Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
Isabella, three months later
Lace itches along my arms. A corset restricts my breathing. Garters dig into my thighs. I’m held together by yards of lace and ribbon and satin.
My father appears at my side. He smiles in that real way that crinkles his eyes. “You look beautiful, Isa. I’m so proud of you.”
He means it. This is what makes him proud. Not streamlining Bradley Hotel operations. Not overhauling our financial systems. It’s this. Marrying well.
That’s what makes him proud.
After Francisco left the building, I ran the numbers again. I called the banks again. I rattled the cage of every investor we know, but no one had that kind of liquid money to invest. And so I made the phone call to Francisco, the one he knew I would have to make.
“Thank you, Daddy.” He’ll never know what it costs me to say that. To swallow my fear and my pride. I studied comportment alongside my multiplication tables. Not one of the five hundred people in the cathedral will see the abject terror vibrating inside me.
His cufflinks are gold. I gave them to him on his birthday three years ago. I wonder if that’s why he wore them today. Or if he wore them because they have the Bradley Hotels logo on them. That’s his life. His baby. It’s also the reason I’m walking down the aisle in Paris, France, in the country that will be my new home. Francisco owns his own private plane. He travels extensively, but his home is a chateau in the countryside.
“You’ll be a good wife to him, won’t you?” His expression is odd. Concerned, even.
“Of course,” I say.
“Of course,” my father repeats, looking relieved. “You’ve always been a good girl. And he’ll be a good husband to you.” The last sentence is muttered, almost to himself. As if he’s trying to convince himself that it’s true.
Someone calls to him—I don’t see who—and at that moment my brother appears at his side. He’s unrecognizable from the man he was in that meeting. There’s no bluster, no fight. “You look beautiful,” he says, and then he pitches his voice lower. “Don’t do this. You don’t have to do this. Not for Bradley Hotels. We’ll find another way.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “I’m about to walk down the aisle.”
“Don’t.”
“Why not?” There are a thousand reasons not to back out. My family’s reputation, for one. The business I’ve worked so hard to save. But I find myself leaning closer to my brother.
“I should have stopped this.” Guilt darkens his expression. “I shouldn’t have been such an asshole in that meeting. I’ve heard things about this guy, Isa. Crazy things. That he’s controlling. That he’s a freak. And if I don’t try to stop you?—”
“You can’t stop me. This is done.” I give him my most confident smile. Francisco said some things during our private meeting. He used the word submit. At night you submit to me. If that’s what my brother is afraid of, then it’s not important enough to risk the collapse of the company. A hundred thousand jobs. I’ll trade my body for a hundred thousand jobs.
Even if a knot of fear is forming at the pit of my gut.
“He might?—”
The wedding planner interrupts him. She flits around us like a butterfly, making little tweaks to embroidered gauze over my skirt, the tendrils of blonde hair around my face.
Natalie. Her name is Natalie.
She’s murmuring into her headset, so it takes me a moment to realize she’s talking to me. “Are you ready?” she says in a whisper-yell.
I give her my serene smile. I learned it from my mother when I was five years old. Practiced it in front of the mirror with Estee Lauder lipstick on my lips. It’s not only Bradley Hotels on the line. If we were to fail, my younger brother and sisters would suffer. Robin is old enough to take care of himself, but the rest are still in middle school and high school. “Of course.”
Robin nods, defeated. “You look beautiful,” he says again, and then he goes to take his place inside the sanctuary. My dad ends his conversation and turns back to me.
Natalie beams at me. “You’re the calmest bride I’ve ever seen.”
It’s not the first time she’s told me that. Cake tastings and flower samples. Every inch of this wedding has been planned and purchased. It’s the event of the season.
The lights dim in the alcove, the way they do before the opera.
It’s our cue. Electricity moves through the air. It makes the hair on my arms stand up. I hear the muted opening strains of “Canon in D.” A door opens, and we emerge into the main hallway. The flower girl goes first. A distant cousin. I’ve met her twice. Then my bridesmaids. Most of them are family friends. I’ve known them forever, but we don’t hang out. My actual friends, the ones from college or people who work at the shelter—they’re in the audience. They warranted an invite, but not this particular honor.
