His shoulders are tense under his suit jacket. When he shrugs the jacket off, finishing off the second whiskey before pouring a third, I can see them straining at the lines of his shirt.
He hates me, I realize, cold spiraling down my spine. He’s not acting like a man who wants me, even in the most basic, physical way. He hates me so much he can’t even look at me.
I want to cry, but I also don’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing my tears.
"I'm going to… change," I say quietly, my voice barely audible over the clink of ice against crystal as he pours a fourth drink. All I can think is that he hates me so much, finds me so repulsive, that he’s going to have to get roaring drunk just to touch me.
He doesn't respond. Doesn't even acknowledge that I spoke.
I gather the overnight bag that was delivered to the suite—containing the white lace chemise and robe, an outfit for tomorrow, and a few toiletries—and retreat to the bathroom. The door closes behind me with a soft click, and only then do I let myself fall apart for just a minute. I can feel myself trembling all over, shaking from my fingers down to my toes, and the only thing that still stops me from crying is knowing that it will destroy my makeup and make me look even worse before I go back out there.
The bathroom is large and luxurious, with a big soaking tub, a stand-alone shower, and dual sinks. It’s beautiful, elegant, and completely wasted on this wedding night. Truthfully, all I want is to run a hot bath and sink into it while I hide from Sean and everything that’s expected of me out there, but I have a feeling he’s not going to have patience for that.
I catch sight of myself in the mirror and wince. My makeup is still perfect, my hair still styled, but I’m so pale that I look like a ghost.
I look like a bride on her way to an execution.
With trembling hands, I reach back and try to undo the buttons of the high-necked collar and lace back of my dress, but with dawning horror, I realize that there’s no way I’m going to be able to do it on my own. I manage to get the very top button loose with my trembling fingers, but I can’t reach the ones between my shoulder blades.
I’m going to need help. A perfectly normal thing for a bride to need—for her husband to help her out of her wedding dress. I bet for other brides, it’s part of the night. Part of the seduction. His fingers, undoing each button, sliding down her spine as the dress parts…
A cold shiver runs down my back, and my knees feel like they’re going to buckle. Swallowing hard and gathering mycourage, I open the bathroom door and step back out into the suite.
Sean’s back is to me, and he’s looking out of the window, a half-empty glass squeezed tightly in his hand. I have no idea if it’s the same one he was pouring when I left the room or if he’s already on another.
Timidly, I clear my throat. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even flinch or twitch as if he’s heard me. So, in a small, hesitating voice, I manage to speak.
“I need… help. With my dress.”
Slowly, Sean turns. His jaw is clenched so tightly that it looks as if it hurts. His green eyes are dark and cold, and there’s no emotion in his face whatsoever.
I have no doubt that Mrs. Brady was telling the truth. This man looks like a killer. Like someone who could pull a trigger and snuff out another person’s life.
And I have to let him closer to me than anyone else has ever been. I have to let him be intimate with me, touch me in ways that I can barely imagine and have only the barest knowledge of.
My stomach flips and roils, my hands still shaking as he makes his way toward me.He doesn’t want me, I think. There’s no desire in his face, no heat. I’d know it if I saw it, I think, surely.
“Turn around,” he says gruffly, and I obey slowly, feeling dizzy with fear.
I feel his fingers pluck at the buttons, hear him curse under his breath in another language—Gaelic, maybe. My father spoke it, but rarely—usually in curses as well. I hear one pop off and hit the floor, and unreasonably, hot tears prick at the corners of my eyes.
“The laces, too?” he grunts, and I swallow hard, nodding. When his hands don’t move to the corset of the dress, I draw a shaky breath to force myself to answer.
“Y-yes.”
He undoes them in sharp, quick movements, until the back of the dress is loose and the sleeves are starting to slip down my shoulders. My hand automatically goes to the top of the corset to keep it from sliding down, as if I need to preserve my modesty in front of my husband.
But I’m not ready for him to see that much of me yet. Not in the slightest.
Swallowing hard, I walk back to the bathroom without a word, closing the door behind me as I carefully step out of the wedding dress and reach for the hanger to put it back in the garment bag. I feel a wistful ache as I look at it hanging there before I zip it up—how beautiful it is. Wasted on a marriage that can hardly be called that at all.
All that’s left on me is the cream-colored, seamless silk bikini panties that I wore under the dress. They don’t match the white silk nightgown that I bought at all, and I bite my lower lip, chewing on it until I taste blood as I unzip the garment bag and take out the nightgown.
It looks perfect for a wedding night. Innocent, delicate, feminine. I'd thought… I'd hoped that maybe if I looked pretty enough, if I wore something beautiful for him, he might be kinder. Might look at me with something other than cold resentment.
Now the hope seems pathetic.
But I put it on anyway, because what else am I supposed to wear? I can't walk out there in nothing but my underwear, and I can't put the wedding dress back on. This is what I have.
