CHAPTER 5
NOW
DAPHNE – Age 23
“Fuck, yes!” Lucian grunts as he rolls off me and onto his back. “Jesus Christ, baby cakes,” he pants, chest still heaving as he discards the condom in the waste basket beside the bed. “That hit the spot.”
I blow a stray curl from my face, my head lolling to the side where I’m met with the sight of Luc basking in the ambiance of his arrogance. “Don’t call me baby cakes.”
He turns his head to meet my gaze, flashing me a bright white smile so perfectly straight, he’s a dentist’s wet dream. “Awww, what’s the matter, sweet cheeks?” Luc rolls on his side to pull my naked body into his, slapping my ass in the process. “I know you enjoyed it.”
Cringe-worthy nicknames aside, he’s not wrong. We may share next to no common interests, but sex is one area Luc and I have decent chemistry in. I mean, is he the best I’ve ever had? No. But does he know his way around a vagina well enough to pull an orgasm out of me on a semi-consistent basis? Sure. And let’s be honest, in today’s dating pool, you’re exceeding the expectation at that point.
“I did enjoy it.” His smile grows even wider, assuring me my words did their part in fueling his ego. “So, stop ruining it with your ridiculous pet names. It’s killing the mood.” With a gentle shove to his chest, I slip from the bed and pad against the hardwood, my bare feet carrying me to the dresser where I retrieve my oversized Taylor Swift concert tee. I shove it over my head, the worn fabric coming to stop mid-thigh, before twisting my hair up into a messy bun.
“I’m gonna go make some coffee. You want some?”
“That depends.” Luc props his head up on his palm, eyeing me playfully. “Is my kitten going to bring me breakfast in bed?”
“This isn’t 1950, Luc. Your fiancée is going to go make coffee in the kitchen, and should you find the strength to drag your ass out there, you will find a cup waiting for you, too.”
Luc drops onto his back with an exaggerated sigh.
“Oh my God. What?” I toss my hands out to the side before planting them on my hips.
“You know, Daphne, the attitude is really unnecessary. It’s getting old fast.”
“Well, Lucian, I’d imagine it’s aging just as quickly as those stupid fucking pet names you feel the need to call me. It’s almost like—” I offer up an exaggerated gasp. “—one is correlated with the other.”
“See?” He tosses back the sheets, jumping from the bed and pulling on his boxers. “Right there. Always got a smartass comment waiting in the wings. One of these days that mouth’s going to get you in trouble.”
“Yeah, if I had a dollar for every time I heard that.” I sigh, tucking a stray piece of hair behind my ear. “Look, Luc. I’ve told you on numerous occasions I don’t like to be called those things. I don’t know why you can’t just show me the respect I’m asking for.”
“Respect?” He scoffs on a laugh. “You want to talk about respect? That’s rich, from the girl who wants me to call her a slut in bed. So, I can’t use terms of endearment, but I can pin you down by the throat and tell you to take my dick like a filthy whore?”
“I have no problem with terms of endearment. I just don’t like that patronizing shit that makes me sound like a goddamn airhead. And in regard to my preferences in the bedroom, you made your standpoint on them perfectly clear when you assured me that would never happen, so no need to argue a moot point.”
“Because what you’re asking me to do is disgusting and not normal! You’re my future wife, Daphne. You will be the mother of my children one day.”
“So, what? Because one day someone’s going to call me mom, it means I can’t enjoy being spanked while having my air supply cut off?”
“You have fucking issues.”
“Hey, now. People pay a lot of money to play with issues like mine. Come on,” I goad him, “I’ll call you Daddy while you anger-fuck the trauma out of me.”
Luc holds up his hand in protest, his face bearing a look of disgust. “I don’t have time for this shit today. Some of us have jobs to get to.”
“At their daddy’s company.”
