Naomi #2
But sometimes destiny doesn't quite go the way you planned. Some blame God, some blame the devil, but either way, destiny has a funny way of panning out.
“Here comes my bride.” My eyes lift to my fiancé's booming voice as he descends the stairs. He’s splendidly polished, as per usual, a glass of brown liquor clasped in his hand.
When he reaches me, his eyes trail over me slowly, inch by inch, from stilettos to hairline. "You look stunning, Butterfly. Do a little twirl for me?"
My whole body catches on fire as he lifts my hand above my head. I spin on the spot, the train of my dress swirling around my feet, his gaze a physical weight on my skin.
When I stop, his eyes gleam like a collector admiring his newest acquisition. The corners of my smile stiffen. Three cameras flash in our direction.
"How did I get so lucky?" he murmurs. He tugs me against his chest, shoves his glass at Taylor—who fumbles, liquid sloshing over the rim—and drops me into a dramatic dip.
His lips crash into mine, hard and demanding.
And I stiffen as whiskey and cologne flood my senses.
My stomach clenches. His fingers dig into my back, and I force myself to play along, trying to ignore the wave of nausea bubbling in the pit of my belly.
I count the seconds until he stops—one, two, three. ..
The hoots and whistles of the crowd blend into white noise. As I hold my breath, lungs burning, he finally stands me upright.
I gasp, my hand twitching at my side, fingernails digging into my palm. The room spins with too many faces, too many eyes. But my lips curve upward, mechanically, like a robot companion.
I swat his chest, the fabric of his tuxedo smooth beneath my trembling fingers, trying to ground myself. "Keep your paws to yourself. You'll wrinkle my dress." I push my bottom lip out in a practiced pout.
Which only causes him to swoop in again, catching my lip between his teeth, before he whispers in my ear, “It’s so damn sexy when you pout. I can’t wait to see that dress on my bedroom floor later.”
It takes a little time to calm the thrashing of my heart, but Mark’s entrance makes for a good distraction.
“Well, aren't you two cute?” Of course, in true Mark fashion, he eye fucks me, mercilessly, before he adds, “You can still leave this asshole, and run away with me, you know?”
“Shut up, idiot.” Taylor smacks him on the back of the head. “That’s a married woman.” He shakes his head.
“Fuck,” he grumbles, rubbing the spot. “It was just a thought.”
“Some thoughts are inside thoughts, Mark,” Courtney hisses, rolling her eyes.
“Fine. You look nice, Ni,” he says, pulling a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter. “Better?”
Christian’s little sister, Abigale, cuts through our group, “Oh, good, here you are. Mom told me to come find you guys.”
I’ve only just walked through the door, and already I want to run and hide somewhere dimly lit and quiet.
“Coming! Lead the way,” I tell her, letting her pull me away.
Abby's arm snakes through mine, her fingers digging into the crook of my elbow.
Behind us, Christian's breath tickles my bare shoulder as he whistles—the same three-note tune he uses when appraising sports cars.
I cut him a glare over my shoulder, but he only leans closer as he whispers, "That dress is working overtime. "
On the second-floor landing, Mrs. Vance waves with diamond-heavy fingers. "Congrats, dear." Her eyes never quite meet mine. We pass three more guests, three more plastic smiles that make my cheeks ache.
The heavy mahogany doors to their father’s study creak as Abby pushes them open.
We step inside. His mother's crimson nails tap-tap-tap against the gold inlay of the massive desk, while his father remains motionless in the leather chair below her, eyes fixed on some middle distance, as imposing as the oil portraits lining the walls.
A man I’ve never met before leans against the corner of the desk, thick glasses perched on his nose. His beady eyes squint as he sizes me up.
“What the fuck?” Christian barks. “I thought I told you we’re not doing this.” He burst between his sister and me, planting his fist on the desk to stare his parents down. He looks to his mother first, and then his eyes land on his father.
“Son, this is for your own good,” the beady-eyed man says to him.
“I wasn’t talking to you, Grigor,” he grumbles, his sight never leaving his father’s displeased snarl.
The man backs off, having a seat in one of the leather-bound chairs, “I’ll let your parents take it from here then. I’m just here to drop off the finalized copy.”
“Finalized copy? What the hell?” Christian turns a deep scarlet color, something I’ve only witnessed once before, and I back away on instinct. I move out of the way just in time to watch him pick up his father’s half-filled tumbler and launch it across the room.
Glass explodes against the stone fireplace, shards catching the light like diamonds before they rain onto the hearth.
