He rises slowly, his movements deliberate and graceful as he slips himself back into the trousers of his tux.Even disheveled, even with his hair mussed and his bow tie long since discarded, Gabriel LaRoche looks like he could grace the cover of a magazine.There's something almost predatory in the way he moves, like a large cat who's just had his fill but isn't quite satisfied yet.
"I'd love to, Mrs.LaRoche," he says, and hearing that title sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the air conditioning, "but there's something I think we should settle before we enjoy the rest of our weekend."
His eyes are dark with both purpose and passion, and I can see the businessman emerging from beneath the lover.It's a jarring transition that makes me suddenly aware of where we are and why we're here.
The two of us are confined to a beautiful boutique hotel near the church—a temporary gilded cage enforced by my father's orders, which bind Gabriel to New Orleans like invisible chains.The room itself is stunning, with exposed brick walls that speak to the building's nineteenth-century origins, antique furniture that probably has more history than most museums, and French doors that open onto a wrought-iron balcony overlooking the Quarter.
He can't leave the state.Something about work, about obligations that tie him to this city and my father's sphere of influence.
Honestly, it's unbelievable and a pain in the ass.
I married the man my father forced me to be with, and I can't even get a decent honeymoon out of it.I'd imagined a getaway to Greece or Italy, weeks of sun-kissed freedom and tourist indulgence where we could figure out what we are to each other without the weight of family expectations crushing down on us.But now that's a dream deferred like all my other dreams—I guess.
The reality of our situation settles over me like a heavy blanket.Even in marriage, even with the promise of partnership, we're still pawns in a larger game that neither of us fully controls.
"We only have three days to enjoy ourselves before you rush back to…whatever it is you do," I snap, frustration mingling with the tremors of desire still coursing through me."What the hell is so important that we must handle it now?"
Gabriel finishes buttoning his shirt, his movements precise and controlled."We need to establish the terms of our union," he replies, his voice suddenly taking on a businesslike precision that sends my heart plummeting.
Terms?
The word hits me like a bucket of ice water, washing away the warm glow of our physical connection and replacing it with cold reality.
Only a few hours ago, in the hushed sanctity of that private chapel, this man bared his soul to me, professing his eternal love with his grandmother's ring trembling in his hands.He got down on one knee in that sacred space and made me believe that this could be something real, something chosen rather than forced.
Now, as I look down at the antique ring on my finger—a delicate band that suddenly feels heavier than it did moments ago—I wonder if it was all an orchestrated manipulation designed to get me to the altar willingly.
How could I have been so fucking blind?
"So, this is a contractual arrangement with benefits," I announce aloud, giving voice to the bitter realization blooming in my chest like a poisonous flower.
Gabriel's expression immediately shifts, and he moves toward me with purpose, his hands reaching out to frame my face with surprising gentleness."Wait—either you misunderstood, or I failed to explain myself properly.Everything I said about my feelings was true, Naomi.I am utterly, completely in love with you, and you will be my wife in every real way that matters."
The use of my chosen name, spoken with such tenderness and conviction, makes some of the ice around my heart begin to thaw.His eyes are steady on mine, no trace of deception or manipulation in their dark depths.
"Okay, then… I'm confused," I admit, feeling suddenly vulnerable in ways that have nothing to do with my state of undress.
Gabriel sighs, his hands moving to rest on my shoulders as he looks directly into my eyes."How I feel about you—how much I love you—doesn't change your father's agenda.He's determined to use our marriage as a weapon, to claim whatever power my family still has left and absorb it into his own empire."
I feel the familiar weight of family politics settling on my shoulders like a lead blanket, crushing the brief moment of hope I'd allowed myself to feel.Our love story, as real as it might be, is still playing out against the backdrop of generations of violence, betrayal, and the hunger for control.
"I don't know what I can do about that, Gabriel.You know better than anyone what he's capable of, especially with the backing of the other families."
"I understand all that, and I'm ready to handle it," Gabriel says, his voice steady with determination."But what I need—what we need—is to be on the same page about our future.About what we both want and how we're going to get it."
"The same page about what exactly?"
Gabriel's fingers find the tiny covered buttons at the back of my wedding dress, and he begins unfastening them with practiced ease.Each button that comes free feels like a small liberation; the elaborate gown that felt so much like a costume begins to fall away.
"Tell me what you want, Naomi.Not what your father wants, not what you think I want to hear, not what you think is realistic or practical.Tell me what you actually want for your life."
The wedding dress pools around my feet in a cloud of white silk and French lace, leaving me in nothing but my delicate undergarments and the vulnerability that comes with honest conversation.
"What I want?"I consider the question as his hands trace the bare skin of my shoulders, his touch both comforting and arousing."When I went to LA, what was I chasing?"
"Tell me," he encourages, his voice soft but insistent.
"I dreamed of having a career that was completely mine," I begin, the words coming slowly at first, then gaining momentum as I remember the woman I was in Los Angeles."I wanted to become a highly sought-after celebrity hair and makeup artist—someone who worked with A-listers, who maybe owned a high-end salon or launched an exclusive product line.I wanted to be known for my work, for my talent, not just my last name or who my father is."