The dresser drawer he’s riffling around in slams shut with bang. Luc stands, his jaw tightened in anger as he spins to face me. If looks could kill, I’d be dead where I stand. Yet I raise my chin in defiance, continuing to challenge his gaze. Fuck him for acting like I don’t do shit. Once I’m done with this final semester at Vassar, I’ll be launching my own business.
Our stare down is brief, ending when Luc decides my little tantrum is no longer deserving of his attention. He disappears into our walk-in closet, reemerging several minutes later in one of his power suits. It’s his armor, his way of compensating every time we go toe to toe. Some would accuse me of emasculating him. Fuck that. Don’t bark at me then get pissed when I bite.
He retrieves his watch from the dresser, fixing it around his wrist as he strolls past me, seemingly unfazed. “Goodbye, Daphne.” Luc’s tone is dismissive, his expression blank as he passes, not bothering to look back.
This interaction is nothing new. It’s played out enough times that I can map out how the next twenty-four hours will unfold.
Luc’s pissy attitude will follow him all the way to the cushy corner office his dad handed him at his high-profile accounting firm the second he graduated college last year. He’ll fire off passive aggressive texts to me all day, some of which will be sent while his secretary’s mouth is wrapped around his dick. I won’t see him for dinner, as he will undoubtedly now opt to go out for drinks with his douchy friends, and he’ll stroll in here sometime well after midnight reeking of perfume and scotch. If he’s feeling exceptionally petty, he won’t bother to hide the lipstick stains on his collar.
I don’t know what’s sadder. The fact that I have to fuck my fiancé with condoms because I can’t trust where his dick has been… or the fact that I truly don’t give a shit. One thing’s for sure, though—I’m pathetic either way.
My phone rings on the nightstand, drawing my attention to the name flashing across my screen.
SATAN
Realizing if I don’t answer she’ll just inevitably show up, I reach for my cell and accept the call.
“Mother.” I don’t even attempt to mask the unenthusiasm in my tone.
“We’re having lunch together to discuss wedding plans. I made reservations at Savor.”
“I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”
She sighs loudly, making her annoyance known. “If you’re going to throw a hissy fit today, Daphne, I’d rather you do it now. It won’t be tolerated at the restaurant.”
“Is there any part of this phone call that couldn’t have been a text message?”
“12:30. We’re meeting the wedding planner. You will not be late.”
“Lo siento. No hablo inglés.”
“Daphne!” she snaps. “We have a lot of details to cover and only seven months to do it.” She pauses, her voice softer this time when she speaks. “I know you and I tend to not see eye to eye on things, but you’re my only daughter, and you’re getting married. Let me plan this wedding with you. Please.”
I clutch the phone tighter, internally groaning at my weakening resolve. My mother has close to zero redeeming qualities. It’s a fact she’s proven repetitively without fail over the last twenty-three years. I am ninety-nine percent positive today will end like all the others—in disappointment.
But then there’s always that one percent, and for some reason the possibility of it always seems to be just enough to keep me holding on.
“Daphne?”
“Yeah,” I exhale in defeat. Fuck. I’m gonna regret this. “Yeah, I’ll meet you there.”
“Wonderful!” she exclaims, her praise delivering a brief surge of endorphins. I curse the involuntary reaction, desperate instead for one of indifference. I don’t know why she still has this effect on me. I know better. Trust me, I stopped getting my hopes up a long time ago when it came to Belinda Burke. But like I said… that damn one percent.
“Remember, twelve-thirty. And Daphne? Dress appropriately. I know you have a particular style preference, but this isn’t a brothel.”
And there it is. God forbid we actually have a moment.
***
I’m not on time, but by my standards I’m also not terribly late. I pull up in front of the restaurant and hop out, not waiting for the valet to open my door.
“You trying to get me fired, Daph?” Franco, the valet who’s younger than me, whisper-hisses as I round the front of the car.
Chuckling, I toss him the keys to my Lexus, patting his chest as I pass. “Breathe, Franco. I’m capable of opening my own doors.”
