Page 9 of The Marriage Agreement
“Yeah, this is the right dress,” Terry says, admiring the sheath lace wedding gown. “Not too wedding dressy, but not too dull, you know. Really nice.” She’s turned one of the living area chairs backward and sits wide-legged.
“Thanks.” The dress is elegant in an understated way. Not at all the dress I imagined I would wear when I marry Damien. I’m too embarrassed to even remind myself of the silly dreams I would spin about this day.
“Way better than Nicole’s choice,” she says. “That thing made you look frumpy, and I’m pretty sure it was deliberate.”
I frown. “Deliberate?”
“You didn’t hear it from me, but she has a not so secret crush on our big boss. Two Christmas parties ago, she famously made a drunken confession to the other assistant that she’s trying to get the,” Terry rubs her ring finger.
Every time I’ve interacted with Nicole, she has been a brick wall of professionalism. I don’t know why, but I can’t reconcile the serious pencil skirt and tight French bun woman with this version Terry is telling me. Suddenly I feel sorry for Nicole and want to reassure her. “Does she know that this is only a temporary, purely business arrangement?”
Terry smirks. “I would tell her, but she’s a bit snotty, so I’m going to let her wallow in her pain.”
I chuckle. Developing a friendship with Damien’s lawyer is weird as fuck, but so many odd things have happened so far, some of which I instigated. But fuck it, I’m going to roll with it.
A knock sounds on the door at this moment and Terry goes to answer it. Damien enters the room, and he pauses at the door, staring at me. Dressed in a black wedding suit that fits him perfectly, he looks like the groom I envisioned him to be in my teenage fantasies. And the longer he stares, looking as handsome as he is, the more nervous he makes me. “Something wrong with the dress? It’s not too much, is it?”
He shakes his head. “Ready?”
I nod.
“Good. Let’s go.”
The car journey to the chapel is silent. Somehow, it feels awkward to sit next to the person you’re about to marry, even when that marriage is as empty as ours. The car feels too small and the air a little constricting. I am afraid to speak. Afraid to say something that would make him change his mind and ruinthis hare-brained scheme of mine. After a long bout of silence, Damien says, “A friend of mine has planned a wedding reception of sorts. For us.”
“A reception?” I wasn’t expecting any of his friends to join us, let alone plenty enough for a reception.
He nods. “When he heard we were staying at his hotel, he insisted.”
“I didn’t plan on turning this into a whole thing. I don’t want my family to find out.”
He brushes his forehead. “Don’t worry. I told him it was a private affair, but he still insisted on throwing one just the same. It’ll just be us, him and his wife, plus the witnesses.”
“The witnesses?”
“Seems like you and Terry got on well in just a morning.”
“Who told you that?”
“Nicole. She tells me everything.”
“So she’s your spy?” My voice is more high-pitched than I intended, betraying my highly emotional state. I initially thought we would just go to a New York court and be done with it. But ever since I agreed to the deal, he has flown me to another state, made me wear a wedding gown, and now he is planning a reception. A lot of things are happening all at once and to add to that, he’s been low-key spying on me?
“Of sorts. Our arrangement is unusual? I don’t trust my fiancée. It’s only natural I make sure she isn’t up to any tricks.” I roll my eyes and turn my gaze to the window. As I would do anything to ruin the deal. I need this to work more than he does.
After a short drive just outside the city, the car slows down into a parking lot of a cute-looking chapel and comes to a stop. We’re here. Damien is the first to get out of the car. My hands get clammy and I rub them against the dress, but it’s no use. They clam up again. I’m about to get married.
I am about to get married to Damien fucking Sinclair. My chest compresses as the weight of what I am doing becomes real. That odd flight or freeze feeling grips me.
Damien extends his hand. I take a deep breath and place my palm on his. He helps me out of the car.
The chapel he chose is quaint and more traditional than I expected. It’s a small building styled after a typical roman catholic cathedral.
“I should go first,” he says.
I nod and breathe in deep again. “Right. Of course.”
I watch him as he enters the chapel. Nicole materializes beside me and thrusts a bouquet in my hand. A few minutes later, I hear an organ playing and I enter. The ceremony is short and more romantic than it should be. It feels less like a formal agreement and more like a wedding for two people who can’t wait to be together. The chapel is not as tacky as I imagined. Instead of an Elvis impersonator, the officiator is a stout smiling woman in a white pantsuit. The chapel even went through the trouble of decorating it with blue and white flowers. Damieneven bought rings.
