21. Allie
Allie
The wedding party at Rico’s parents' house was lovely—if you’re into unwilling smiles, cold handshakes, and pretending your brand-new husband isn’t silently plotting his escape the entire time.
I’d swapped the bridal marshmallow dress for a sleek white silk gown, smooth as butter and blessedly free of fifty pounds of tulle.
The beaded lace straps gave it just enough “bridal” without screaming I just signed away my independence in glittering rhinestones.
My new sisters-in-law, bless their optimistic hearts, had already stuffed the wedding gown into a garment bag, promising to have it cleaned, pressed, and sealed so I could “treasure it forever.” As if I’d gaze fondly at it one day, reminiscing about the time I married a man who treated conversation like a limited commodity.
Everyone was kind, though. Congratulations here, warm smiles there.
Rico hadn’t left my side, but I’d bet my new wedding band it wasn’t out of devotion.
His eyes kept flicking toward the door like he was mentally calculating how fast he could bolt without Mama Bennetti launching a shoe at the back of his head.
We stood to greet guests as they arrived. We sat, side by side at the long dining table, like two mannequins on display. We stood again as people left, nodding and murmuring thank you and yes, it was beautiful, like an automated call center.
I’m not entirely sure how long it takes for sleep deprivation to trigger full-blown hallucinations, but I was getting close.
Since I hadn’t slept the night before—because, you know, wedding to a stranger—I was pretty sure I’d reached the point where I was technically asleep while standing upright.
Functioning purely on autopilot, like a zombie in heels.
I was stuck in a daze looking over a vase of flowers when a warm, firm hand pressed against the small of my back.
“It’s time.” Rico’s voice rumbled low in my ear, his breath brushing my skin and warming me from the inside out.
Time.
Time to leave. Time to go to a house I’d never seen, a bedroom I’d furnished through emails and catalogs but never stepped foot in.
And, oh yeah—time to consummate this forgery of a marriage.
I was grabbing my bag when Violet and Sienna swooped in like intrusive fairy godmothers, yanking me into a side room just off the foyer.
“Are you…good?” Sienna asked, her voice pitched somewhere between concern and do we need to stage a rescue?
Good? No, I was about three seconds from crawling out a window. My stomach had been tying itself into increasingly complex knots since we cut the cake, each knot labeled impending doom. But I smiled anyway because that’s what you do when you’re the bride. Grin and bear it, sweetheart.
“Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?” Pretty sure the two or three octaves too high pitch on my voice says otherwise.
They swap a look. The kind sisters give each other when they’re mentally preparing for an intervention.
Violet leans in, brows arched like she was gearing up for a birds and bees refresher. “Your wedding night. With Rico…”
Ah. That.
"You mean the night where I fulfill my contractual obligations like I’m checking off a to-do list? Can’t wait.”
It wasn’t like I hadn’t been thinking about it.
The countdown had been ticking away in my head since the final I do.
And while the kiss at the altar had been amazing—hot enough to make my knees wobble and my brain misfire—I wasn’t delusional.
That was theatrics. A performance for the crowd. Tonight would be different.
Mechanical. Dutiful. Transactional.
I’d prepared for that reality. What I hadn’t figured out was how one consummates a marriage with a man who explicitly added a minimal touching clause to the contract.
“Listen,” I sigh, “I’ll be fine. He’s my husband. I have to face the demon, eventually.” Not sure if I’m calling Rico the demon or just the situation. Both, probably.
“Did you guys…talk about it?” Her brows wiggle like we’re teenagers at a sleepover, dissecting crushes.
“You know. It.” When I don’t immediately reply, she adds, “I mean, that kiss was hot. So maybe it’ll be…
fun?” There’s an actual question mark hanging at the end of her sentence, like she’s asking me if my wedding night will be enjoyable.
My cheeks flame, and for once, I can’t blame the champagne.
“I’m sure it’ll be an experience.” Because memorable doesn’t always mean good, and this already feels like one of those awkward, cringe-worthy stories you tell after several margaritas.
Oh, you think your wedding night was weird? Hold my tiara.
I leave out the fact that I’ve only had sex once.
Underwhelming and over faster than a bad Netflix show that gets canceled before the credits even roll on episode two.
Not exactly a benchmark experience. What worries me isn’t the act itself—it’s doing it with a man who treats human contact as if it might trigger the apocalypse.
