Page 42

Alexander

T he windows are grimy. Smeared. You’d think they’d do a better job of cleaning this place considering it needs to be sanitary.

I make a mental note to chastise the nurse next time she comes in. It’s not like we’re not paying enough for them to afford an army of cleaners.

And yet, as I stand by the hospital bed, all I can think is how inconvenient this is.

It’s not as though I pictured this day to be… perfect, exactly. I mean, let’s be honest—I’m hardly a lovesick fool. Sentimentality isn’t a factor that comes into my decisions. But still, one would hope for some refinement. Some class.

Instead, I’m faced with this; a woman too drug-addled to string a single coherent sentence together, her leg encased in plaster and propped on an elevated cushion, the scent of antiseptic clinging thick to the already stuffy hospital air.

Her head lolls to the side, her jaw slack, her lips parted slightly in a way that might’ve been appealing—if not for the drool slipping from the corner of her mouth.

She looks so far removed from what my bride-to-be should look like.

I straighten my tie, smoothing a hand over the charcoal grey fabric of my suit, feeling the distinct tightness in my shoulder blades as I shift.

There’s no point in dressing up too much—I’m not standing in a church before a crowd of adoring, tear-eyed witnesses. This is just a formality. A necessity.

I glance toward the chaplain. A man well into his fifties, balding with sweat beading along his waxy forehead.

He avoids looking down at Scarlett when he speaks, his voice dry and rushed, as though he’s in a hurry to be anywhere but here.

I’ve already slipped a sufficient envelope into his hands for the church roof fund to ensure his silence and cooperation.

It’s amazing how principles go out the window when enough money is on the table.

Turning back to Scarlett, I can’t help but frown as I regard the sad state she’s in.

Her hospital gown is wrinkled against her skin, giving the faintest hint of her collarbone through the wide-cut neck.

For the briefest second, and I mean truly the briefest, I wonder how she’d look in a proper dress—something chic but understated.

Something that befits a Forster wife, but that thought slips past as quickly as it comes; there’s no point dressing up a scene like this. It’s a means to an end, nothing more.

I approach the bed, looking down at her with a mixture of disdain and detached curiosity.

It’s almost an insult, isn’t it? That I, a Forster, am reduced to this. I could have had any woman. Any woman. But here I am, about to marry her, a Heath.

I sniff lightly, wrinkling my nose as if to clear away the irritating thought.

This will be worth it though. This insult now will prove to be my fortune.

The chaplain clears his throat, momentarily pulling me from the incessant ticking of my own judgment.

“Shall we begin, Mr. Forster?” His voice shakes just slightly, and with one look, I see his knuckles have whitened from gripping his notepad a bit too tightly. Pathetic.

“Yes, let’s get this over with.”

He mutters a brief, perhaps obligatory, prayer—his words slurring together as though muttered by rote rather than conviction. My eyes never leave Scarlett’s face, though.

For a second I wonder if there’s anything behind those dull, half-lidded eyes, anything resembling thought or awareness. Wouldn’t it be amusing if she was aware, if she knew exactly what was happening and yet was helpless to do anything.

My lips curl at the notion. She’d deserve that torture and more for the merry dance she’s put me through.

When he gets to the vows, I shift my weight slightly, bracing myself for the ridiculousness of it all.

“Do you, Alexander Forster, take Scarlett Heath…” The chaplain’s words start to blend into the background noise, like the constant hum of the machines around us.

Honestly, this whole sacrament is lost on me.

What sanctity is there in this room, anyway?

What mutual devotion? It’s all arbitrary—just paperwork dressed up with pretty biblical etiquette.

I catch myself holding back a laugh at the absurdity of it, not that it would really matter if I did.

“Yes,” I respond, loud enough for him to move on but without any real inflection. It’s not like I have to mean it.

The chaplain glances at Scarlett, and for the briefest moment, it seems as though he hesitates. Perhaps he’s considering addressing her. The fool seems confused by her lack of response, or perhaps he’s mulling over some ethical dilemma I couldn’t care less about.

His eyes drift to me, questioning silently. When I don’t give him an ounce of recognition, he adjusts his collar awkwardly and continues.

