Chapter 2
TWO
SADIE
The lie was actually a series of lies, and they’d started when I’d reached the section in the application about sexual compatibility.
On a scale of one to ten, I’d marked my desire for sex as a one.
The lowest possible score. At the time, it had seemed appropriate, since I was freshly dumped and men were generally awful.
I was also harboring a secret second lie, which was the fact that my body didn’t work like it was supposed to. I had a condition called vaginismus, which I’d neglected to mention in the medical history portion of the application. With sexual desire marked as nonexistent, I’d figured I was covered.
I’d figured wrong.
Vaginismus caused my pelvic muscles to spasm and clench involuntarily, which led to extremely painful penetrative sex.
It was curable, supposedly. With relaxation exercises, meditation, stretching, and cognitive behavioral therapy, the brain could be rewired to stop the vaginal muscles from clenching so hard.
Apparently. But all the money and effort and therapy and dilator kits and manual stretching and various homeopathic concoctions that may or may not have been actually poisonous had never worked for me.
Penetrative sex always hurt. I could do other things.
I could orgasm with clitoral stimulation.
I could use my hands and mouth and toys with enthusiasm, and my previous partners had always assured me that they would wait for me to fix myself.
Inevitably, though, the sighs and eye rolls and frustration would build up, the pressure made me shut down, and my desire for any sort of intimacy cratered.
Resentment ballooned on both sides. Weeks or months—or, in Henry’s case, three and a half years—would go by, and a breakup followed.
That was the pattern of every romantic relationship I’d ever had.
As consistent as the sunrise. As predictable as the tide.
If I’d loved myself a little more, I probably would’ve given up on finding a partner by now and instead found a way to make a life on my own.
Unfortunately, I’d always wanted my happily-ever-after to include someone else. I’d always wanted what I couldn’t have.
So I was here, trying this. The compromise I’d made with fate was that my happily-ever-after wouldn’t include sex.
I’d given up: Sex was off the table, and I thought I’d finally found peace with it.
But it wasn’t so much that I didn’t want sex.
It was more that I found sex to be unbearably, unfailingly painful, if it was done the way that men typically wanted to do it.
After Henry broke things off with me, I figured that part of me had withered away to nothing. I hadn’t experienced any inkling of desire in so long that I couldn’t quite remember how it was supposed to feel.
Until now.
Until Gideon stared at me, scarred and big and vaguely threatening, his touch on my waist sure and soft. Like he was holding something precious.
The expression in his eyes was as thunderstruck as I felt.
No, not thunderstruck. It was hungry. The intensity of it made my head spin.
Lust crashed into me, staggering in its violence.
Desire tore a hole through me, carving out a space in my gut that instantly filled with tight, hot need.
I wanted him to look at me like that all the time, forever, until I died.
But he dropped his hand from my waist and twisted his lips, angling his face away from me.
He recoiled. The space between us widened and filled with the chill of his expression, and I sucked in a deep breath.
Logic provided me with an explanation: We were supposedly a perfect match, which meant his sexual desire was low.
He didn’t want me that way. Probably, he didn’t want me at all.
He was disgusted with me. He’d seen how desperately turned on I’d become with the press of his thumb against the space below my breast, and he’d wanted to get away.
An alarm clanged in my head. Now it really was time to turn back. Time to run.
I’d been prepared for a marriage of convenience.
We would’ve found some sort of middle ground, lived our own lives, and reached a kind of companionship that wasn’t quite love but was still mutually beneficial.
That’s what I’d told myself. I would never have the everlasting love of a perfect marriage that I so desperately craved.
No man would shackle himself to me when I could never meet all his needs.
Time and time again, I’d had that lesson beaten into my battered heart.
Sex really was that big a deal. No man had ever looked at me and said, You’re worth it, even if I can’t put my penis in your vagina.
For a long time, I hadn’t thought it was too much to ask, but now I’d finally come to terms with reality.
I wasn’t ever going to be enough, with my stubbornness and my big mouth and my malfunctioning lady parts.
