Chapter 7 – Maura
MAURA
My pajamas are a silky bridal white, trimmed with delicate ivory lace.
My stylist chose them for me, probably assuming that the night before my wedding, I’d at least try and sneak into the groom’s room.
Of course, since James and I have no sexual relationship yet, the only person to see them is me.
As pale as I am, I look like a ghost, covered neck to ankle in white.
Oh, well. At least they’re comfortable enough to lounge in while I wait for the hair and make-up artists to knock on the door of my hotel room. It’s a quaint country inn, with artfully faded wallpaper, antique damask-covered furniture, and views of bucolic hills spotted with wildflowers.
I lie on a lumpy ancient couch, staring at my phone instead of the landscape. I scroll mindlessly through Instagram, past posts by my favorite artists and incessant ads for shoes, not really taking anything in. I’m too wound-up and distracted to appreciate the peaceful view.
In three hours, I’ll be married.
I arrived late last night, after a day full of last-minute dress fittings and spa treatments.
Now, my nails are painted pale pink, my skin is moisturized and exfoliated, and my eyebrows are waxed into the acceptable shape.
I’ll look perfect in pictures today, which is the most important part of my wedding ceremony.
James and I didn’t write our own vows or choose the song that will play as I walk down the aisle.
I didn’t choose the flowers, which are all white and ivory and green.
They don’t even fill the small sunroom where the ceremony is taking place.
Instead, they’re all artfully arranged behind where James and I will be standing, where they’ll look perfect for the cameras.
We’re not even having a real reception, just posing for photographers and giving quotes to a few reporters. The photos will be released to approved press outlets by our publicists, announcing to the world that our marriage is legitimate.
It’s my wedding, but it feels like it couldn’t have less to do with me.
I’m scrolling past an ad for ballet flats when a text flashes at the top of my phone.
Unknown
I just thought you should know.
Underneath, there’s a link, probably spam. My thumb hovers over the delete button. Any other day, I’d block the number and move on. Today, though, I welcome any distraction.
I clink the link, which opens onto the Toronto Tea’s homepage, where I see a massive picture of my fiancé. He stares at the camera, his cold blue eyes narrowed. I scroll down to the headline and gasp.
The Villain of Sequel’s Cruelest Plot
By: Peppermint
We already know that James Keller has a block of stone where his heart should be, but his newest scheme is low, even for him. The ice king plans to take a queen this weekend, getting married in a small ceremony. Of course, there’s no love involved. Just money, power, and greed.
Keller teamed up with Victor Matthews, the CEO of Pages, to arrange a marriage between the Villain and Matthews’ daughter, Maura.
Apparently, Mr. Matthews has always planned to sell off his daughter to the highest bidder, and no one can pay as much as the Villain can.
Of course, there’s not a literal bribe, but an old-school promise of combining empires.
Once the marriage is official, the real union can start—the one between companies.
Maura might be walking down the aisle of her own free will, but does she know the truth about the man waiting for her at the end?
Does she know that all he has to offer her is cruelty, greed, and indifference?
Does she even realize how much more she deserves?
For years, Mr. Matthews manipulated his daughter into believing her only future was marrying a wealthy man, despite her own promising career as an artist. Now, poor Maura will be forced into a lonely marriage with a heartless scion to satisfy her father’s ambition.
Here’s hoping Miss Matthews pulls a runaway bride at the ceremony. We at the Toronto Tea would be happy to lace up your tennis shoes.
It feels like I’ve just swallowed a jug of ice water.
This can’t be happening. The private details of my life are plastered all over the internet.
Peppermint basically announced that my father sees me as little more than a pawn in his games instead of as a beloved daughter.
The Tea didn’t mention the contract, but it still boiled down my marriage to a business transaction, one where my husband only wants me for the money I can bring him.
The humiliation hits me at my core.
The worst part is, I’ve been reduced to some cautionary tale. Apart from my “promising career,” which is a stretch, considering I’ve only made a few thousand dollars from my paintings, the whole blog paints me like some pathetic pawn, being moved around by powerful men.
Even though I know I shouldn’t, I scroll down to read the comments. I’m sure there are plenty of people talking about what an idiot I am for signing the contract.
What kind of father would want his daughter married to a guy she has no relationship with? Doesn’t he give a shit about her happiness?
