Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Isla
Through clenched teeth, I smile up at him. “Has anyone ever told you that you can catch more bees with honey than with vinegar?”
“Not familiar with the concept,” Dorian replies easily with a casual shrug, his smile equally as fake.
The man I don’t want to be married to has a few things to learn about me. I enjoy my independence as much as I despise being bossed around.
Despite the way I reacted to him a few minutes ago, I’m resolved to keep my emotional distance from him.
In fact, if he has any hope of this relationship working and me doing what he wants, he’s going to have to stop being a world-class asshole. “I’m happy to teach you.”
“You’re welcome to try, little one.”
Marcella captures a few shots of us looking deliriously happy. Off to the side is Brennan, carefully out of the frame but never far away.
“I’ll meet you back inside soon,” the photographer promises before hurrying away, no doubt to plaster my disheveled appearance on Scandalicious. Absently I wonder how much money she’s getting for the exclusive pictures.
Once we’re alone, the wedding planner moves toward us.
“Mr. and Mrs. Vale.” Nothing in her tone indicates that our behavior was unusual.
“Glad you’re back.” Her hands are curled around her ever-present Bonds tablet.
“In light of your…temporary absence, I made an executive decision to skip the reception line and encouraged your guests to enjoy the cocktail party.”
“Excellent choice,” Dorian approves.
So he doesn’t hate independent women. He just wants his wife to be subject to his whims and moods.
“If you’d like to set up the receiving line now, I can gather the appropriate people.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Henderson. That won’t be necessary.” He gives her a small smile. “I trust the wedding party and my wife’s parents to introduce themselves.”
“Very well.” She confirms the time for the plated dinner and dancing.
For the first time, he looks to me.
“Double check with my mother?” I suggest.
After tonight, though, I’m sure I’ll be expected to act as his hostess. Joy.
“I’ll do that.” With a nod, she speaks into her headset.
In front of us, the massive double doors are closed. I wish they could stay that way. If I could skip the next few hours, I would.
Once I’m inside, I’ll move even further away from my old life and deeper into Dorian’s realm.
The sound of a quartet drifts toward us. Because of the endless hours I spent seeped in instruction on classical music, I recognize “Air on G String.” The yawn-inducing piece is not one I’d have chosen in a million years .
Who’s to blame for the selection? Mrs. Henderson? Or my mother? I know for a fact it wouldn’t have been Margaux. She doesn’t like baroque any more than I do. Tonight the music seems to have a slightly funereal sound to it.
I scoff.
So maybe it is fitting after all.
“Shall we go in, darling?”
His grip on me tightens a little more, letting me know I don’t have a choice. But it’s his tone—dripping with false concern—that bothers me the most.
Part of me wants to resist, stall a few minutes longer. Yet I suddenly want a glass of champagne or, even better, something much stronger.
“Remember,” Dorian murmurs against my ear, his breath warm and threatening, “smile like you mean it.”
At Dorian’s nod, Brennan pulls open the heavy doors. My heart thunders as I’m assaulted by the atmosphere of the reception.
Along with the string quartet, there’s a low buzz from the conversation, the clinking of crystal, and the quiet lull of a world that operates on power and reputation. A gilded cage.
On the small stage, the music abruptly stops.
The leader—at least that’s who I assume it is—stands and reaches for the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen!”
The guests direct their attention to him.
“Please welcome Dorian and Isla Vale!”
It’s the first time I’ve heard my first name with his last one, and a breath lodges in my throat, promising to choke me.
Marcella snaps a photo.
“Try to look happy, wife.”
Dorian leads me inside, as if I belong to him.
As if he’s training me to obey.
I miss a step .
“Pay attention,” he cautions as Brennan reaches to steady me.
This is too much to take in.
I’m sure some other woman—one who actually likes Dorian and doesn’t mind the oversize appendage who constantly shadows him—should be standing next to him, enjoying the sight of being honored by the country’s most elite multimillionaires and billionaires.
To everyone else, this probably looks like a fairytale. It should. The event was expensive enough that my parents had to take out a second mortgage on their fancy Tanglewood home. But to me, this is nothing more than a living nightmare.
Dark-suited men are positioned at strategic points around the perimeter of the room. They’re too professional to be guests, too alert to be waitstaff. Security, no doubt. And far more than is typical for a wedding.
I glance at Dorian, who doesn’t seem in the least bit surprised.
Had Margaux known about all these bodyguards? Our father is a very high-profile figure who has received death threats in the past, but we’ve never had bodyguards to protect us.
