heard my first name with his last one, and a breath lodges in my throat, promising to choke me.
Marcella snaps a photo.
