But the thing is… I didn’t want to back out. The look in his eyes and the loneliness in my heart says we need each other. Even if it’s not for love.
Alone with my thoughts and a hefty contract to sift through, I crank up J-Pop music and get to reading. If majoring in political science and studying public relations and policy has taught me one thing, it is to always read contracts.
Fujii Kaze fills my ears and my eyes stare at the bolded words:Marriage Contract.
Here goes nothing.
Two hours, three cups of coffee, and an entire J-Pop playlist later, I stand up to stretch my stiff muscles. A headache hasset in during the last forty-five minutes of the endeavor, and my eyes pulse and ache from dryness and strain.
So far, I’ve read about possession security, grounds for divorce, and the terms of dissolving the marriage at the end of the candidacy or the presidency. And I’m only twenty-eight pages in. Nothing has been inherently disagreeable at the moment, so I’m hopeful it will remain that way. A yawn rips through me; it’s time to go home. I pack up my things and navigate the hallways of Darcy’s estate—the very place I’ll soon be living at—to find the exit and my car waiting for me.
As I’m driving home, the world seems to sing a different tune. Everything is going to change, and I can’t help but wonder if it will be a change for the better or for the worse. If I was a person who suffered from anxiety, I would be falling to pieces right now. But thankfully, I’ve thought through this decision, and I’ve come to terms with it.
Mostly.
Whatever is going to happen will happen.
I am marrying Darcy Marshall next Saturday. I will be Hayden Bennett Marshall. My student loans will be paid, I will have a place to live, my dreams of becoming Secretary of State one day will be closer than ever, and I might even get a trip to Japan.
In nine days, I will change my last name on the basis of trust, not love.
And the world is going to erupt at the news.
Has anyone told the PR and Social Media departments about this? They need to be prepared for the media storm.
Wait. That’s my job. I have to tell my team.
“Ugh!” I’m groaning when my phone rings. “Hey, Stells.”
“So, how did it go? I’ve been on pins and needles over here waiting to hear from you.” The excited tone tells me everything I need to know regarding her feelings toward this fake marriage. She’s delusional and thinks it’ll become real.
“I’m currently driving home after drowning myself in pages upon pages of marriage contract details. How do you think it went?”
Stella yawns before responding. “He must have already had that prepared.”
“Makes sense. He was searching for a wife after all.”
“You’re really doing this.” We sit in silence as I mull over my thoughts. If you would have asked me only six months ago if I would have said yes to something like this, I would have laughed in your face. Furthermore, if you would have told me that I would real fake-marry Darcy Marshall, I might have passed out from shock. What changed? Because he hasn’t changed. I haven’t changed.
Yet, I said yes.
“I have my reasons,” I say to myself more than to her. I contemplate inviting her to the wedding. But it’s not real, and I don’t need her by my side to witness me marrying for reasons other than love. She got the love of her life, and though I know she would be here in a heartbeat if I asked, I don’t want her to watch me practically sell myself out. She can watch online anyway.
I pull into the parking garage and click off the phone with Stella. For once in my life, I want to be alone with my thoughts tonight.
And there’s still so muchcontract to read.
Once I am snugly inside my blue sherpa blanket with a hot cup of cinnamon tea, I flip to the page of the contract I left off on. This section is titled “Arrangements.”
A quick scan reveals this is about how I will live at his house, travel with him, have personal security with me at all times when I’m out, and give up my apartment. I laugh bitterly to myself. If I wasn’t already being evicted, that would have been scratched out with a red pen. As a matter of fact, I think I’ll scratch it out anyway. He doesn’t get to tell me what I can and can’t keep that belongs to me. A girl can fight for her own living space against an all-controlling tyrant such as Darcy Marshall, right? Even if it’s all a facade because I’m losing the apartment.
But he doesn’t need to know that.
As I continue to read, I put my red pen to good use. Apparently, he should have consulted me first when it came to writing this arrangement section because there are countless things I firmly do not agree with. For example, he wants me to wear dresses to dinner parties and other formalized events. Darcy Marshall must have some kind of dress fetish; I’m convinced. And what’s with the “Party Two will sleep in the same hotel room as Party One when traveling” nonsense? Because heck no. Party Two will not sleep in the same room as Party One.
Ever.
I check the time and debate calling Darcy to settle these “arrangements” right now, but I’d rather see his face when he meets the mighty force of my red pen, so I willwait until tomorrow.
