Page 11 of Pandora's Pleasure

He uncorked the bottle and it popped and fizzed as he poured the bubbling liquid into the two glasses. “No one will know.”

Secretly, I couldn’t wait to drink the champagne. I licked my lips with anticipation.

I admired the oak fitted cabinetry and marble island. This was the kind of spacious setting a family would feel comfortable hanging out in. If my infatuation with Damien hadn’t faded, I imagine being here would have brought me some contentment.

Damien handed me the glass.

I brought the crystal flute to my lips and took a few sips to garner more confidence, the fizzing bubbles tickling my nose.

A chime went off.

Damien fished around in his pocket and withdrew his Smartphone, his expression turning to one of surprise when he glanced at the screen.

Moving closer, I asked, “What is it?”

He turned the screen of his phone toward me, showing me an article on theNew York Timeswebsite:

WASHINGTON QUAKES WITH THE ANNOUNCMENT OF

TWO DYNASTIES MELDING

Presidential candidate Senator Gregor Godman’s Son, Damien G. Godman, to wed Pandora Aria Bardot, daughter of Brenan Bardot of Bardot Petroleum.

Damien tucked his phone away.

That was it.

My future was set. Extracting myself from this betrothal now written in stone—or the newsy equivalent—would be impossible.

“Weren’t we going to wait?” I shot Damien a look of confusion. “Who sent you that?”

“Welcome to my fucking world.” He reached into his pocket and threw a shiny object onto the countertop. I watched as it bounced across the marble toward me, settling near the edge. The ring glinted in the moonlight—a vivid green emerald surrounded by a cluster of diamonds.

It was beautiful, but…

He’d not opened a velvet box to reveal it. Or gotten on one knee to officially propose. There’d been no confession of love…just a gaudy gesture of contempt thrown my way. I counted the cluster of diamonds surrounding the stone to take my mind off its meaning—a stamp of ownership.

Maybe he’d say something soon. Maybe he’d share his feelings for me. With my breath held, I waited for Damien to say that despite all of his questionable prior behavior toward me, he did love me.

But Damien merely pulled open a drawer and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. He peeled back the wrapper and tapped one out, then went on another hunt and fished a lighter out of a small ceramic bowl on the counter. With a flick and a spark, he used it to light up his cigarette.

He took a long drag and blew out a spiral of smoke that snaked toward the ceiling. He flicked an ash into the ceramic bowl.

Acrid smoke reached my nostrils. “Is that ring for me? Or are you leaving it as a tip for the housekeeper?”

“Try it on.” He reached for his bowtie and worked it loose until it dangled from his neck.

I set my champagne glass down, my lips quivering with a bitterness that was impossible to hide. I wished it was a sapphire. Petty thought, I admit, but I’d wanted to be there when he chose the ring.

“I’m never going to get down on one knee and propose.” He flicked ash from the end of his cigarette into the ceramic bowl. “If that’s what you’re expecting.”

I reached for the emerald and slipped it onto my left ring finger, as though I were perfectly willingly to be bound to him. It fit too well, like it might stay there. Itwaspretty. Striking, really, but this wasn’t the way I’d imagined this moment.

He read my reaction. “I’m a victim just as much as you.”

“Victim?”

“People like us don’t get to decide. We’re told who our match will be, that the world will be a better place for it.”