Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Isla
“In Vegas.” Evelyn clamps a hand over her mouth. “I shouldn’t have said that. She begged me not to breathe a word to anyone.”
Her attempt to get away from our parents and make sure they didn’t try to marry her off to anyone else?
Clearly Margaux is smarter than I am.
“Please don’t tell the judge or your mother.”
After walking out of here tonight, I’m not sure I’ll have anything to say to either of them again. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve done more than enough to repay everything they’ve ever done for me.
But when I get hold of Margaux, I’ll have plenty of questions that need answers.
“Dorian is glaring at you again.”
The rest of my life will probably be like this.
I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing I could be anywhere else.
The meal is a blur of small talk until something Lucian says captures my interest. “Hell is empty, and all the devils are here.” In his glass, he swirls the expensive Bonds whiskey he’d just had delivered to the table.
Before I can stop myself, I respond with a favorite Shakespeare quote of my own, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.”
Dorian ends with, “There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.”
His quote fits seamlessly with the first two, proving he’s got a greater depth than I thought. And because of that, I wonder if his selection has another meaning behind it. Has he overheard anything that Evelyn and I have been discussing?
“Well done, Isla,” he whispers in my ear.
I don’t respond. Because he’s surprised me too.
And that makes me wonder. How many more does he have in store for me?
Dinner is served with military precision, despite the earlier chaos.
The waitstaff moves like a well-orchestrated ballet, placing plates of butter-poached lobster and herb-crusted lamb before the guests.
The food is exquisite—I can tell from the appreciative murmurs around me—but I can barely manage a few bites. My stomach is too twisted with anxiety.
Dorian, on the other hand, eats with calm deliberation, cutting his meat into precise pieces, sipping his wine with appreciation. Everything he does speaks of control.
“You should eat,” he murmurs, nodding at the plate that I’ve barely touched. “You’ll need your strength later.”
The threat—or promise—in his voice makes me set down my fork entirely.
I barely manage to eat a few more bites, then thankfully the plates are cleared, and coffee is served. Not that I need any with the way my hands are shaking .
An eternity seems to pass before Mrs. Henderson crouches between us. “Are you ready for the DJ?”
Which I’ve learned is none other than the loudmouth internet and self-proclaimed marketing guru, Jaxon Mills. His podcast is consistently rated in the top ten most listened-to, and most often it lands in the top five. He gets pissed off if he falls out of first place.
How we’ve landed him as a DJ, I don’t know.
Then I look at my husband, and the whole thing makes sense. Jax came from nothing and made himself into a billionaire. No doubt he now moves in the same rarified circles as my husband.
And then his name hits me. Mills . His wife was Willow Henderson. So that makes our wedding planner his mother-in-law?
Most likely so. It makes sense that Dorian would work with people he trusted to keep their mouths shut and go along with whatever he wanted.
“Any objections?” Dorian asks me.
Would it matter if I had any? “That’s fine.” Nothing can slow down the steamroller that is running over my life.
A few minutes later, the lights dim slightly, casting the chandeliers’ prisms into a shadowed glow. A low hum of anticipation buzzes through the crowd, and I sit up a little straighter, wondering what’s going on.
Then, with a crackle of energy rivaling a lightning strike, Jaxon Mills strides out from the wings. He’s all swagger and sharp edges in his tailored tuxedo.
The spotlight catches him mid-jump as he leaps onto the stage.
His grin is triumphant, the microphone in his hand might as well be a scepter.
“He’s never met a stage he doesn’t want to be on,” Brennan says .
“Or a fucking microphone he doesn’t want to make love to.” Dorian shakes his head.
“All right, you beautiful people!” His voice booms through the speakers, deep and rough-edged, slicing through the murmurs like a blade. “Welcome to the night of your lives! We’re here to celebrate the unholy union of Dorian Vale?—”
Embarrassment claws at me. Had he really said that?
“And his stunning bride, Isla.”
Dorian touches my knee. Reassuring? Or warning me to stay put?
“Two souls bound by fate, fire, and sin.”
Who hired him? It couldn’t have been my sister.
“The day has been one to remember. Let’s make tonight one to envy!”
Some guests cheer; others laugh nervously. A few just shift uncomfortably. I’m grateful I can’t see my parents from where I’m sitting.
As always, Jaxon is as outrageous as he is unapologetic, and I have to respect that he’s had the courage to call out the chaos of our forced union, saying what everyone is thinking.
