The men roared with laughter again, clinking their glasses, before drifting seamlessly back into their real love language: business. My presence was no longer required. I might as well have been his glorified suitcase, propped up beside him while the men did the real talking.
I stood there, smiling when I had to, nodding politely, my insides twisting tighter with every passing second. Was this it? Was this supposed to be my role—arm candy, room décor, a woman-shaped trophy polished for display? No. I couldn't live like this. I wasn't raised to be some man's ornamental afterthought. I had worked for my independence, bled for it, and I wasn't about to watch it slip through my fingers just because Junior Numero had decided to make me part of his empire's PR campaign.
As I stood there, trying to keep my face serene while my mind raged, I couldn't help but absorb the information flowing around me. I learned quickly that the Numeros weren't just rich—they had their hooks in everything. From the sound of it, they practically were the government. Men shifted conversations from investment portfolios to senators, from oil rigs to election strategies, as if all of it belonged to them.
I sipped champagne I barely tasted, smiling on cue, but inside I was screaming. I wasn't just standing beside a man. I was standing inside a kingdom, and Richard Numero Junior was the prince.
After the meeting, there was a small dinner laid out in a private dining hall. A soft string quartet played in the background, weaving old money sophistication into the air. I sat stiffly at the long table, staring into my glass of wine as if it contained all the answers to my current predicament. The wine was rich and sweet, a distraction sliding down my throat, but it wasn't nearly enough to numb the weight of my thoughts. I kept drinking, hoping each sip would soften the edges of the world pressing down on me, hoping it would drown out the gnawing truth: I didn't belong here.
Just as I reached for another glass, intent on building myself a fortress out of fermented grapes, Junior's hand shot out. His fingers curled around mine, and completely unapologetic. "That's enough," he murmured, and before I could snatch my hand back, he tugged me to my feet.
"What the hell are you doing?" I hissed under my breath as he began leading me toward the center of the room where couples were slowly swaying. His stride was confident. Heads turned, eyes followed.
"Do you ever ask for consent?" I whispered sharply as his hand slid onto the small of my back, guiding me closer. My pulse kicked up from the suffocating lack of control.
"Keeping up appearances," he replied smoothly. He pulled me flush against him, and though my body stiffened, my refusal didn't matter to him. My shoulder brushed his chest, my hand was trapped in his, and his other hand rested at my waist. Suddenly, I was hyperaware of every place his skin met mine, as though his touch burned through fabric, branding me.
And then came the memories. My throat tightened. My chest constricted.
"I don't dance," I muttered, trying to push back the rising tide of panic. If I stayed here longer, locked against him, I wasn't sure I could hold myself together. I wanted to claw out of his hold, escape the charade, and gulp down the rest of the wine.
"Relax. Just follow my lead," he said. His body shifted, his steps deliberate, his hold steady, and despite my resistance, my feet fell into rhythm with his. The quartet's music swirled around us, and to anyone watching, we must have looked like the perfect couple. A prince and his fiancée. Harmony in motion.
I kept my body stiff but he noticed. Of course he did. His mouth brushed close to my ear, his breath warm. "Why do you keep looking at me like I'm a serial killer?"
I stopped abruptly. The sudden motion made him stumble forward and my foot landed squarely on his. A small surge of petty satisfaction shot through me, even as my own cheeks burned. His question had been too sharp, too invasive.
Junior winced, hissing a quiet, "Ow," though he didn't release me right away. He sighed, resigned, and guided me away from the dance floor. Couples swayed around us, the string quartet still weaving romantic illusions in the background, but we broke free from the stage-lit performance. "I think you enjoy making me miserable," he muttered.
"You have no idea," I shot back. My hand shot out at the exact moment a waiter passed by, and I grabbed a glass of champagne. The bubbles fizzed up against my lips as I took a long sip, letting the cool burn drown out the heat of our proximity. If he thought he could toy with me tonight, he had severely underestimated my pettiness.
The ride back to my house was a cocoon of tense silence. This time, we were in a limousine. Junior sat beside me, infuriatingly composed, as if the whole world bent to his will and this silence was merely another chess piece he was content to move when the time was right.
I made sure to wedge myself against the farthest corner of the seat, creating a chasm of space between us. I kept my body angled toward the window, my eyes glued to the blur of neon lights and towering skyscrapers outside. If I stared hard enough, maybe I could convince myself he wasn't there, that the heat of his presence wasn't inching closer with every shallow breath I took.
"So," he began finally. "You didn't answer my question. Why do you act like I have the plague?"
I let the question sit between us, before replying with a dismissive shrug. "Maybe because you're annoying." I didn't bother looking at him, my reflection in the glass window already telling me enough.
He chuckled, the sound maddeningly warm. "Well, you are marrying me. You need to deal with it." His confidence pressed into the small space between us, a reminder that in his mind, my resistance was only temporary, a storm that would eventually tire itself out.