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Two.
“Let me be perfectly clear,” my father grouses in the same commanding tone he uses to steer boardrooms. “I can’t have any of your bratty nonsense tonight.”
Yes, because being forced to marry a stranger to save your family name and generations of wealth is the same thing as getting pissed off and going on a shopping spree on Michigan Avenue with your father’s money.
I turn my head slowly, fixing him with a look that would send my finishing school instructors into fits. “Bratty nonsense?”
“Don’t start, Cora.”
It takes every ounce of my self-control not to scream, though he was on the receiving end of hours of my fury last night. And again this morning. It takes the same amount of restraint—if not more—to refrain from opening the car door and throwing myself onto the pavement in hopes that the momentum will remove me from this nightmare.
“Think about your mother,” he adds, unable to hide the desperation underneath the steel in his voice.
“I am!” The words burst out of me. She’s the only reason I am even remotely agreeing to this. I press my palms against my thighs, rubbing them over my black cocktail dress, willing myself to calm down. “Jesus. I already said I’d do it.”
He studies me for a moment, his face half-lit by the glow of a passing storefront. “You’re certain?”
“I said yes, didn’t I?” I turn to the window with a huff as the restaurant comes into view. The striped cream-and-burgundy awning and brass fixtures gleam beneath the lights illuminating the La Voûte Céleste signage. While I’ve eaten here many times, I’ve never once walked through those doors feeling like a lamb being led to slaughter. Until tonight.
The doorman reaches for my door handle before the car even finishes pulling to a smooth stop at the curb. I step out into the unseasonably warm November air and begrudgingly take my father’s arm as he leads me inside. The maître d’ greets my father by name, and we follow him through the dining room filled with crystal and tables draped in white linen.
We stop at a table tucked into a quiet corner, and I force myself to look at the man who has decided to take my life. He’s nothing like I expected. He’s older than I thought. Much older. Old enough to be my father, if he’d started young. He’s wearing a suit, something from a department store sale rack, based on the generic cut and cheap fabric. His deep-brown eyes—currently fixed on me with an expression I can’t quite read—match his slicked-back hair and the thick, well-trimmed beard covering his face. With his broad shoulders and the confidence he exudes, if I had passed him on the street, I might have found him attractive, in a dangerous, unconventional way. But the circumstances I find myself in have poisoned everything.
“Roman,” my father greets this monster civilly, “This is my daughter, Cora. Cora, this is Roman Ashford.”
“Edward, I asked for dinner with my future wife, not my future father-in-law.” Roman’s voice is deep and gravelly as he rises to his feet. Practically shooing my father from the table, he rounds it with a predator’s grace to pull out the chair for me. My father lingers for a moment longer, helplessness radiating off him as he turns and walks away, leaving me alone with the enemy.
“Thank you for joining me.”
I roll my eyes. As if I had a choice.
I sit without thanking him, keeping my spine straight and my gaze fixed on the floral centerpiece, as he pushes me into the table before taking his own seat. A waiter appears immediately, pouring red wine into my glass without asking whether I want it.
“I’ve taken the liberty of ordering for you,” Roman shares. His voice carries the faintest trace of an accent—something working-class, Bridgeport or Avondale, maybe. It has been carefully smoothed at the edges, but it is still present. “The duck here is excellent. I thought you’d enjoy it.”
“I don’t eat meat,” I lie, grumbling without lifting my gaze from the garnet liquid filling my glass.
“You’ll find the accompanying salad is quite substantial.”
I take a large swig of wine, hoping it will make this dinner at least a little more tolerable.
He asks a handful of questions, and I reply to them all with indifferent one-word answers. The sharp silence stretches longer between each question, and I can feel his heavy gaze on me. “Are you determined to be difficult?”
Caught off guard at his brazenness, I look up before I can stop myself. “Yes. If you’re going to force me to do this, I’m going to ensure you hate every second of it as much as I do.”
With his eyes fixed on me, he picks up his wine glass and casually swirls the burgundy, almost sloshing it over the rim. “I recommend you learn how to get that little attitude of yours in check.”
“Or what?” The words fly out before I can stop them. “You’ll destroy my family? You’ll send my father to prison? You’ll make me marry you anyway?”
Roman sets the glass down with deliberate care. “I’m trying to be civil, Cora.”
“Don’t say my name like that.”
“Would you rather I call you angel?”
I grip the edge of the table, my nails digging into the linen as I swallow down my repulsion. “What do you want?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper. “Really?”
He leans forward, and I catch the scent of his musky cologne as the flickering candlelight carves shadows into the lines of his face. His already deep brown eyes appear even darker as they bore through me. “As I told your father,” he lowers his voice, making the natural gravel even more intense, “I want the life your family has. I want the power, respect, and never to be invisible again.”