Jaxon energetically paces, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Now, before we get to the good stuff—because trust me, it’s coming—I’ve got a job to do. It’s time for the first dance, folks. So, Dorian, time to show off your bride and your dancing skills.”
A spotlight hits us, and I will the floor to open and swallow me whole.
Next to me, Dorian stands and offers his hand.
Once I’m by his side, he slides his hand from mine to the small of my back, his heated palm firm and possessive as we make our way across the ballroom.
Once more, I’m forced to resist my self-preservation instincts and instead stay with him.
The music shifts, a slow, pulsing beat filling the room— something raw and contemporary, not the stuffy waltz I’d feared.
After a couple of seconds, I recognize “Tennessee Whiskey,” but it’s a remix with a sultry, modern edge.
It wraps around me, and for a moment, I wonder what it would be like to actually be with a man I wanted, instead of one I was forced to marry.
We reach the center of the dance floor, and a much larger spotlight hits us.
“Relax, little one.”
Though Dorian’s voice is low his words aren’t an encouragement—they’re a command.
He slides one hand to my waist. Then he captures my hand and lifts it to his shoulder.
I hold myself stiff, and he grins as he locks his storm-gray eyes onto my face. Oxygen vanishes from my lungs as I’m caught up in him.
“Everyone’s watching and taking pictures.”
As if I don’t know that.
“You’ll want this to look believable,” he reminds me.
Like he had earlier, he pulls me close until my body is flush against his, the hard planes of his chest. My heart races as if I’m a wild thing trapped in a cage. I’m drowning in his masculine prowess, overwhelmed by the scent of him—sandalwood, leather, and the threat of ruin.
His breath brushes my ear as he leans in, his lips grazing the shell just enough to make me tremble. “This is where you are meant to be,” he whispers. “Every step, every breath, every thought—they belong to me.”
I want to push him away, to scream. But my body betrays me, softening against him, and all I can do is let him lead—across the dance floor, into the unknown, and straight into the shadows of whatever comes next.
As we move together, he tips my chin back and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear .
The gestures are meant to appear intimate for our guests.
And yet… They feel that way to me as well. I’m sure I’m being ridiculous, and the contrast confuses me.
He adjusts our positions so that we’re close, very close, but not scandalously so. Just like when he took me down the hallway earlier, I don’t hate the way he touches me, which only adds to my confusion.
His voice is low against my ear. “Earlier, I told your father it’s your choice whether you dance with him or not.” He studies me.
This is the first decision we’re making together. One of millions to come.
“Have you made a choice?”
“I have.”
“And?”
Continuing the rebellion that started when I moved out of the house, I shake my head. “No. Not after…” I struggle for a way to articulate my thoughts. The vile, unnecessary words he hurled at me, when I was doing what I had to in order to save my family.
“After what he said,” Dorian suggests.
“Yes.”
Dorian nods. “That’s my good girl.”
My good girl?
Why does his approval send skitters of warmth through me? His opinion doesn’t matter in the least.
Still, his support is important to me.
“He’s lucky I didn’t rearrange his face.”
“You wouldn’t!”
When he doesn’t immediately respond, I study him, unsure whether he’s serious. Maybe he is, I realize when he doesn’t reply at all.
Startling me, Brennan appears at our side, and he bows a little. “If you don’t mind,” he says to Dorian. “I’d like to finish out this dance.”
I gape.
With as ultrapossessive as Dorian is, I can’t imagine him being okay with this.
Making me reel, he nods. “Of course.”
What kind of man allows his best man to cut in on the traditional husband-and-wife dance? And why doesn’t he seem surprised?
“Behave yourself,” Dorian warns, but he’s said it to me, not to the man who’s his shadow.
Brennan can be trusted, but I can’t?
“He’s afraid you’ll run.”
I blink. I’m not sure what I’d expected him to say—most likely some kind of small talk. But to come out and say something like that? I’m more than a little intrigued.
From the corner of my eye, I catch Dorian striding toward the stage and Jaxon.
“Can you blame him?” He brings me in closer. “After all, one bride has already run away from him today.” Brennan’s smile is unexpected and dangerously charming, catching me off guard.
His hands settle on me with a confidence that mirrors my husband’s.
He rests one hand on my waist in a way that’s firm but not at all possessive. He clasps my hand with a gentleness that’s foreign after experiencing Dorian’s commanding grip.