A billionaire seriously has to buy a woman to marry him? Heinous loser behavior.
So messed up. She’s a person, not a trading card.
Run, Maura, run!
The sentiments repeat themselves as I scroll down, strangers in the comments who are somehow furious on my behalf. It’s…unsettling, to say the least. They’re angrier at my father for setting up this contract than I ever allowed myself to be.
I guess my expectations of him were low enough that the whole thing didn’t surprise me. If I let myself be angry every time my father treated me more like an object than a person, I’d be constantly brimming with rage. I don’t want to waste my limited time on this planet being angry.
There’s a single knock on the door, loud and firm.
I know instinctively it’s not my hair and make-up team.
I head to the door and peer through the peephole.
James stands outside, already in a tuxedo, his dark hair combed back neatly.
He looks so perfectly handsome, you could set him on top of a wedding cake.
I’m not surprised to see him. I might not be supposed to see him until the ceremony, but that Toronto Tea article is exactly the kind of thing that would prompt an emergency visit.
Taking a deep breath, I open the door.
“Good morning, Maura.” His voice is perfectly neutral, not warm or upset.
“Isn't it bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding?” I joke weakly.
“I don't believe in luck.”
“What do you believe in, then?”
“Effort and strategy.” A crisp, practiced answer that tells me this isn't the first time someone asked him this question.
“Spoken like a true corporate villain.” I tilt my head. “Do you also believe in monologuing about your evil plans while the hero escapes?”
Something flickers in his expression—amusement, maybe. “Only if it’ll lead to a more cinematic ending.”
I step aside and gesture for him to enter. My father rented out the entire inn, but it’s still probably better for us to have this conversation in private. If Peppermint’s article proved anything, it’s that there are sources hiding in plain sight.
James’s tall form fills the small space, his black tuxedo a stark contrast to the pale wallpaper and furniture. I can smell the faint, clean scent of his cologne, something citrus-y. He doesn't take a seat on the lumpy sofa. He stands near the window, the view at his back.
“I assume you’ve seen the article,” I say. Might as well get straight to business.
“I have.”
Again, that neutral voice. His expression is so blank, we might as well be talking about the weather. Doesn’t it worry him that the deal behind our marriage is now public? Is he bothered that Peppermint called him a heartless, power-hungry villain? Does he actually give a damn about any of this?
“Peppermint wrote some pretty nasty things about you,” I say, watching his expression.
He shrugs. “I’m used to being cast as the villain.
It’s nothing new. My team is working on getting the post taken down as we speak.
It’s unlikely any other outlets will pick it up.
Between the Pages and Sequel PR teams, our publicists know how to keep papers under their thumbs.
If it pops up on any forums, they’ll find a way to scrub it.
They’re meticulous about keeping the truth under wraps. ”
“Then how did Peppermint find out about us in the first place?”
His lips turn down ever-so-slightly, the first indication that he cares about any of this. “There must be a leak. It might be at Sequel or at my lawyer’s office. We’ll find it and plug it, but it might take some time. Hopefully, we can isolate it before she writes anything about the contract.”
I swallow. Maybe this is par for the course for James—he’s a massively public figure, a billionaire bachelor whose name has headlined tabloids for years. For me, though, this is a massive change. I don’t expect James to hug me and rub my back, but I wish he’d say something reassuring.
He must pick up on my silent message, because he says, “Don’t worry.”
That’s it. Those are my fiancé’s words of comfort. He doesn’t even bother hiding how completely indifferent he is toward me, even on the morning of our wedding.
“Right,” I mutter. “I won’t.”
He lifts his wrist, glancing down at his Chopard watch. “I should leave you to get ready.”
“Wait.” I take a breath. There are so many things out of my control today, so much I can’t anticipate. I’d like to at least confirm what to expect tonight. “I took an ovulation test this morning to confirm. So are we still…going ahead with everything, after the wedding?”
It’s the most polite way I can think of to say, we’re still having sex, right?
“Of course.” He inclines his head. “I would never shirk my marital duties.”
“Of course,” I repeat in a deep voice, mocking his seriousness. Seriously, who says “shirk” out loud in the twenty-first century?
To his credit, his full lips quirk up in a small smile. That’s all I get from him before he strides out the door.