The silk settles over my skin, soft and expensive, clinging to me perfectly. It drapes over my slender body, accentuating the angles of it, molding against my small breasts. I can see my nipples pressing against the thin fabric, hard from nerves and the chill in the room. The eyelash lace-edged neckline dips downinto a deep V that stops just above my ribs, showing the slight curve of my breasts on either side, just hidden under the delicate lace. The same lace edges the hem, which brushes against the middle of my thighs, just barely. In the mirror, if you ignore how pale and thin I am, I look like someone's fantasy of a bride on her wedding night.
I don't feel like a fantasy. I feel like a sacrifice.
With shaky fingers, I take the pearl-tipped pins out of my hair, letting it fall in heavy ginger waves around my shoulders, which makes my face look smaller and more delicate, more ethereal. I blot my lipstick until there’s nothing left but a soft rose stain, take off my jewelry and put it away in the small boxes in my overnight bag, and take in a deep breath that does absolutely nothing to stave off the nerves that are threatening to overtake me.
I would be nervous and shaky even if I were about to do this with a man I loved. Even if I wanted it. Even if I’d been dreaming about and anticipating this moment.
With someone like Sean, under these circumstances, it feels impossible. But I have to do this. It was made very clear to me that the marriage has to be consummated.
This has to happen. Tonight.
With a man who can't even look at me.
I reach under the hem of my nightgown and slide the panties that don’t match off.Surely that will turn him on, I think, scrambling for anything that makes sense out of my limited knowledge. Nothing under a lace and silk nightgown made for seduction should tempt any man.
With the trembling still running through every line of my body, I open the bathroom door and step out into the bedroom.
Sean is sitting on the bed now, still holding a crystal glass with only a sip of whiskey remaining in it. He's removed his tie and rolled up his shirtsleeves, exposing strong forearms markedwith scars. He looks big and dangerous silhouetted against the city lights coming in through the window, and he’s looking straight down at the floor as if he can find the answers to whatever he’s thinking written there somewhere.
Shakily, I force myself to speak. "Sean?" My voice comes out as barely a whisper.
He raises his head, and his eyes land on me.
For a moment—just a moment—something hot and intense flashes in his gaze. His eyes rake over me, taking in the white silk, my bare legs, my loose hair. His jaw clenches, his hand tightening on the glass until I think it might shatter.
Then he closes his eyes and stands up abruptly, turning his back on me as he slams the glass down on the nightstand so hard I’m afraid it might crack. The sound makes me jump.
"Jesus fucking Christ," he mutters, and it sounds like a curse. Like the sight of me is painful. Offensive.
My stomach drops. "I—I'm sorry, I thought—" I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly desperate to cover myself. "I can change if you want, I just thought?—"
"Don't." The word is sharp and cutting. His shoulders are tense, his arms flexed hard enough that I can see the lines of muscle under the dusting of dark hair along them. "Just… don't."
He strides past me toward the door, still not looking at me, and I realize with horror that he's leaving.
"Where are you going?" Panic rises in my voice. "Sean, we have to—Brendan said we need to?—"
"I know what Brendan said." He's at the door now, his hand on the knob. "I just need a minute."
Then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a quiet click that might as well be as loud as a gunshot in the silence that follows.
I stand frozen in the middle of the bedroom, my arms still wrapped around myself, and try to process what just happened.
He left.
He took one look at me in the lingerie I bought to please him, and he left.
I take one step toward the bed and then another, stopping halfway and bracing myself against the wall as my eyes well with hot tears. Somehow, I make it all the way to the bed and sink down onto the edge of it where Sean was a moment ago, my legs no longer able to hold me up.
What did I do wrong? Was the lingerie too much? Not enough? Am I that repulsive to him that he can't even stand to be in the same room?
I think about the way he looked at me on the street when I was carrying the shopping bag. There'd been heat in his eyes then, hadn't there? A flicker of want?
But maybe I imagined it. Maybe I was so desperate to believe he felt something—anything—that I invented a reaction that was never there.
I don’t want him, either, but the rejection feels absolute. I have no idea why he agreed to this marriage in the first place, but my experience in this world is that men don’t do anything that they don’t want to do. If I’m so abhorrent, why did he agree to this at all? Was it just for my money?
I stare at the door, and the truth feels suffocating. My husband finds me so unappealing, so unwanted, that he'd rather drink alone in a hotel hallway than spend his wedding night with me.
