“You’re not my Prince Charming,” I blurted out, my thoughts going back to the conversation I’d had with my sister in her car the night I told her about my engagement. “You’re the villain.”
“Fear is my greatest asset.” He tipped his head down, pretending to nuzzle my throat, his hoarse, low baritone reverberating deep inside me. “But what are villains, my dear wife, if not misunderstood heroes?”
Even though I decided against throwing a party, there was a grand dinner hosted at Avebury Court Manor in honor of my sham marriage.
I’d met Jane and Gerald Fitzpatrick countless of times before. I’d been to their mansion practically every week for my takeout night with the girls. But save for the dinner in which we broke the news, this was the first time I was there as their eldest son’s bride and not the timid, polite friend of their daughter’s.
I could tell by the courteous smiles and awkwardness that they knew this wasn’t a love match. Jane glanced at me almost apologetically while Gerald kept checking on me as though he was sure I would bolt out of their house the minute they looked away.
My own parents were dazzled by the luxury the Fitzpatricks lived in. Dad drooled over the fifteen-car garage, and I was pretty sure Mom was on the verge of making sweet love to the kitchen tiles. Both were awestruck by the butterfly garden Gerald had created for his wife, probably to remind her she was trapped in this marriage forever.
Conversation between the families was stilted. Gerald, my dad, and Cillian did most of the talking, filling the uncomfortable silence with safe topics such as the Boston Celtics, street food, and past legendary athletes. I shoved my food around on my plate, occasionally answering a question aimed my way.
Being ignored by Cillian while he wasn’t mine was devastating.
But being ignored by him when I was his wife was going to be soul-crushing.
In the past few weeks, I’d been pampered beyond belief. Had a stylist arrive at my apartment with three sets of wardrobes. I’d received an obnoxious number of engagement rings, was moving into a brand-new apartment, and had my Paxton and debt problems taken care of. But nothing—other than having Byrne and Kaminski off my back—was worth the sacrifice of my freedom to someone who didn’t truly want me. Only wanted my womb and my ability to raise his children.
When dinner was over and we kissed and hugged everyone goodbye, Cillian led me by the small of my back to his Aston Martin, opening the door for me while everyone stood at the door, waving goodbye. He was the image of a perfect gentleman.
During the drive, I kept silent. I wasn’t sure what pissed me off more—the fact he acted like he cared in front of the cameras and our families, or that I was stupid enough to buy it.
Probably the latter.
“The wedding went smoothly,” Kill observed, his eyes on the road as the vehicle skidded through the pastoral neighborhoods of Back Bay. The evening frost bit at my skin; the sunny weather of the morning was replaced with dark gloom.
A chill ran down my spine. He was my Hades, and I came to him willingly.
“I’m glad you think so.” I looked out the window with my arms folded over my chest. I hunted the sky for a cloud, desperate to see Auntie Tilda again, but all I saw was a consistent blanket of black velvet.
“Is the apartment to your satisfaction?”
“Tonight will be my first night there,” I answered curtly. “I’m sure I’m going to love it.”
Why wouldn’t I? It was in the most exclusive building in Boston. With five-star hotel amenities, a chef’s kitchen, Subzero appliances, heated flooring, and Italian-imported furniture.
And…I couldn’t care less.
About any of it.
If anything, I was bummed I couldn’t stay at Belle’s, where at least I’d have her body heat against mine every morning when she crawled into bed. Where I had conversation, and happy moments, and weekends making food in the tiny kitchenette with a glass of wine.
I hated everything about this conversation with my husband.
The clinical politeness.
The lack of intimacy.
How I now knew what his lips felt like.
“Why did you ask the orchestra to play ‘The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba?’ Why not ‘Bridal Chorus?’” I blurted out.
“I don’t like Wagner.”
“Because he is loved?” I teased.
“No, because he was a Nazi,” he answered plainly.
I shot him a sidelong glance, surprised.
“Interesting.”
“Not particularly. You may want to broaden your pool of interests.”
Turning toward him fully, I smirked.
“So you don’t consume products that are loosely connected to racism. By that logic, you don’t drive a Ford, wear Hugo Boss, or use Kodak products.”
“I drive an Aston Martin, wear Kiton and Brioni, and no to using Kodak.”
“Careful, hubs, or I’ll suspect you have a soul.”