My shoulders jerk up to my ears, though no one else seems surprised or even blinks an eye.
His mother’s perfectly lined lips press together, the corners pulling down just slightly as she tilts her head a fraction to the right.
Her eyes soften on me—almost as if in an apology.
“I can see how passionate you are, son. Let’s ask your bride how she feels about it before you get all worked up.” Grigor says to him.
“Call me son one more time.” He starts to move toward the old man, and suddenly I snap out of my daze, blocking his war path as if I have a death wish.
“It’s okay, I don’t mind hearing them out. What is it?” I ask. Grigor sets his briefcase at the edge of the desk and presents a large manila envelope, aiming it in my direction. I take it from his gnarled hand, opening it.
“A prenup?” I slip it out of the envelope entirely and lift my eyes to meet Christian’s.
I can see him gauging my reaction. I even out my expression so that all my thoughts stay right where they belong: in my mind. “I’ll sign.”
His sister, only a few feet away, goes wide-eyed—though she doesn’t speak. Leafing through a couple of pages, I pause at a clause that is just as fucking alarming as his aggression.
Section 4: Family Planning.
Keeping my face apathetic is a struggle the more I read. The room stays dead silent while waiting for what I suppose is a verdict.
“Yeah, I’ll sign.” I nod once, putting the nonsensical pages back in the envelope.
“At least your bride is reasonable.” Grigor pulls a pen from the interior pocket of his Tom Ford suit, holding it out to me.
“After my lawyer looks it over, of course,” I assure him, giving him a beautiful smile.
“Of course.” He gives me a tight one in return, begrudgingly retracting his hand. The once smug smile turns into derision so sharp it leaves a bad aftertaste, but I don’t let on.
Gliding across the room, I link my arm through Abby’s as I head for the door.
“Nice to meet you, Grigor,” I say, glancing over my shoulder at the Cavanaughs’ lawyer one last time. “Enjoy the festivities.”
“Naomi...” Christian’s mother finally speaks, her voice trembling. When I fully turn to look at her, she meets her husband’s stern gaze first before she locks eyes with me. “You look beautiful,” she sighs.
“Thank you, Evelyn.”
Abby whirls me out of the door, and when it clicks shut, I swear I hear his baby sister barely whisper, “Don’t do it.”
“Naomi, a word.” The door clicks closed once more as I turn to face Christian. “Alone,” he says, leveling his gaze on Abby.
“I’ll catch up with you in a little while,” I tell her, as I plaster on another smile.
As soon as the sound of her heels fades away, Christian grabs my upper arm, tugging me into a room three doors down.
He shuts us in, pinning me against it. “You planning on leaving me, Butterfly?” he whispers, stroking a thumb over the side of my throat.
His other palm settles beside my head; I can’t lie, it unnerves me. I have to work hard to keep my body from shaking and even harder to keep my voice steady.
“Of course not.” I shove the envelope under my arm. Cupping his face in my palms, I press my lips to his chastely. “Why would you even think that?”
“Prenups are exit plans,” he grunts.
“They are safety plans; marriage is easier when you don’t have to think about all the what-ifs, my love.
” I give him an Eskimo kiss, trailing it along his jaw.
“My parents have one, and they have been happily married for years.” He groans when I kiss his neck.
“Let’s go back, they’re probably looking for us. ”
“You want me to go out like this?” he asks, pressing his prominent bulge into my side.
“Not at all.” I guide him backward onto a chaise lounge, and as he falls onto it, I lean over him. “Take all the time you need.” I plant a kiss on his cheek and barely slip free when he tries to pull me on top of him.
Turning my head over my shoulders, I give him a saucy smile, then I’m out the door.
“Naomi, goddamn it!” he shouts after me, but I’m too distracted to care.
I rip the prenup out of the envelope again, so I can make sure I wasn’t losing my fucking mind, and I reread the lines.
Section 4: Family Planning.
“In the event that Naomi Blaine does not conceive a child within the first three (3) years following her marriage to Christian Cavanaugh, Mr. Cavanaugh reserves the right to pursue conception outside the bounds of the marriage.
Should he successfully father a child with another woman, he may, at his sole discretion, confer upon her the legal status of wife.
In such an event, Ms. Blaine agrees to dissolve the marriage and relinquish all marital rights and claims to jointly held assets, including, but not limited to, real and personal property, financial accounts, and inheritance.
I blink.
Once, twice, thrice.
I’m not sure how long I stand there with what I’m sure is a look of disgust smeared across my face.
Marry him?