Chapter 10
Ten
S unlight seeps into the room, its happy little rays casting a golden glow right into my eyes. Reluctantly, I open one eye, then the other. Kenzo is nowhere to be seen. His side of the bed is cold. The only sign that he actually slept is the slightly rumpled pillows and the remnants of his aftershave.
After my bombshell of a confession, he silently carried me back to our room, washed me down and readied me for bed. I was too tired to fight him on it, and I was afraid that if I broke the silence, he’d start asking questions.
Questions I am far from ready to answer.
Groaning, I sit up in bed, stretching my arms above my head, and look over at the clock. It’s eight, but it feels later. Last night was the first time in a long time that I slept peacefully.
I slip out from the comfortable king-size bed, making my way into the large master bathroom. The first thing I notice is a note taped to the mirror.
The wedding planner will arrive at 10. My office assistant Chiyo will escort her up.
Peter Marks says your wardrobe will be delivered tonight.
Behave, and I’ll reward you like I did last night.
-夫
It doesn’t take a genius to know that he signed himself off as otto , which means husband in Japanese. It does help that my parents forced me to learn Japanese so that I could better “relate” to Kenzo as his wife.
He doesn’t know that, though.
Wonderful. Another assistant to cast dispersion at me and take over every decision regarding my wedding without asking for my input. My restful sleep is now nothing but a far-flung memory. It’s been replaced by a sense of looming dread. With a long sigh, I look up and stare at my reflection. Due to my outburst yesterday, my hair is still the platinum bomb balayage I worked so hard to achieve.
I worked weeks of working overtime so I could afford to change it back to my original blond roots. My parents had darkened my hair to make me seem more likable to Kenzo, who had only been photographed with dark-haired women. My fair French skin, which often tanned naturally under the hot New Orleans sun, had been constantly buffed and bronzed to perfection. I spent the better part of the first year after I escaped shedding that identity and digging beneath the rubble to discover who Evaline LaMontagne really was outside of just being Kenzo Nakamura’s future bride.
My bright hazel eyes stare back at me, no longer tired, but still slightly haunted. I’m wearing one of Kenzo’s T-shirts since I had no nightwear of my own and there was no way in hell I was sleeping naked next to him. Not that he had the same reservations. Kenzo stripped down to his briefs and climbed into bed without a second thought. I spent some of the night tossing and turning, constantly feeling echoes of his touch over my entire body.
As my gaze lands on the bite marks he left trailing down my neck, I clench my jaw, instantly fuming. They’re like a brand on my skin, screaming at everyone who sees them that he owns me. What a beast. Seeing the marks causes my thighs to clench and wetness to pool in my panties. It drags up images of his hand between my thighs, his fingers rolling my?—
Nope.
N.O.P.E
That is something that will not be happening again.
Ever.
Get over it right now, vagina, or so help me god.
Irritation simmers like a hot pot in my veins as I turn on the shower, shuck off my clothes, and step in without bothering to check the temperature. I’ll just wash his touch down the drain. It’s that easy. The soap will wash his touch down the drain, and I’ll be good as new.
Except it doesn’t help.
It makes it worse, because now all I can imagine is his hands replacing mine and?—
The shower ends abruptly.
Great, I can’t even do my normal daily routine without thinking of his fingers curling into me, causing sparks to shoot across my vision?—
Why am I like this?
Throwing a towel around my body, I stomp to the walk-in closet. It’s bigger than most of the apartments I’ve lived in. I look to one side, spotting the clothes that Peter left behind for me to have until he put together my permanent wardrobe. Funny, I thought it would take him longer than a day to outfit an entire wardrobe, but what do I know? I certainly don’t know what’s going to be in the rows of clothes he brings me, because I’m sure as fuck that it won’t be anything I’ve picked.
I pick out a pair of soft gray pants and a pink blouse. There is a matching pair of pink flats that I grab as well. While I dry myself off and put on my outfit for the day, I peek at the other side of the closet.
My god. I’ve married a psychopath.