“Nobody has a soul. What I have is a few working brain cells and loose principles.”
“Nobody has a soul?” I echoed, dumbfounded. “I know you don’t believe in feelings, or God, but you don’t believe in souls, either?”
“Do you?” He took a smooth turn into our neighborhood. We lived only a few blocks away from each other.
“Of course,” I said, incredulous.
“Where is it then?” His amber eyes were still on the road. “Your soul. Anatomically.”
“Just because you can’t see something doesn’t mean it’s not in existence. Take air, for instance. Or intelligence. Or love.”
“The fact you shove the L-word into every conversation says a lot about you, you know.”
“There are no facts, Cillian my dear. Only interpretations.”
It was his turn to shoot me a disbelieving look.
“Nietzsche.”
“I married a nihilist.” I ran a hand over the soft satin of my gown. I’d spent the past few weeks reading everything Nietzsche and Heidegger like my life depended on it. “The least I could do before saying I do was to take a tour in that mind of yours. Understand your moral compass.”
“I have no morals. That’s the point of being a nihilist.”
You boycott companies and people because once upon a very long time, they stood for something you strongly disagreed with. You are nothing but morals.
Of course, pointing that out was only going to make us argue more. It was best to make him find out for himself that he wasn’t the asshole he thought he was.
He took a turn to my street and parked in front of my apartment building. A doorman stood at the entrance. I put my hand on the door handle, drawing a breath before shoving it open.
“Persephone.”
I whipped my head around, my eyes clinging to his face.
“We still haven’t discussed the conception part.”
“There’s nothing to discuss. You can start taking my calls. Better yet—call me when you’re ready to start trying. We can hit the road running and get pregnant by summer.”
I wanted children with all my heart. Was always the girl who tucked her dolls into little plastic strollers while her sister climbed on trees and skateboarded with the boys.
All I ever wanted was a family of my own. Babies and matching plaid jammies and elaborate Christmas trees with handmade decorations.
“What are my chances of convincing you to go the IVF route?” Kill asked, businesslike.
“Nonexistent,” I said flatly. “We have a deal.”
“Fine. I’ll have someone send over ovulation tests. Call me when you’re ready.”
“That’s a no from me.”
“Excuse me?” He whipped his head in my direction. Did I finally manage to anger him? Probably not, but at least he didn’t look his cool, dead self for a moment.
“I don’t want to take tests. I like the element of surprise.” I shrugged, deliberately provoking him.
“Is there a point to having sex if you are not ovulating?” To his defense, he tried. Tried to cling to the remainder of his calm with everything he had. But I intended to snap it.
“There is,” I replied sunnily.
“Do share it.”
“I’ll orgasm.”
For the first time in my life, I saw the Cillian Fitzpatrick blushing. I could swear it. Even in the dim light cast by the streetlamps, I noticed his face turning a shade I’d never seen on him before. His mouth pressed in a hard line.
“Sexual favors weren’t a part of our negotiation.”
“Sue me.” I threw the passenger door open but didn’t get out just yet. “Look, if you don’t want to touch me this much, don’t bother. You don’t have to sleep with me, Kill. But if you want me to give you a baby, that’s the route you’ll have to take. And another thing.” I turned to him. I could tell he was shocked by my bold behavior. He was counting on a watered-down version of his sister. And to an extent, I was exactly that person—romantic, sweet, always willing to help.
But I knew damn well that with Kill, I had to fight back if I wanted to earn his respect, his trust, and a place in his life.
He stared at me, cracking his fingers under the stirring wheel.
“You, my darling husband, kiss like a hungry Rottweiler.”
No response.
“You really need to work on your tongue-to-lips ratio. And you use way too much saliva.”
He continued staring at me, ridiculously unmoved.
C’mon. Feel something. Anything. Anger! Wrath! Disgust! I’m insulting you.
“I guess I can teach you.” I let out a sigh.
“Hard pass.”
“But you—”
“Drop it, Persephone. In order to insult me, I’ll first have to value your opinion, and as established five minutes ago, I don’t value anything.”
“Your loss.”
“Never heard any complaints.”
“Of course you haven’t!” I got out of his car, slamming the door in his face. “You don’t pay them to grade you. Good night, hubs.”
Turning around, I walked away, feeling his eyes on me the entire time.
I entered my new golden cage, knowing full well that for all its gilded beauty, it was, after all, still a cage.