Page 18 of Theirs to Possess: The Marriage Claim
“We’re ready,” Dorian responds.
Mrs. Henderson guides the three of us to another room that Marcella has set up with a greenscreen background.
She has two assistants and equipment I can’t begin to name, including blinding cameras and shades.
“I’d like to start with just the two of you,” Marcella tells Dorian.
Does what I think even matter?
A makeup artist swoops in to touch up my lipstick and my blush.
Once that’s done, Dorian allows Marcella to position us, shifting me so I’m facing her more. His grip on my waist is like a brand.
Mrs. Henderson fluffs the back of my dress, letting the small train fall in a gentle pool of expensive fabric.
“Smile,” Marcella coaches us.
Doing that takes all my determination.
I lose track of how many times she presses the shutter, accepts a camera with a different size lens, and makes tiny adjustments to our poses.
“How about one with your arms around my neck?” he asks.
“I’m sure that’s not?—”
“Great idea,” Marcella responds, speaking at the same time I do.
Expectantly she waits for me to follow my husband’s suggestion. Sighing, I turn toward him and loop my arms around his neck.
“Much better.” With a feral grin, he clamps his hands on my hip bones and brings me in closer.
Ridiculously close. So much so that his massive erection presses into me. I glare at him. “This is?—”
“Stay where you are. Unless you want the pictures to show my”—his grin deepens—”situation. How much I am looking forward to the honeymoon.”
I wish the floor would swallow me whole.
He quirks a brow. “Isla?”
Having no choice, I stay where I am, inhaling him, feeling his strength. Right now, I hate him more than ever.
“Great shot!” Marcella calls out. “Let’s get some with the wedding party.”
Brennan strides over, and Evelyn approaches cautiously, her champagne-colored bridesmaid dress catching the light.
She takes her place beside me. Her hand finds mine. It’s the smallest gesture of support, but it means everything. “You’re doing great. Really.”
Thankfully Brennan is next to Dorian, so at least I don’t have to contend with him.
A flurry of poses follows, the flash bursting like small explosions, each one stealing a piece of me, immortalizing this moment in history. Dorian is perfect in his role. But I feel brittle, breakable.
Then my mother enters the room and smooths an imaginary wrinkle from my sleeve, as if presentation alone can hold our fractured world together.
My father doesn’t bother looking at me. He stands beside me, rigid as a statue, his jaw locked tight, his eyes unreadable. The man who sold both his daughters to save himself can’t even pretend to enjoy the moment. Why would he? He has hands to shake and pockets to steal from.
Marcella, to her credit, keeps the session moving, guiding us with smooth efficiency. “All right, now just the bride between the groom and best man.”
“We can go?” my father asks.