Nearby my father is standing next to Dante Moretti. Seeing them together takes me aback. A judge with a known member of the Mafia?
Dante’s smooth, rich voice seems to slice through the hum. “Your side business still thriving, I take it, Judge?”
Side business? I blink, and unease prickles my spine. What’s that supposed to mean?
My father’s answering laugh is polished—too polished. I’ve heard him use it to dodge tough questions from my mother. And the press .
A waiter is slowly walking around, holding a tray of champagne.
Finally.
“I’d like a glass,” I tell Dorian.
He blinks, as if my request surprises him. “Of course.”
On my behalf, Brennan snags one and offers it to me. Does this man ever go away?
“Thank you.” Gratefully I accept the beverage. With a small smile, I nod my appreciation to the waitperson.
Annoyingly, but not surprisingly, Dorian doesn’t let me go.
“I can’t manage to drink this with my left hand,” I insist when we are alone.
“Deal with it.” Then he flashes a wicked, devastating grin and adds, “Darling.”
Another waiter passes, carrying an elaborate appetizer display. The wedding planner’s assistant is nearby, whispering into her headset about timing adjustments and server rotations.
I see where every penny of the budget went. But thanks to my mother’s micromanagement, I have to admit the event is spectacular, even if I ruined the look of the couture wedding gown. No wonder the seamstress had been so upset.
From across the room, Evelyn catches my eye, her face a mixture of sympathy and worry. She starts toward us, but Dorian’s subtle head shake stops her in her tracks. My one ally, effectively neutralized.
I catch snippets of whispered conversations as we move through the crowd.
“—not at all like her sister?—”
“—something’s not right?—”
“—did you see how he looked at her?—”
The Houston elite are like sharks scenting blood in the water, their polite smiles barely masking their hunger for scandal.
In the corner, I spot Dante Moretti again, this time deep in conversation with a man I don’t recognize. His eyes meet mine for a brief moment, and his smile sends ice through my veins.
My worst fear comes true when Dorian moves me toward the Mafia underboss. If rumors can be believed, he was the family’s enforcer before his father’s recent assassination.
“Mrs. Vale.” Respectfully he bows his head. “Quite a ceremony.”
He clearly has enough manners to leave it at that. “Memorable, wasn’t it?” I respond.
“Forgive the oversight. We haven’t been introduced. I’m Dante Moretti.”
I know who you are. And every part of me is screaming to get as far away from you as I can. “Nice to meet you.” I almost choke on the lie.
My husband releases me to shake the man’s hand, and I seize the opportunity to cradle the globe of my glass between my palms. Now he can’t hold onto me without making a scene.
Brennan glances away to hide a smile.
So he’s human after all. Does he know how to actually communicate? Or is he a Neanderthal?
Shocking me, Dorian places his fingers on the small of my back. His touch is possessive and electric, and sensation arcs through me, almost causing my champagne to splash out of my glass.
Unwanted, the recollection of the way he’d brought me off a few minutes ago sears my memory, and suddenly the room is closing in on me, making it impossible to breathe.
God. Holding his hand was much better than this .
“Everything okay, darling?” Leaning in, he slides lower to squeeze my ass.
I’m jolted, rising onto my tiptoes.
If anyone has noticed, they’re too polite to stare.
Frantically trying to school my features, I somehow manage, “Just…everything is so overwhelming.”
“Surprise after surprise.” He reaches over to thread a finger into one of my wayward curls.
The photographer appears like a ghost, camera in hand, her smile practiced and pleasant, and she captures the moment of fake intimacy. Obviously the bastard had known she was close by.
“Pretend I’m not here,” she instructs.
As if that’s possible.
She zooms in and out, recording every detail.
After he stops with the fake adoration, Dorian shakes hands with a man who joins us.
“Altair Montgomery,” he offers by way of introduction.
The man is a little pale, and his eyes are an unnatural golden color that give me the chills.
To avoid having to touch him, I lift my glass. “Happy to make your acquaintance.” My etiquette teacher would be so proud.
“Altair owns the Retreat,” Dorian explains.
“Ah. I see.” Since I’ve never heard of it, I keep my response noncommittal. “How very nice for you.”
Leaning down a little, speaking against my ear, Dorian educates me by adding, “It’s a BDSM club in downtown Houston.”
“A…” I choke on my sip of champagne. Dear God. There’s no way I could have heard him correctly.