Page 20

That’s confidence. Or psychopathy.
Our Lady of Hope is the biggest Catholic church in the city. It’s more like a cathedral really, which makes this all feel very much like a Royal wedding. They’re usually booked for years in advance for weddings and only host members of the church or people with deep pockets who are willing to make very generous donations.
I wonder if Aidan is Catholic. Is that his actual church? Or did he just pay the necessary fee to have the most grand affair his money could buy? It’s clear he wants to show me off, parade his purchased bride for all the world to see. He for sure doesn’t want to take me in the dead of night and marry me under cover of darkness.
The reception will be held at an aquarium. Our city has the state’s largest and most visited aquarium in the country. It sounds like a strange place to have a wedding reception, but the space is rented for formal events all the time. It’s one of the most stylish buildings in the city with a modern art feel that contrasts sharply with the old-world style of the church.
I’ve also been called by the caterer who prepared the test menu for me to taste. It was all amazing, but there isn’t a wedding in this world perfect enough to make up for the groom.
I have to remind myself of this every day because there is this weak, shallow part of me—the part I thought I lost this year—that just wants nice pretty things, that just wants flowers and soothing smells, and good food and music. And for things to be simple. Why does everything have to be so deep and complicated all the time? Why is it a sign you’re terrible if you just want a nice life and to talk about nice things? Why can’t I just be? Why does the world have to be burning down all the time, and why is my participation in putting it out required? I miss those days when things were… easier.
So when Aidan shows up, making everything feel easier, even though he’s the source of all my angst and fears, I find myself lulled into it because as long as I don’t have to see him, as long as this is just a flurry of activity and people on his payroll fluttering about behind the scenes to give me one perfect day before I’m dragged to Hell, I can forget—or pretend—that he’s not the one who will be waiting for me at the end of that aisle.
I’m pouring all this into my journal like a besotted teenager when my mother knocks on my open door. Aidan’s guards still stand outside in the hallway. There are six of them altogether on a work rotation where two are with me at all times. If I go anywhere, they are my shadows. I haven’t been given a moment’s peace, and though I’ve tried a few times while out on errands, I can’t shake them.
I have exactly zero idea of what I would do if I did somehow get past them, but I can’t even get out of the starting gate. And I have a feeling they are my permanent security detail going forward, not just until the wedding.
“This came for you,” my mother says.
I look up to see a plain brown box with a red silk bow on it. It’s brown in the way chic eco-friendly packaging is brown—that “on purpose simplicity”. Like this wasn’t just some random cardboard box something was chucked into, this is… intentional, mindful, and carbon neutral.
I don’t have to ask. I know it’s from Aidan.
“Thanks,” I say. “Can you close the door on your way out?”
I know she wants to hover to see what’s in the box, but I live in fear one of these gifts is going to be slinky lingerie, and it’s the last thing I want my mother to be witness to.
When the door is closed and I’m alone, I take a deep breath, untie the bow, and open the lid. Inside is pink and red paper Easter grass, and buried in all of that are three cassette tapes, a mini cassette player, headphones, and a note on nice stationery.
Did he send me mix tapes? That was a whole thing in my parents’ generation.
Aidan’s monogram is stamped in gold on the interior notecard. I’ve come to know his masculine and decisive handwriting in the month I’ve been receiving packages and gifts from him. I tell myself again that he cannot buy me. He cannot woo me. He cannot win me. I told him no when we were six and every time after that. Why would it change now? No is a complete sentence.
If only I still had the luxury of No.
* * *
Maddie,
* * *
Listen to these demo tapes and text me which of these songs you want on the reception playlist.
* * *
Yours,
A
* * *
So he did make me mix tapes.
It’s a clipped order, not a request. The only indication that this is somehow supposed to be about a romantic coupling is his sign-off, Yours. Such a mockery of my free will. He’s mine? I think what he really means is that I am his and there isn’t a goddamned thing I can do to change that state of affairs, short of flinging myself off a tall building.
Cassettes have made an inexplicable comeback. They’re what my parents listened to when they were kids. Vinyl I can understand. That’s classic. But cassettes? Though indie bands never really gave up on using them to get their music out. Either way, with a cassette you can’t easily skip around from song to song. You have to listen to the thing all the way through. And I think that’s by design here. Aidan probably could have just as easily had some CDs burned, but he wants me to listen to every song without skipping around.
I think about fast forwarding and writing down every song I recognize, but he’ll know I didn’t listen when he reviews security footage. I recoil at this constant surveillance and micro-managing. Is this going to be my life when I’m Mrs. Aidan Stryker? Never another moment free from his lingering gaze, his creepy stare?