Behind me, Father laughs at something Aidan said. The sound is practiced, perfect. He's so good at this. At pretending everything is normal when it's not. At smiling when he's probably furious that we're being kept waiting like this.
I'm not as good at pretending.
My hands curl into fists at my sides. The navy fabric of my dress is soft against my palms, expensive silk that whispers with every movement. I chose this dress carefully this morning, standing in front of my closet for twenty minutes trying to decide what to wear to meet your future husband when you don't want a future husband.
I settled on navy because it makes me look serious. Professional. Like someone who should be taken seriously in business negotiations, not bedroom transactions.
Though I suppose in our world, those are often the same thing.
The clock on the mantel ticks steadily, each second a small eternity. Thirty-two minutes now. I know because I've been counting.
Aidan shifts on the sofa. He's getting uncomfortable with the wait, I can tell. His polished composure is starting to crack around the edges. He keeps checking his phone, subtle glances he probably thinks no one notices.
Father notices. I see it in the slight tightening around his eyes, the way his jaw sets just a fraction harder. But he saysnothing, just takes another sip of whiskey and comments on the weather like we have all the time in the world.
We don't, though. We have enemies circling. Russians moving against us. Alliances fracturing. Time is the one luxury none of us can afford.
And William Murphy is thirty-three minutes late.
I wonder what that says about him. What message he's sending by making us wait? Is it intentional? Some kind of power play to establish dominance? Or is he simply that much of a disaster that he can't even show up on time to meet his own fiancée?
Both options are equally depressing.
The bird returns to the fountain. Same bird, or a different one? I can't tell. It drinks, preens its feathers, then launches itself into the air again. Freedom in every beat of its wings.
I wonder what it would take to feel that free. If I ever have.
Probably not. Freedom isn't something people like us get. We get duty. Obligation. Strategy. We get to pretend we have choices while being funneled down paths carved out before we were born.
We get cages with nice furniture and gardens we can't actually leave.
"I'm sure he'll be here soon," Aidan says again, and there's a note of desperation in his voice now. He's worried. Not about us being inconvenienced, but about what William's absence says. About what kind of impression this is making.
"When?" The word comes out sharper than I intended.
Before he can answer, the door opens.
The change in the room is immediate. Aidan stands, relief flooding his features. Father sets down his glass and rises with practiced grace. And I...
I turn to face the man I'm supposed to marry.
He's larger than the pictures gave him credit for. The photographs I studied last night, professional shots from charity events and family gatherings, showed a handsome man with dark hair and sharp features. They didn't capture the sheer presence of him.
William Murphy fills the doorway like a storm barely contained. He's tall, well over six feet, with shoulders broad enough to block out the light from the hallway. His frame is wide, powerful, the kind of build that comes from genetics and violence in equal measure. Dark hair is pushed back from his face, but it looks like he's run his hands through it recently. Or someone else has.
His jaw is strong, angular, covered in stubble.
But it's his eyes that stop me. Dark, almost black, and utterly empty. Like someone has scooped out everything that makes a person human,leaving just the shell.
He looks at Father first, extending his hand. "Dillon. Sorry to keep you waiting."
His voice is rough, gravelly. Like he's been screaming. Or drinking. Or both.
Father shakes his hand, and I watch the way William's fingers dwarf my father's. Those hands are massive, scarred across the knuckles. Violent hands.
Hands that will touch me. Hold me. Own me.
My heart pounds against my ribs, each beat a small explosion. I force myself to breathe normally, to maintain the calm exterior I've perfected over years of practice.