My mother picked out the wedding party. My father picked the venue.
And my new husband commissioned the dress.
“Shall we?” my father asks, his lips curved like we share an inside joke.
What would he say if I told him no?
I barely even know the man at the end of the aisle. Who is he? Who am I? I can’t do this. Don’t make me. He’d probably say I’m being hysterical.
And anyway, I’m not a child. I know my duty.
My family paid exorbitant sums of money in private schooling so that I could repay them in precisely this way—with an advantageous match.
“Lead the way,” I tell him with a wink.
It makes him chuckle. “That’s my girl. A Bradley at heart.”
We reach the entrance to the cathedral. The powerful organ reverberates through the floor. Every single person—man, woman, and child—stands and turns to face me. It would be so easy to flush. To let my heart pound out of my chest and the blood rush to my face.
Instead I lift my chin. I face them down with a calm expression. A Bradley at heart.
Only, I won’t be a Bradley for much longer. Fifteen minutes, give or take.
My father steps forward. I grip the sleeve of his tuxedo so tight he must feel it. He must feel my terror, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He keeps walking, and so I do the only thing I can—I follow his lead. I float down the long carpet covered in rose petals.
At the end of the aisle, my groom waits for me.
Francisco Castille, the exiled Duke of Linares.
I suppose I should leave the “exiled” part off. It’s probably a touchy subject in his family. I wouldn’t know. I’ve never met anyone on the right side of the church. They move in European high society, while my family has been strictly New York City upper crust. This will be a merger of more than two people. It will combine businesses and connections. And, above all, this wedding will save my family’s entire world. Our livelihood. Our reputation. And the livelihoods of hundreds of thousands of employees. So if my groom is as controlling as my brother warned, then that’s the price I’ll pay.
That is the price I’ve promised to pay.
Francisco wears a tuxedo, naturally.
Some men stand stiffly in them. He looks as if he was born in that tux. As comfortable as I might be in my favorite sweater and worn jeans. It’s the royalty in him, I suppose.
Black hair. Thick brows. A stern expression.
So far away. The cathedral has to be huge to fit the guest list. Walking closer is like coming into focus, seeing the brackets around his lips, the small slash in his eyebrow. A scar, perhaps. How did he hurt himself? I have no idea. We’re basically strangers.
We reach the end of the aisle.
My father moves my hand into Francisco’s grip.
Then we’re left alone, two of us standing in a sea of people. About to be married.
“Fancy meeting you here,” he murmurs.
Through the delicate satin of my glove, I feel his strength. His heat. It’s a comfort, even though I barely know him. I match his dry tone. “I heard someone’s getting hitched.”
His lips quirk. “A wedding, you say. Nothing too fancy.”
This from the man wearing a five-hundred-thousand-dollar watch. Though it might be an ordinary daily wear watch when you’re a duke. “I thought about dressing up, but then I thought, nah.”
His black eyes are molten. His gaze sweeps over me from head to toe. I have the sense he can pull back all the layers of lace and gauze and see me standing here naked in heels. “You look stunning,” he tells me, his voice intense. “Gorgeous. There are no words.”
“Is that why you proposed?” The question slips out. My mother sits only ten feet behind me. If she could hear me, she’d be horrified. It’s not a proper question, especially not as the priest delivers a sermon in a carrying voice. Something about obeying and honoring.
Francisco doesn’t appear shocked by my forwardness. “That’s part of the reason. You’re a beautiful woman. I desire you. Is the attraction mutual?”
The question is a knot in my throat. What would he do if I said no? Would he put a stop to the marriage? It’s a ludicrous idea as we stand in the middle of the ceremony.
Then again, in order to say no I’d have to lie.
He’s handsome in the tabloids. Distinguished in photos from ceremonies. He takes my breath away in person. It’s more than bone structure or tanned skin. It’s charisma. An inherent power that he holds as easily as my hand.
“I see,” he murmurs. Apparently my pause was answer enough.
“Would you have called the wedding off if I said no?”
He gives a small shake of his head. We’re barely moving our lips, barely moving at all. The people in the pews are too far away to see or hear us. We look like any engaged couple in breathless anticipation. “I want you too much for that. Why? Are you looking for an exit?”
