Page 15 of Theirs to Possess: The Marriage Claim
“Try to look happy, wife.”
Dorian leads me inside, as if I belong to him.
As if he’s training me to obey.
I miss a step.
“Pay attention,” he cautions as Brennan reaches to steady me.
This is too much to take in.
I’m sure some other woman—one who actually likes Dorian and doesn’t mind the oversize appendage who constantly shadows him—should be standing next to him, enjoying the sight of being honored by the country’s most elite multimillionaires and billionaires.
To everyone else, this probably looks like a fairytale. It should. The event was expensive enough that my parents had to take out a second mortgage on their fancy Tanglewood home. But to me, this is nothing more than a living nightmare.
Dark-suited men are positioned at strategic points around the perimeter of the room. They’re too professional to be guests, too alert to be waitstaff. Security, no doubt. And far more than is typical for a wedding.
I glance at Dorian, who doesn’t seem in the least bit surprised.
Had Margaux known about all these bodyguards? Our father is a very high-profile figure who has received death threats in the past, but we’ve never had bodyguards to protect us.
Nearby my father is standing next to Dante Moretti. Seeing them together takes me aback. A judge with a known member of the Mafia?
Dante’s smooth, rich voice seems to slice through the hum. “Your side business still thriving, I take it, Judge?”
Side business?I blink, and unease prickles my spine. What’s that supposed to mean?
My father’s answering laugh is polished—too polished. I’ve heard him use it to dodge tough questions from my mother. And the press.
A waiter is slowly walking around, holding a tray of champagne.
Finally.
“I’d like a glass,” I tell Dorian.
He blinks, as if my request surprises him. “Of course.”
On my behalf, Brennan snags one and offers it to me. Does this man ever go away?
“Thank you.” Gratefully I accept the beverage. With a small smile, I nod my appreciation to the waitperson.
Annoyingly, but not surprisingly, Dorian doesn’t let me go.
“I can’t manage to drink this with my left hand,” I insist when we are alone.
“Deal with it.” Then he flashes a wicked, devastating grin and adds, “Darling.”
Another waiter passes, carrying an elaborate appetizer display. The wedding planner’s assistant is nearby, whispering into her headset about timing adjustments and server rotations.
I see where every penny of the budget went. But thanks to my mother’s micromanagement, I have to admit the event is spectacular, even if I ruined the look of the couture wedding gown. No wonder the seamstress had been so upset.
From across the room, Evelyn catches my eye, her face a mixture of sympathy and worry. She starts toward us, but Dorian’s subtle head shake stops her in her tracks. My one ally, effectively neutralized.
I catch snippets of whispered conversations as we move through the crowd.
“—not at all like her sister?—”
“—something’s not right?—”
