Page 15

I wish this was an April Fool’s joke, but it’s real. Today of all days to be at the bridal boutique shopping for a dress to marry my childhood stalker. It is a joke, a cruel joke of the universe. It’s been about two weeks since I found out I was to become Mrs. Aidan Stryker on peril of my father’s life, should I refuse.
I’m not sure even then that refusal would be an option. Most likely he’d just drag me to some Justice of the Peace and force me to say the words and sign the documents that will bind me to him forever.
In the past two weeks I’ve received delivery after delivery of roses. White glove delivery… like a guy in a suit with white gloves shows up and brings them into the house. Lush ivory roses, hot pink roses, red roses, yellow roses, lavender roses. Each day it’s fifty blooms of a different color. The once bare house has become filled with the mingling scents of multiple varieties of roses. In a twisted way, it’s almost a good thing the government took everything to make room for all these flowers.
My not-so-secret admirer wants me to know how far he’s climbed in the world since we were children, the access to resources he has to blow on things that will die and wither away in a few weeks.
Jewelry also comes. I try not to think about how he knows what specific jewelry I lost to the IRS. How intensive and invasive has his stalking been? Because piece after piece of the jewelry that was taken and sold off keeps returning to me.
And I’m supposed to be… what? Grateful? Grateful enough to give him my body for the rest of my life and be locked up in whatever maximum security crime lord prison house he lives in? No, thank you.
He’s just the same as when we were kids, thinking I’ll be impressed by all these gestures, as if it doesn’t matter the person behind them. Anyone in the entire world could just do these things and I’m supposed to faint into their arms with delight, I guess.
Does he think roses and jewelry will make up for all he’s taking from me in exchange?
Stella’s Bridal Boutique sounds like some hole-in-the wall place that would have a bunch of cheap polyester gowns clinging to old plastic mannequins in a dirty store window, but it’s actually the most exclusive boutique in the city. It’s run by an Italian family, which is probably why Aidan gave instruction for me to be sent here. And it’s by appointment only. I wonder if he knows how expensive most of these dresses are? The idea of sticking him with some insane bill for a dress I’ll wear only once, fills me with a sort of retributive glee.
Stella houses some of the most exclusive and expensive wedding gown designers. She gets stuff that normally you’d have to fly directly to the designer to access. They don’t like their extreme high-end couture gowns to be altered out of house. But somehow these rules don’t seem to apply to Stella Giordano. She has exclusive designs that no human eye has seen or will ever see outside of her shop or on the bride herself. It makes me wonder how connected her family is. They’re at least connected to the Stryker family, though I don’t know how far that connection takes her into the halls of fashion.
My mother and Erica are with me, both of them trying to put on a brave face about all of this. Erica, who will be my maid of honor, has given up on trying to help me escape. Once she understood the extent of the trap he’s laid, and the consequences of disobedience, she slowly and quietly came on board. So now there is no one left to help me—not that there was ever a way to get me out of this.
The two goons Aidan put on me to keep track of my every move and follow me around like the Secret Service, look out of place looming near a set of white leather couches near the full-length mirrors. They seem clumsy and oafish next to all the delicate things in here.
We’ve been led to a small round table made entirely out of crystal. A silver tea setting and fine china place settings are already laid out.
“Please, sit,” Stella says gesturing to three plush chairs arranged around the table. “Mr. Stryker sent a sample of the wedding cake from the baker for you to taste. It can be changed if you don’t like it.”
I am determined not to like it. The more I can inconvenience him, the happier I feel. If I’m to beat my wings against this cage, at least he can swallow a few of the shed feathers in the process.
A small cake that looks like it would be the top layer for the actual wedding is rolled out with great pomp and circumstance. I fight the eye roll because none of this is Stella’s fault. And for all she knows I want to marry Aidan. It’s not as though he took out a full page ad in the paper announcing my forced marriage predicament. No one but my family, Erica, and Aidan know the true nature of our nuptials, so there really is no need for me to be a raving bitch to everyone along the way who is just doing their job to give me a nice wedding.
The truth is… Aidan doesn’t have to do all this.
I steel myself against that thought and try to shove it back into the deepest, darkest hole of my consciousness. No! He cannot buy me. Gilding my cage with fine things doesn’t change what he’s doing to me. And it doesn’t change the price I’ll pay for every single kindness and extravagance.
One of the employees of the shop cuts the cake and puts a slice on each of our plates while someone else pours hot black tea into tea cups with blue birds on them.
The cake part of the cake isn’t purely white or even yellow, it has an orangish tinge to it, and it looks extremely moist. Great, I might actually love this cake. I cut a small piece off with the side of my fork, and take a bite.
Holy shit, this is amazing. Despite the color of the cake, I’m still surprised by the burst of orange flavor. It’s moist and light and fluffy and seems to melt away inside my mouth. There is a delicate buttercream frosting on top that balances the flavors perfectly. Not too sweet.
Damnit.
I take a sip of the tea, and then take a second bite. My mother and Erica are practically making love to their slices if their moans of pleasure are any indication. I’m working hard not to have a similar response. We are in a public place, after all.
“Miss Prescott? Does the cake meet with your approval?”
I want to shout, “It’s perfect, no notes!” but… I instead nod politely and say “Yes, this will be fine,” in the most reserved and demure tone I can muster.
I came from money. This is—or was—my world, but the past couple of weeks with the help of some Internet sleuthing, I’ve come to understand that Prescott money and Stryker money are very different definitions of money, and I don’t want to look like Julia Roberts shooting escargot across a restaurant right now. So I keep my enthusiasm for the cake zipped up tight.
“Fantastic, we’ll let Mr. Stryker know.”
We finish our cake and tea, because no one would ever merely taste a cake like this. The self-control required is far more than I have available.
When we’ve finished, Stella returns. “Would you like for us to box up the rest for you to take home?”
“Yes, please.” I try to say it without giddy glee. We’ve only eaten about a third of the mini-cake, and there is nothing I want more than to take the rest home with me. Erica is trying to communicate in some kind of code with her eyes. I don’t know what the exact message is, but I’m sure it’s a demand that she get another piece, too.