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Another text pops up. No cameras. I wouldn’t want to see you in your dress before the big day. It’s bad luck.

I toss the phone onto the sofa next to my bag and pace the room a few times, nervously scouring every corner for some kind of unobtrusive bug or camera, not sure I trust his word on this.

I’ve become so paranoid these past few weeks, but I really should order one of those scanners that checks rooms for this sort of thing.

It’s not like my security detail goes through my mail or packages.

Not yet, anyway. But Aidan would see me scanning the room to remove his devices, and I’m sure he’d just have new ones installed.

A couple of minutes later, I get another text.

Are you in the changing room now? He asks.

I hesitate before typing back: Yes .

Why am I communicating with him at all?

Good. I want you to pull down your panties and send me a picture of that untouched virgin pussy.

I just gawk at the phone in my hand. I think back to my mysterious rescuer in the alley. I’ve been fantasizing about the mystery man almost non-stop, even though I haven’t been able to do anything about it because I know Aidan’s hidden cameras will catch me in the act.

Would it be so bad for cameras to catch it if I’m covered up?

It’s not like Aidan would be able to see anything—just a little movement under the sheets and a facial expression, maybe some sounds.

Maybe I could wait until it was very late and he was surely asleep, and then be very careful not to move and to be quiet.

Even if he skimmed through the footage later, maybe he wouldn’t notice or realize what was happening.

Two weeks without using my toy is practically a lifetime. I’m an orgasm-a-day kind of girl, and if I don’t resume that schedule soon, I might crawl right out of my own skin. Even if no man has touched me like that, it doesn’t mean I’m not an expert at touching myself like that.

What if it was the guy from the alley texting this request? Would I do it? I’m not sure. A flush of arousal rolls over me, even as I try to deny what I might do if the stranger from the alley demanded it.

But it doesn’t matter. I doubt he’s stalking me with the same kind of fervor as Aidan, if at all. Men say shit like “I’ll see you around,” all the time… isn’t that really just the proverbial “I’ll call you”?

My phone buzzes with another text. It would please me. And pleasing me will raise the quality of your life. I wait while the three dots pop up to see what he’s typing to add onto this proclamation.

Significantly.

I swallow around the lump in my throat and text back.

Sorry, you have to wait until the wedding.

I’m an old-fashioned kind of girl. Can I really buy myself two and a half months?

I have to. I can barely let my traumatized mind think about what he’ll make me do when he finally has me isolated from my family and the rest of the world.

You’re not old-fashioned. You’re just picky. He replies.

Says the man who has to force a woman to marry him.

I regret the text as soon as I send it.

Several minutes pass, and I think he’s angry.

Maybe I should get a less expensive dress.

I’m playing with fire, after all. He may have terrorized me when we were kids with his constant lurking presence, but he has actual power to hurt me now.

And no one is coming to save me, no matter how much I might wish the stranger from the alley would or could.

Finally, another text comes through.

No, my dear, I’ve had an endless parade of women falling at my feet for years. I had to force you specifically because you are the one I want, and we already know those feelings are not returned.

I don’t know if I believe he’s had a “parade of women”, and I don’t know why that thought tweaks me.

He’s been obsessed with me for years, but here he is running through a train of women?

Is he going to cheat on me when we’re married?

Is he one of those kinds of men who needs Novelty Pussy?

A man who can’t be faithful? Not that I want all his attention focused on me forever.

Maybe it would be better if he got bored with me and turned his attentions elsewhere.

It’s not like I want to fuck him. I shudder again thinking about what he must have grown into.

Maybe once he’s had me, he’ll get bored, like the kid who demands a new toy for months then plays with it for half a day.

I cringe at this entire line of thinking.

As though I want to be trapped in a forced marriage where the guy doesn’t even want me.

Is this what my life has come to? Only hoping for a future in which my husband leaves me alone?

And again, assuming he’s even telling the truth about any of this. If he’s as awkward as he was when we were kids, there’s no way he’s had some easy time getting laid—more likely he’s been holed up in his basement with porn. He’s just trying to rile me up.

But part of me believes him, and I’m even more unsettled by the idea of a very sexually experienced Aidan up next to my complete lack of experience.

I try to ignore the potential number of women he may have bedded and how much I do not want to be compared to them by a man I hate and instead focus on the rest of his text, the part about his feelings not being returned.

Then why? I finally reply. Why do this if you know I don’t feel the same way?

The three blinking dots drive me mad as I wait for the reply.

Because you will. In time.

He’s just as delusional as he ever was, but I’m wise enough this time not to actually type that.

I don’t text him back, and he leaves it there as well, but the lingering thought in my mind is… and if I don’t? If I can’t make myself feel anything for you, what happens to me then?

“Are you all right in there?” Stella asks from the other side of the door.

“Yes. I’m sorry I was on the phone. I’ll be right out.”

I carefully put on the Dior dress. There’s a zipper down the back and then silk-covered buttons that cover the zipper line. But they are decorative only, and don’t affect the fit.

It’s even more perfect on than it looked on the hanger.

I pick this moment to start crying. The cake is so perfect.

The dress is so perfect. I don’t know about the flowers yet, but judging from the floral shop my house has turned into, Aidan has that on lock, too.

Why is all of this so perfect, except for the groom?

Why can’t it be someone I want to marry?

Someone I love? Instead of this awful man who won’t let me go, even though he’s never had and never can have my heart.

I hurriedly wipe my eyes, careful not to touch the dress again with my tear soaked hands.

“That’s the one,” Erica says as soon as I step out into the main part of the shop.

“Yes,” my mother agrees, the other dresses she insisted I try on clearly forgotten in the shadow of this one perfect dress.

Everyone just stares at me. My guards, the shop workers, Stella, my mother, and Erica.

Finally Stella breaks the spell. “It’s just about perfect.

” She walks around me looking for anything she can tweak.

“But you must come in for a fitting three weeks before the wedding just to be sure. And try not to gain or lose any weight between now and then. No stress eating,” she admonishes, and I can tell just by her tone that she’s had more than one bridal emergency from that situation.

“I won’t. I promise.”

“Well, then. If you’re sure you don’t want to try anything else on, I’ll get this all sorted for you and will give you a call when it’s time for the final fitting. If you gain or lose any weight between now and then, call me immediately.”

I change back into my street clothes, and Stella gives me my boxed-up cake leftovers on my way out the door. And now I am one step closer to the fate I’ve given up on escaping.