Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 79991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
I’m sure she hears him, too, tucked away in the spare room as she prepares for what’s to come. I’m sure Grandfather considered it an act of generosity, offering to hire people to come in and do her hair, makeup, and nails. The bride must be pampered, he insisted. She went along with it because she isn’t a fool, though I could have told him she wasn’t interested, that is, if he’d have listened. This act he’s putting on is downright cruel at the heart of it. He knows she doesn’t want this any more than I do, yet he makes a big show of pretending this is in any way normal.
It was also a test, and I know it even if he doesn’t think I do. Making sure she’s loyal, that she wouldn’t hint to anybody at how unhappy she is about this arrangement. And she didn’t because she’s smart enough not to. How do I know that? Because I would have known otherwise. I would have known right away. Grandfather would have wasted no time telling me, perhaps even holding it over Alvarez’s head, that his daughter was an unfaithful liability.
I know she’s alone in there. Grandfather and Josef discussed the terms of the marriage contract earlier when the Alvarez family first arrived. But no one has been in to see Elena, not even her mother. There is so much about this family I don’t understand and wish I did, considering the fact I’m marrying into them. Marriage means inheriting a spouse’s family—especially in a marriage like this, where it was the family who arranged it in the first place. Controlling, manipulative, and self-serving.
Funny how the old superstition about a groom seeing his bride before the wedding tickles the back of my mind as I walk down the hall in her direction. What difference does it make if I see her now or not? This entire situation has been doomed from the beginning. For all I know, I might be improving our odds by tossing tradition out the window and visiting her before the ceremony. At the heart of it, tradition be damned—she deserves at least one person to check in with her before the ceremony, and if her parents can’t be bothered, it will have to be me. It should be me.
I give the door a faint rap with my knuckles. “Can I come in? I only want to see you for a minute.”
She doesn’t hesitate. “Sure. Come in.” Her voice isn’t flat or empty in the way I would have expected—if anything, it’s surprisingly light. The voice of a woman who sees no point in fighting anymore. A woman resigned to her fate. It makes me uneasy, but I open the door, prepared for whatever I find.
What I find is my bride sitting before a mirror, looking like an angel descended to earth. I already knew that dress was made for her, but the effect with the hair and the makeup and everything is overwhelming. Her upswept hairdo highlights the graceful lines of her neck, the way she holds her head high, so proud. Her already gorgeous face is breathtaking, thanks to a little skillfully applied makeup. She is every inch the beautiful bride.
And she’s mine—though not really. There’s a good chance she never will be. And now I understand what sits at the heart of my apprehension and misgivings.
I wish she had chosen me. I can’t remember another time in my life when I felt this way. When I wanted to earn someone’s trust and esteem. Not because of the family I belong to, not because she was ordered to. I want her to want me, Enzo, for myself.
I want her so deeply, so intensely, that it takes every scrap of self-control not to touch her now. I don’t want her because of my family or because I’m supposed to. I want her because she’s everything I can ever imagine wanting in a woman. Her beauty, her smarts, her kindness. That backbone of steel so cleverly concealed in what appears to be a weak, frail little body. She’s ideal—perfect.
And she wants nothing to do with me, nor will she ever. I wouldn’t know where to begin making her love me. And so it’s with a heavy heart that I greet her—still, my sentiments are genuine. “There’s never been a more beautiful bride, and there never will be.”
She appears to give a startled little gasp as she turns away from the mirror, looking almost bewildered. “Thank you, but you don’t have to say that.”
“I mean it.”
Is it that easy to make her happy? To say something kind to her? It almost doesn’t seem fair that it would be that easy. Odds are she hasn’t had many compliments given to her before now.
“You look very nice, as well.”