Page 3 of Carter

Tells me I’m beautiful even when I have the flu.

I stopped wearing makeup when we first began dating because he loved the look of my bare face so much.

He adores me.

And… the proposal.

I was the envy of all the Bachman women.

He’d rented the entire rooftop bar, just for us. The diamond is a three-carat, marquise-cut beauty, on a raised platinum band. It had been ethically mined—that’s just the kind of guy Carter is—by a man in Africa who’d personally earned half the money Carter had paid for it.

After reciting a tear-jerking poem he’d written for me, he asked for my hand, and I’d accepted.

Carter and I love to celebrate. Immediately after I’d said yes, he surprised me by having the entire Bachman clan come up from our Village and party the night away. My favorite champagne flowed like water from fountains. Platters of sashimi—no carbs, no guilt—had just been flown in that morning. It had been the Bachman party of the year.

I’ve been planning our wedding forever, mostly because I love a good party and because I want the whole clan dancing until sunrise. I want it to feel like us, not like a competition with anyone else.

And Carter has always loved making me happy.

Carter and I have been together long enough that somewhere along the way I got used to being the one who pushed hardest in every disagreement.

That’s how we learned to work—argue, negotiate, kiss, make up. Sometimes I win. Sometimes Carter lets me think I won.

The truth is, I like being in control. I’m good at it. I built my life around being strong enough to handle whatever comes at me, and trusting someone else to make the final call still hits a nerve I don’t entirely understand.

Especially here, where every conversation seems to include another rule about what a Bachman woman is supposed to be.

Tonight, for example, I want to go out. I can practically hear the beat of the club music thumping through my veins. All my friends will be there, and I just found that lost, slinky little black dress hiding in the back of my closet. The one that barely covers my ass and will send Carter into a fit of rage if he sees me wear it out.

Which he won’t.

Because I’m going to sneak out.

Sure, I have a five a.m. spin class teaching the elite housewives of New York City how to cycle their already skinny asses off. I’m only going to have a few drinks and dance for a couple of hours. That still leaves three hours for sleep.

I’ll be fine.

Tonight, for example, Carter tells me no and every rebellious instinct in me comes roaring awake. It isn’t only about the club. I need one night where I’m not someone’s future Bachman wife. One night where I’m simply Sasha—loud, sweaty, dancing, and entirely myself.

I have never been very good at being told who I am supposed to be.

Things are going as per our usual.

But then, Bronson Bachman came over, whispering something in Carter’s ear just as I was stomping up the steps. The way Bronson eyed me, contempt flashing in his dark irises, made a shiver run down my spine.

The nerve.

Who does he think he is? Giving me those dirty looks?

I guess he is the head of the Bachman clan. One of, if not the singular most powerful men in New York City.

But he needs to mind his own business.

This is between me and Carter.

When I get through the door, I slam it behind me for good measure.

I run up the stairs to the second floor and watch Carter from the window. Bronson says a few words. Carter gives Bronson a nod, then comes flying up the porch steps, two at a time.