I grant him a demure smile. “You are handsome. And rich. And titled. It did make me wonder why you wanted a wife you barely even know.”
Arranged marriages are common enough among our friends. They aren’t announced that way, but when two wealthy families join together, it’s often planned. It’s not like they randomly meet on Tinder. But the bride and groom do meet beforehand. They’ve known each other for years, usually. They can both object early and discreetly if it’s clear they won’t get along.
This? This doesn’t happen.
“I know what I want. That’s not going to change.”
“Not even if I snore?”
His lips quirk. “Do you?”
“I have no idea. I’ve never slept with anyone else.” As soon as the words are out I wish I could call them back. My cheeks heat. I didn’t intend to confess that to him—and certainly not in a church. Then again, maybe he thinks I meant sleeping.
The curiosity in his eyes proves otherwise. “Interesting.”
“You didn’t ask.” It’s a little much to assume that a young woman is a virgin in these modern times, but he’s technically royalty. If there’s been a request for verification of my virginity, my mother would have had the family doctor between my legs before I could blink.
“It wasn’t a requirement.”
The priest is becoming louder, and I sense that we’re getting close to our vows. Close to the moment when the plain gold band slides on to my finger, joining the five-carat diamond that was delivered by armed couriers six weeks ago. “What are the requirements then?”
“Honor and obey me.” There’s challenge in his eyes. He expects me to balk.
I’m considering it. His lineage may go back centuries, but I live in the twenty-first century. Women expect independence and autonomy. I expect those things, too.
Then again, I can hardly feign surprise. A man who wanted a modern marriage wouldn’t approach a woman with an offer that included a dollar amount.
No, I knew he’d be traditional.
And I was groomed to be the perfect society wife.
Francisco's expression turns intent. “You understand what I mean, don’t you?”
Do I? I thought so, but I have no time to ask. No voice left.
The priest’s voice booms between us. “Francisco Absolon Castille, will you have this woman to be your wife in holy matrimony? Will you comfort her, honor her, and keep her in sickness and in health, as long as you both shall live?”
“I do,” he says, loud enough that his voice carries to the rafters.
“And you, Isabella Marie Bradley, will you have this man to be your husband in holy matrimony? Will you honor him, obey him, and keep him in sickness and in health, as long as you both shall live?”
Blood thunders through my veins. This one moment will change my life forever. I will honor him. I will obey him. That’s what my family needs, even if my knees feel like jelly under my dress. He waits for me with the patience of the moon. “I do.”
Triumph shines in his dark gaze.
The priest says a few more words before pronouncing us man and wife. “You may kiss the bride,” he says.
“Marie?” Francisco murmurs. My middle name.
I feel lightheaded. Maybe it’s adrenaline. Or maybe it’s the corset. Or maybe it’s the fact that he touches his knuckles to my chin, lifting my face to his. “My grandmother’s name.”
His head descends.
My eyes flutter closed. In the darkness, I can pretend that no one else is in the room. There’s only empty space—him and me, alone.
His lips brush mine. Heat licks through my body. His mouth glances over mine, again and again. It’s not perfunctory, this kiss. Not a form of punctuation or even a command.
It’s a conversation, much like the murmured one we had before our vows. He asks questions in this kiss and receives answers. My breath stutters. If the kiss in the boardroom was a greeting, this one is an intimate conversation over candlelight.
Light presses between my eyelids. We’re not really alone. Everyone’s watching us. Everyone’s waiting. It feels like the entire cathedral holds its breath. We should stop. I can hear my mother’s voice in the back of my mind. There’s probably some arcane etiquette rule for how long a couple can kiss at the altar. Whatever it is, we’ve already gone over the limit.
Francisco is in no hurry. One hand holds me at my waist, keeping me steady on my heels. The other cradles my jaw. I am both cherished and dominated in this moment. I both honor and obey as he coaxes my lips apart. His tongue presses inside for a small, possessive lick. I gasp, and he relents as if he was waiting for my true acquiescence.
Then he leads me down the aisle. I’m blind to the faces on either side. Somehow I manage a bright smile. It’s his arm that supports me all the way down.