“Some women don’t enjoy it at first,” Violet muses, gnawing on her lower lip. “But I can always offer you tips.”
Tips. From my sister-in-law. On how to enjoy sex. With her brother.
“And it takes time to figure out what feels good,” Sienna adds, ever the dreamer. “Even if the first time is a little…weird. Though, with Dom, it just felt right.”
Of course it did. They were practically eye-screwing each other from the moment they met.
Chemistry everywhere—sparks, heart palpitations, all the gooey stuff people write bad poetry about.
Meanwhile, my husband handles me with the enthusiasm of someone stuck caring for a pet he never wanted but is too guilty to rehome.
“I’m attracted to him,” I mutter. “I’m not blind. But pretty only gets you so far when your conversations have the emotional intensity of a grocery list.”
Sienna winces, clearly realizing my marriage isn’t following the happily ever after playbook.
No, my husband and I have a notarized document detailing when and how often we’ll have sex.
At the pace outlined, I’ll need a flowchart to track progress.
Three years from now, I might finally figure out what I like—right before Rico checks reproduce off his life’s to-do list and officially retires from marital duties.
“It’s fine,” I lie, smoothing the nonexistent wrinkles on my silk gown. “I knew what I was signing up for.”
Even if that means a marriage without speaking, touching, or orgasming. Jesus, what the hell did I do?
The car ride home is exactly what you’d expect from a man who probably views eye contact as an invasion of privacy. Silent. Tense. Like sitting in an elevator with a stranger, only the stranger is your husband and you’re contractually required to share a bed tonight.
Rico doesn’t look at me once. He just opens the door, waits for me to slide in, and shuts it behind me.
The silence lengthens, the hum of the engine the only sound until he pulls into a garage. I jerk upright, blinking out of whatever mental spiral I’d fallen into. When the car stops, I reach for the handle, already over this entire evening.
Rico’s out of the car before I can blink, rounding the hood quickly. He pauses, clearly irritated when he sees I’ve already opened my door and stepped out.
I lift my chin, meeting his miffed gaze head-on. “What? Thought I’d sit there and wait for my chivalrous groom to escort me? Please. If we’re not speaking tonight, I can at least open my damn door.”
I follow Rico into the dark house; the silence widening between us like an awkward third wheel.
He flicks on the lights, revealing a mudroom that’s as uninviting as the man himself.
Gray tile floors. A couple of coats and shoes lined up with precision.
Nothing out of place, nothing remotely warm.
It’s the house that looks like a showroom but feels like a holding cell.
I slip off my shoes, clutching my bag like a lifeline.
My things were moved here while I was at the wedding, but God knows where, because the pathetic truth is already settling in: this is his house, and I’m just a glorified houseguest. No welcome mat.
No shared space. Just a contract and an address change.
The mudroom opens into the kitchen—modern, sleek, and completely devoid of personality.
Stainless steel appliances. A massive center island.
Exposed brick walls that scream rustic chic, except there’s nothing chic about it.
The whole vibe is “luxury Airbnb where the owner doesn’t live here.
” No fruit bowl. No magnets on the fridge.
It’s a kitchen that’s never seen a midnight snack or a lazy Sunday pancake session.
The living room? Same story. Charcoal gray sofa, single floor lamp, wall-mounted TV. No bookshelves, not even a clock. Just…blank. Like someone googled minimalist aesthetic and hit add to cart without acknowledging the fact that people are supposed to live here.
Rico stalks ahead, wordlessly assuming I’ll absorb the floor plan like I’m touring a model home. I follow, half-expecting a PowerPoint presentation to project on the walls. Here’s where joy goes to die, slide one says.
We reach the second floor, where there are only three bedrooms. He opens the first door and nods inside. “Nursery.”
I blink at the empty room, as barren as my zeal for this marriage. A bare bulb dangles from the ceiling, casting pathetic little shadows across vacant walls. Just space. Like he’s planned but couldn’t be bothered to, you know, actually plan.
Nothing like an entire room devoted to reminding me that my womb is now part of a five-year business strategy.
Without waiting for my opinion, Rico crosses the hall and pushes open another door. “Guest room.”
The room is about as encouraging as a dentist’s office. Single bed. Beige comforter. One sad little pillow, like even it gave up. Guest room, huh? Not my room? I glance at Rico, but his face is a perfect mask of disinterest.