“Scarlett...” He barely even gives her name any weight, as if that’s enough to fulfil his vague sense of obligation. “Scarlett, do you… take Alexander… as your lawfully wedded husband?”

Her head lolls again. The drug-induced haze has anchored her firmly between consciousness and oblivion.

She offers no response, but then why would she?

It’s not like she has the capacity to say anything of merit.

The chaplain waits for a beat, eyes darting between her pale face, still marred by the aftermath of her recent accident, and my impassive gaze.

I raise an eyebrow, and with that unspoken command, he mutters, “right, right,” quickly moving on, glossing over the words that were meant to be hers.

It doesn’t matter whether she says anything.

Whether she knows what’s happening.

That’s the beauty of this whole situation. It doesn’t matter who she was before, or what she might have wanted in some distant, hypothetical future, because I own her now. In every measurable sense.

When we reach the part where rings are exchanged, I slide the enormous diamond across her limp hand, pressing it against the base of her ring finger.

It becomes apparent almost immediately that I misjudged the size.

It refuses to settle comfortably past her knuckle, her joints too swollen to allow it.

I don’t have the time, nor the patience, for this trifling inconvenience.

Tightening my grip on her fingers, I exert just enough pressure to force the ring over her knuckle with a sharp, dry sort of sound.

It leaves a faint indentation beneath the diamond’s cold band, and that makes me smile.

Good. It’s almost fitting that the thing marks her physically, considering how much I’m going to have to sacrifice for this charade.

Besides, the diamond is an heirloom. With what it’s worth, the last thing I need is it being loose, or worse, slipping off.

I imagine her weakened body could hardly manage to keep hold of anything these days—not even her own dignity.

The chaplain’s voice continues, delivering the final words of this farce, but I’m barely listening.

I’ve already won, haven’t I? But this moment here is more than a simple business deal.

More than an acquisition. This here, is what guarantees my family’s fortunes as well as a final and definite revenge on the Heaths…

and it’s all delivered neatly into my hands, without so much as a whimper of resistance.

I take her hand again, guiding her to sign the marriage certificate.

Of course, it’s laughable, really, the notion that she might be in any kind of condition to sign anything.

I feel the slight tremor in her arm as I position the pen between her fingers, guiding her hand in smooth, deliberate strokes, forging the signature that binds her irrevocably to me.

Is she trying to fight me now? Is she trying some last desperate attempt to stop this?

Well, it’s too late for that, love. You’re mine. All mine. Signed, sealed, and fucking delivered on a nice little silver platter.

Scarlett Forster.

There’s a nice ring to it. Not that she’ll hold that title for long.

My lawyer, who until now has stood quietly in the corner of the room like some spectre, moves forward with a practiced efficiency.

He’s utterly silent as he produces the next stack of papers, all neat and orderly in a leather folder.

Power of attorney. Lasting Will and Testament, all the usual legalities, and with her family now all out of the way, there is no one to contest it, no one to call foul play.

That little stunt she pulled in trying to escape might have caused me a temporary headache, might have given me a shock I hadn’t anticipated, but it worked out in my favour. It helped me eliminate the final loose end in all of this; Sebastian.

The attorney offers a curt nod, and I shift Scarlett’s hand once again, forcing her limp fingers through the same motions. Her signature slides effortlessly into place on each form, as if she too understands that her power is now gone.

Control. Complete control. I’ve accomplished it faster, and with less resistance, than even I could have predicted. It’s amazing what can be done when you strip away extraneous factors like consent or lucidity.

I pass the final sheet of paper back to my lawyer, and he catches my eye as I do.

There’s no need for a verbal acknowledgment though, we both know he’ll handle the rest. We’ll need to wait a few days to play it safe, then he can file the final piece of the puzzle, he can ensure that everything that was hers, is and will be mine.

He tips his head once more, an unspoken congratulations passing between us. He loves a win too. And this here, is the greatest win for both of us.

By the end of this week, everything Scarlett ever was, everything she owns, and will come into possession of, falls to me. Every decision, financial, personal, medical, they’ll all be mine to make.

The chaplain clutches his prayer book close to his chest. It’s almost comical, the way he’s trying so hard to seem religiously solemn in a room where God hadn’t bothered to show up, not today, at least.