Kenzo’s side of the closet is brimming with clothes. Designer suits are hung neatly together. By shade. Who the hell does that? Serial killers, that’s who. Next to them is a rack of crisply starched dress shirts, also sorted by shade. Sociopath. Then there is a section of leather shoes and guess what…yep, they are also sorted by shade. Does this man skin people alive?
Well…probably…yeah. He is the head of a crime family.
Everything is polished and clean in an obsessive-compulsive sort of way. Like he can’t bear for anything to be out of place.
So, hey…why not?
I spend the next several minutes moving everything I can imagine in his closet until it looks like a fucked-up rainbow of color melding together. I even unlace a pair of his black shoes and put their laces on a brown pair.
Genius, I know.
Once that is done, I go back to getting myself ready for the day, curling my hair and putting on some of the makeup Peter also left me. At least he managed to get my color palette right. Soft hues of naturals and grays, all by one of my favorite makeup artists. By the time I’m done, it is already nearing nine thirty. Oops. I chewed up most of my time rifling through Kenzo’s dresser in search of anything that might give me a better glimpse of who he is, but no such luck.
It’s fine, though. I mixed all his drawers up as punishment for not leaving me any fun tidbits to find.
Making my way downstairs, I can smell the soft aroma of coffee floating from the kitchen. It’s the only part of the space that isn’t completely open to the rest of the floor. I’m assuming it’s because Kenzo has a full kitchen staff, complete with a five-star personal chef who should be running his own restaurant and not waiting on the likes of my husband.
“Bonjour, madam,” the chef greets me. He’s French, like many of the finer chefs in New Orleans. Jean Baptiste comes around the corner with a silver tray in his hands, the heavenly aroma of coffee trailing him. “Here is your latte as well as an egg and bacon croissant with fresh fruit on the side.”
“Thank you,” I reply around my coffee cup. The heavenly man smiles at me as he walks back into the kitchen. The man is a saint with a French accent. Wolfing down my breakfast, I finish it just in time for the elevator from the lobby to alert me that someone is arriving. Looking up at the clock on the wall, I check the time.
Well, at least the event planner is punctual. Rising from my seat, I take my coffee with me as I stride toward the elevator to meet my guest. Trepidation nips at my heels like a long-lost friend. My mother had complete control over planning the first “attempted” wedding. Every decision had to go through her, and if she didn’t like it, it didn’t happen. Every detail, from my wedding dress down to my wedding night lingerie, was chosen by her.
Now it is my turn.
Unless this Chiyo ends up being just like Ai.
As the doors to the elevator slide open, my eyes widen, and my lips pull into a bright smile.
“Lizzie,” I nearly scream, rushing at her as she exits the elevator, careful not to spill my coffee. The woman in question drops her bag and envelops me in a giant hug, her arms closing tightly around me like she is afraid that if she lets go, I might disappear.
“Evie.” She whispers my name hoarsely on a sob. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw your name on the registry. I thought…” She pauses her words and looks at Chiyo askance. Chiyo, in return, simply smiles back at the two of us from a few feet away.
“I did,” I admit as I nod my head toward the fireplace, where Jean set up a small tray of coffee and treats for the meeting. “You can tell how well that went.” I shrug my shoulders in nonchalance as we sit down facing one another in the plush chairs.
“I’m sorry,” she tells me sadly.
Shaking my head, I lean forward and pat her hand gently. “He was going to find me sooner or later,” I assure her. “If he didn’t, my parents would have and that…” I trail off, knowing that Lizzie understands. Her parents aren’t all too dissimilar to mine. Ladder climbers. Leeches of high society. Parents whose children are nothing more than a bargaining chip to be cashed in when needed.
“But look at you.” I lean toward the tray and pour myself another cup of coffee. “A wedding planner. That was always your dream growing up.”
Lizzie’s smile is sad. “My parents threw me out when I decided that I wanted to plan weddings instead of become the doting socialite they trained me to be,” she says. “They cut me off from everything.”
My brows crease in concern. “You look like you are doing well.”
Lizzie shrugs as she takes out a tablet from her bag and swipes the screen. “Enough about me,” she changes the subject. “Let’s talk about what you envision for your wedding. I know it is only a week away, but I think we can still make it absolutely epic.”
