“Could you be any more desperate?” I mutter to myself, sighing in resignation at my stupidity.
My body chose the man who awakened it, only for my mind and heart to rebel against the idea because his horrible behavior toward me cannot be excused.
In the past month, we never shared any mutual meals, to Matilda’s dismay, who kept on harping on about the rules, but we both ignored her on that account. We occupied our respective wings when we knew the other was home and made sure our paths never crossed.
I wouldn’t be surprised if the man had access to my schedule, or lack thereof. That’s how dedicated he was toward his mission to avoid me.
“Good evening, Mrs. Wright.” Leon waves and gathers more fresh roses into his wicker basket as the gardener beside him waters and tends to the ones nearby.
One thing I’ve learned fast is that the rosebushes are sacred in this house. Matilda seems to revel in them spread all over the house, even in the bathrooms.
And whatever the woman wants goes, which allows for this mansion to function as a well-oiled machine, smelling like a rose greenhouse that might suffocate you to death.
“Good evening, Leon.” I wave back, and my ring glistens, sending a colorful prism on the balcony floor and causing my heart to skip a beat once again.
Its beauty hurts and comforts me all at once as the diamonds hold my gaze prisoner whenever my eyes land on it, its heavy weight always reminding me that I might avoid my husband, but his claim is always on me for the whole world to see.
Hurts because, despite it being a Price piece, I know the sentiment behind it is fake and has no meaning for Orion. My bookworm heart can take a hike for all the fantasies filling my head.
Comforts because it’s the only thing that the reporters and social media tend to talk about in a positive light when it comes to this marriage.
Otherwise, we’ve been torn to shreds as paparazzi constantly tried to uncover our secrets, with rumors speculating from me being pregnant to Orion using me to get his inheritance.
I’m just glad no exes came out during all this mess, because I wouldn’t have taken that well.
To be rejected by your own husband and see women he actually found worthy enough to have sex with…yeah, fuck that.
I count this as a small blessing in this otherwise shitty situation.
“Dinner is ready,” Leon informs me. “I asked the chef to cook your favorite food tonight. It’s a celebration after all.”
My brow furrows, and I mentally check my calendar, wondering if I missed something. Since Leon is beaming, I muster up a smile and ask, “What are we celebrating?”
“It’s your one-month anniversary since your wedding day. Matilda announced it as a special occasion. We ordered a cake from the best bakery in town, and it’s your favorite.”
Keeping my smile intact takes inhuman strength right now because, freaking what? Who celebrates anniversaries when the couple goes out of their way to ignore each other? “I assume it’s a coconut cake?”
If I have to eat dinner in the celebration of the fake union, I hope to at least enjoy the dessert.
“Yes. We’re all waiting for you downstairs.” He goes back to picking up the roses while the gardeners put away their equipment and thank the maids who brought them bottles of water.
Most of the staff mind their own business, rarely lifting their eyes to meet mine. The only time I’ve seen them all loud and active around me was when they rearranged the furniture in my room and brought all the clothes Ria ordered.
Countless dresses, pants, blouses, expensive bags, and shoes topped by the one-of-a-kind jewelry.
I glance at my reflection in the mirror. The long, silky gray maxi dress cascades down my form, covering every inch of my body and accentuating all my best features. And while I have a love-hate relationship with heels, I slip on the silver ankle-strap shoes because, according to Ria, they make a perfect match with the dress. She came up with all kinds of combinations for myvarious clothes and created my unique style, something majestic yet simple.
Whatever the hell that means. I never got the chance to explore my love for shopping as my father refused to spend money on my clothes, but I still remember my mother having a magical wardrobe.
She could stand in it for hours, trying to pick the best outfits to please my father, and then cry after he left because he didn’t appreciate her efforts. Nothing she did seemed to please him.
Nothing sans her death, that is.
A raspy breath slips past my lips at the memories, and I tap my cheeks, focusing on the present, and study my reflection critically once again.
Adjusting the straps on my shoulders, I grab the hairpin from the nightstand and clip the loose strands on the left side, giving at least the illusion that something can be done with my wild red locks, which refuse to be tamed no matter what product I put in my hair.
What a waste to wear it all at home.