That was why this arranged marriage had seemed like such a good idea. This marriage wouldn’t be about love, but it could be full of respect and perhaps, someday, affection. Sex wasn’t supposed to come into it.
But now I was attracted to him. Now it wasn’t just a parallel life and companionship. Now it was one-sided desire. Unrequited lust. Now it was torture. I hadn’t signed up to be edged for the rest of my life.
Because the reality was, I loved sex. I loved touching and being touched. Up until it had been worn out of me by constant pain and rejection, I’d been horny all the time.
I stood next to Gideon as he glared at the altar, my body leaning toward him like it knew it would feel so good to have those big, warm hands on it again.
My pulse pounded. I teetered on my heels.
The wetness in my underwear clung to my intimate flesh, cold, uncomfortable, a reminder of Gideon’s rejection.
And I still wanted him. Wanted him to turn his head and look at me so I could feel electrified again. Wanted him to throw me over that broad shoulder and take me to his lair.
I was a mess. This wouldn’t end well.
Time to do as Gideon suggested and pull the freaking plug. Panic nipped at me, sending my heart thumping all over again. He would be relieved. I’d be doing us both a favor.
But then what?
My life in New York was in shambles. I’d lost my business’s studio space because I hadn’t been able to afford the rent.
I’d sold off all my furniture and packed all my belongings into two suitcases and one cardboard box.
I had no friends. I had no home. I very nearly had no business, unless a horde of brides suddenly appeared and told me they wanted to throw money at me.
I could go back. I could scrape by, pretending to be a raging success while doing last-minute balance transfers and praying for a new client in order to pay the most pressing bills.
Fake it until I made it. Work until the holidays, when I would go on my family’s yearly ski trip so I could see them all being blissfully married while I was relegated to the air mattress on the chalet’s living room floor.
Endure the little comments and jabs about my spinsterhood, pretending they didn’t hurt.
Explain again why Henry had dumped me when he would’ve been the perfect addition to our family, him being a successful hotelier who owned the most popular wedding venue in the state of New York.
Move in with my parents. Die a little inside.
Date someone else. Get dumped by someone else.
Rinse and repeat, year after year after year.
With wedding singers as parents, a florist for a sister, and a superstar videographer for a big brother, my failure to acquire a ring for my finger wasn’t just embarrassment.
It was existential. I didn’t belong in my own family.
My success as a wedding dress designer had been a lie.
I was a big ole hypocrite. And now that my business had finally fallen apart, the reality would be exposed.
I had nothing left to lose.
“Let’s do this,” I said, throwing my shoulders back. I took one single step—and winced as pain sparked up my ankle.
Gideon shifted, the line between his brows turning into a chasm as he frowned. “You’re hurt,” he rumbled.
I straightened, glaring at him. Nice try, buddy. He wasn’t going to use this as an excuse to call off the wedding. “I’m fine.”
“You’re clearly not.” His arm extended slightly toward me, as if he wanted to touch me. Then he dropped it, because I was repulsive to him.
“Do you make it a habit to tell women how they’re supposed to feel?”
He faced me fully again, and the weak, spineless, self-destructive part of me preened; all his attention was back on me. “Put your weight on your foot, Sadie,” he said, voice deep and unimpressed.
He knew my name, and it sounded lewd when he said it like that.
Not that he was saying it in some special way—that was just his voice.
And of course he knew my name. He would’ve gotten the same profile that I got.
Name, occupation, likes, dislikes. A three-page distillation of everything that I was and had and wanted.
Barring a few little fibs, of course.
Still, I was so far gone that the sound of my name on his tongue made my heart convulse.
He watched me, waiting for me to tap out.
But I wasn’t going to let him use a measly twisted ankle to call off this marriage.
I wouldn’t allow it. I would make it to the end of the aisle if it freaking killed me.
I gritted my teeth and took a step. As soon as my heel bore my weight, pain darted up my leg.
Not unbearable, but not exactly comfortable either.
It throbbed, but I lifted my chin and met Gideon’s glare.
I was sure that I hid my pain—I had a lot of practice, after all—but his eyes still flashed as his jaw tightened.