His eyes slowly rake down the length of my body, his gaze following my curves accentuated by the form-fitting fabric of my burgundy sweater dress. His perusal briefly pauses on the four-inch sliver of skin exposed mid-thigh before continuing on to my thigh high black suede boots.
“Ahem.” I clear my throat, causing Franco’s head to snap to attention. His face heats with embarrassment, flushing a shade of red so deep, it rivals that of my dress. “Can I help you?” My brow arches in anticipation.
“You’re trouble, you know that?”
“The best kind.” I shoot him a wink before heading off into the restaurant.
Inside, the click of my stiletto boots sound off against the mosaic tile, my mood souring with each echoing step.
“Hello, Ms. Burke,” an extremely put together blonde greets me with a smile. “If you’d be so kind to follow me, I’ll take you to your mother’s table.” A tight-lipped smile of my own forms, testing the limits of my sanity.
The hostess leads me through the dining room, escorting me to a round table in the center of the room where my mother is already seated. A woman sits beside her—early thirties if I had to guess. She’s pretty. Thin with sharp angular features that do little to improve her resting bitch face, but pretty, nonetheless. Her tailored pant suit is an outfit not many could pull off, but somehow it makes her look the perfect combination of powerful and feminine. She’s the kind of put together that screams competence and professionalism, though she seems better suited for a boardroom than the happily ever after business.
“Daphne,” my mother greets me with a stiff smile. One that lets me know she’s not impressed by my tardiness. “Was there traffic?”
“Nope.” I drop down into the seat on her right. “Just couldn’t get my life together in time. Apologies, mother.”
Her left eye twitches, and she looks like she’s gonna pop a blood vessel. Ignoring her, I turn my attention to the woman beside her.
“Hello.” I extend my hand in greeting. “I’m Daphne. It’s lovely to meet you.”
“Irina,” she responds, taking my hand and giving a slight shake. Irina wastes no time getting down to business, flipping open the cover to her iPad.
“What are you wearing?” my mother hisses at me.
I glance down, my brow furrowing at her question.
“Clothes?” My dress is form-fitting, but the neckline is a high turtleneck. If that wasn’t enough, an oversized Burberry scarf conceals the curve of my chest. The only visible skin is the several inches of exposed thigh between the hem of my dress and the tops of my boots.
“You look like a hooker in those boots.”
I don’t know why I’m surprised. I don’t think I’ve gone a single day escaping my mother’s criticism since elementary school. And even then, it was only because she wasn’t home enough to insult me.
My expression turns serious, my eyes locking with hers. “Yeah, but like, an expensive hooker… with business cards and who’s booked out at least six months in advance. I mean, no daughter of yours would be caught dead working a corner by the hour.”
Her signature scowl appears with record speed, and I silently commend myself on what must be a new personal best for me. It’s clear she has a retort, though she’s forced to stifle it when Irina clears her throat, effectively demanding our full attention.
“Now,” she begins, “let’s talk flowers first. Hydrangeas are very in this year. I’m thinking thousands of them. Pure white. The ceilings, the walls—all covered. We can mix in various other fillers, but they should be the focal point.”
“Actually,” I interrupt, “I like Dahlias.”
Irina makes a face like I’ve personally offended her. “They don’t really fit the vision. Plus, George Castleback’s daughter just had her wedding last season, and Dahlias were incorporated into all her centerpieces.”
My mother scoffs at this revelation, dismissing my preference with a wave of her hand. “There is no way we are copying the Castleback wedding. Your union to Lucian will be the social event of the season. Nothing but the best.”
“Good.” Irina nods her approval. “Now that that’s settled…”
We spend the next hour covering everything from bridesmaid dresses to toasting order. My opinions are taken as seriously as a mistress at a will reading. Eventually, I just shut up altogether and watch as my mother and her henchman hijack what’s supposed to be the most important day of my life.
That should probably make me sad, but honestly? This whole event doesn’t even register high enough on my priority scale to give a single flying fuck.