I let her steer me away from the topic of her job and delve into the madness of planning a wedding for me and the man I’m already married to. It’s surreal. I’m more nervous now than I was three years ago. Then again, I was ready with a plan then. My ultimate goal was getting the hell out of New Orleans without being caught, which is why it never mattered much to me if my mother took over the vision for our nuptials. I didn’t plan on being there, and I wasn’t.
Now the stakes are higher. I may already be married to Kenzo, but that is just on paper. This ceremony will shout our marriage from the highest building to every social circle around the world, both criminal and corporate.
“Something simple,” I tell her honestly. “Nothing to…flamboyant.” My mother’s opulent and garish version of my wedding pops into my head. Lizzie chuckles, knowing exactly what I am thinking of.
“Where do you want to have it?”
Chiyo clears her throat. “Nakamura-san has reserved the Royal Sonesta hotel for the wedding. The entire hotel will be open to the wedding guests and party one day prior to the wedding, the day of the wedding, and two days following the wedding.”
Lizzie whistles. “Holy shit, girl,” she snorts. “I didn’t even know that was possible.”
Neither did I.
The Royal Sonesta hotel is one of the most sought-after wedding venues in the French Quarter. It is also the place I always dreamed of getting married. But my mother turned her nose up at it. It wasn’t grand enough for her taste, and the French Quarter is beneath someone like Charity LaMontagne.
Still, it was the place my brother was married after he separated from our parents. He built his own empire in Seattle, buying and selling real estate. He was able to get out from under our parents, and he and his wife, Leah, are living happily now.
In their own little life. Without me.
All right, maybe I’m a little bitter about him leaving without taking me. Not that he could have. Legally, I was still underage. He would have been charged with kidnapping. Still, even after I turned eighteen and he knew what was going to happen to me, he didn’t come for me. Never called or tried to rescue me.
Just another person who let me down.
“All right. Venue, check.” She knocks it off her list. “What about colors?”
“I was thinking light colors,” I tell her. “Muted pinks and purples maybe. I really like lavender and that boho chic look I’ve been seeing everywhere.”
Lizzie nods. “All right,” she says as she writes it down. I can see Chiyo is also busy taking notes. “Bridesmaids?”
Biting my bottom lip, I shake my head. Besides Lizzie, I don’t really have any friends, especially not ones close enough to be my bridesmaids.
“Flower girl or ring bearer?”
Another shake of my head. The attendants my mother chose for the first ceremony are daughters of her friends. Same for the ring bearer and flower girl. I knew none of them, save for their names.
Chiyo remains quiet as Lizzie runs through another hour’s worth of questions and information. By the time we are done, I think she has a pretty good grasp of what I am envisioning. Something elegant but simple. Even if the guest list is over three hundred people, I want it to feel intimate.
“All right,” Lizzie says as she smiles and stands, tucking her tablet and samples away. “I’ll make a reservation for the bridal shop for tomorrow. There is a Cristiana Lupier bridal shop that I think will fit your style really well.” Smiling, I nod and thank her.
“I already have your husband’s measurements,” she finishes up. “So there is no need to worry about that. Everything should arrive on time, and you won’t have to worry about a thing.”
“Thank you,” I tell her sincerely. “I really appreciate it. I still can’t believe the luck I had getting you as my wedding planner.”
Lizzie looks at me oddly. “There wasn’t any luck involved,” she says.
Tilting my head, I ask, “What do you mean?”
“Your husband sought me out personally,” she says. “He came into my boss’s office and demanded that I be the one to plan your wedding. My boss didn’t like it, especially since I am not an actual event planner. I’m an assistant.”
Now I’m confused. “He demanded you?”
Lizzie nods. “When my boss tried to refuse, he promised to pay three times the amount of our service fee.”
“I didn’t even know he knew we were friends,” I whisper.
Lizzie shrugs. “I’m not sure how he knew,” she tells me as she steps into the elevator. “I can only tell you that he demanded that I work the event, or he’d bankrupt my boss’s company.”
After a final goodbye, the doors close, and I’m left alone, wondering who the hell I married. Maybe there is more to Kenzo Nakamura than I realized.