Bad Little Bride

As I step from the shower, I find my reflection in the mirror, sighing at the dark circles forming beneath my eyes. Across the room, the balcony mocks me, the large bay doors latched from the outside to keep me from enjoying the summer sun while it lasts.

The balcony may be completely bare, but I would happily sit on my ass if it meant I could at least listen to the sounds the outside world offers. Anything over the suffocating silence of this room.

Summer is almost over and I have no idea what comes next for me. I still have two years left of the scholar program at Greyson Elite, not that I really care about that. All I ever wanted to do was dance anyway and the only books I like are the ones with couples on the covers.

Another sigh leaves me, and I pull the comb from the drawer, slowly brushing through my hair from root to tip. Rather than blow-drying it, I part it down the middle, slicking it straight down to my scalp. Looking through the cabinets and drawers, I search for some hair glue or wax, but of course those items weren’t thought of when this room was prepared for me. I find nothing, so I squirt a small amount of conditioner into my palm and drag it along my part. It’s not perfect and it won’t hold with the slightest bit of wind, but the baby hairs are hidden and it’s not like I’m going anywhere anyway.

The knock comes at the same time as it did yesterday, but I don’t bother moving toward the door. The woman can come to me, and if she wants me to be polite, she can at least offer me her name. If she doesn’t, I’m going to start calling her Grandma. Bet that will do the trick.

Sure enough, it’s her who comes around the corner, pausing in the doorway. She waits for me to look her way, but I continue rubbing in the facial cream I found in the drawer into my cheeks.

“You have a vanity,” she deadpans.

“Yes. I do.” Leaning closer to the mirror, I run the pad of my middle finger over my brows. “Two in fact, one at my family home and one at Greyson Manor. Both full of my things.”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t have taken all of your things when you went home for your…visit.” She says visit as if it’s a two-syllable word, chastising me without directly calling me out for the lie it really was.

She assumes I would deny the truth, so I do the opposite. “Had I planned to come back here at all, I wouldn’t have.”

Her brows snap together so fast I could almost smile. “So you admit, you intended to run from your obligation?”

“Intended?” I face her fully now. “I did run, did I not?”

Her spine straightens then, gaze narrowing. She wants to say something else, but decides against it, instead looking back to the near empty countertop. “If you require something you need, only ask.”

That has me looking her way with a blonde brow raised.

The woman lifts her chin. “I can bring an iPad in, and we can order you whatever you wish.”

Scoffing, I shake my head and move past her. “Online shopping is not shopping. It’s a result of boredom and procrastination.”

“Then it should suit you well.” Our eyes meet once again. “Are you not bored?” she asks, not waiting for a reply. “Are you not procrastinating?”

“For what?”

“The inevitable.”

I glare but she’s done being chatty, already moving to the closet and coming back with another outfit I didn’t pick out but won’t admit I don’t hate.

When she pairs the silky wide-leg white pants and purple sleeveless bodysuit with a matching pair of purple pumps, she scowls my way, letting them hang from her fingertips a moment longer than necessary before setting them at the foot of the bed.

“Mr. Fikile expects you at the table by eight sharp.”

“And does Mr. Fikile plan on being home by then?”

The woman’s mouth twitches, but she spins on her heel and walks out.

Flipping off the empty space, I finish getting ready because what the fuck else is there to do?

As promised, the woman is back when she said she would be and once again, she glares down at my flats.

Shaking her head, she spins and we walk the same way we did yesterday, right into the dining room, only this time, Enzo isn’t here.

I swallow the bitterness that coats my tongue and take the seat closest to me, as far away from where I decide is his usual seat. I’ve just settled onto the cushion when the same server from yesterday appears.

He stiffens at my placement, but pivots quickly enough, delivering my cappuccino and all the fixings, just as before.

“Thank you,” I tell him before he has a chance to run away, but he pretends as if I hadn’t spoken, leaving me alone in the dining room.

I’m tempted to cross my arms like a brat, but the rich aroma of Columbian espresso beans is too compelling for that. If nothing else in this place is enjoyable, you better believe I’ll relish my drink when it is.

So, I squirt a ton of whipped cream and drown it in freshly made caramel. I’ve just brought it to my mouth, the cream pressing softly against my upper lip, when laughter floats from the door across the room.

Female laughter.

My spine shoots straight, and I freeze. Surely, he won’t⁠—

The door opens, scratch that, Enzo pushes the door open, holding it with one strong, long arm and then the gorgeous brunette from yesterday steps through.

She’s all dolled up once again, hair curled and pinned, heels high and skirt higher.

Enzo, however, wears what he did yesterday, nothing new about his outfit other than a few wrinkles. The woman steps through, Enzo’s gaze shooting my way the moment he starts to follow.

He halts where he stands, the door slapping him in the back, but it doesn’t set him off-kilter.

No, even the giant, heavy mahogany doors kiss his ass, bouncing off him like he’s the one made of hundred-year-old, solid hardwood.

Those hazel eyes rage, but his face remains impressively blank.

I lift my cup again, taking a sip, before flicking my tongue over the cream I know my lips are now painted with. It’s a hazard of my drink choice and well worth it.

The vein in Enzo’s jaw tics. It’s one single time and the only break in his armor I spot before forcing myself to look away.

“Miss Revenaw.” The woman seeks my attention.

Out of spite, I make her wait four solid seconds before giving her what she wants, and imagine that. The exact moment our gazes meet, is when she realizes her skirt needs straightening. It’s an obvious and pathetic attempt to draw assumptions to my mind.

Little does she know I didn’t need her little show of supremacy. I saw the twist in her skirt the instant she walked through the door, and I would bet if I took Enzo’s fingers into my mouth, it would be her I tasted on them.

Bitch.

“Mrs. Fikile.”

Both our heads snap toward the man at her back when he speaks, but he’s only looking at me.

The woman’s smile is as fake as the bored expression I’m suddenly struggling to keep on my face.

“I’m sorry?” she asks.

“You will address her as Mrs. Fikile,” he says with a harsh sense of finality that has a strange sensation sparking along my spine.

The woman doesn’t seem to pick up on his no-bullshit tone, responding, “That seems odd considering⁠—”

“There is nothing odd about it. You will call her Mrs. Fikile. That is who she is.” His eyes hit mine. “Mrs. Enzo Fikile.”

Wait. What?!

My brows crash despite my efforts, and this time, a cruel smile curls his lush lips.

That is your declaration of consent, by the way. The marriage license you signed before you tried to leave me will be filed by nightfall. By this time tomorrow, Boston Revenaw will cease to exist.”

Holy shit.

The little line he had me read wasn’t just some narcissistic way of reminding me he owns me. That I offered myself up for the taking, then signed my future away to him. That he paid the fee my father required for my hand…with literal dollars.

The man in black was a priest or pastor or what the fuck ever, there to witness the declaration of intent, as he called it.

He married me. Very fucking poorly, but he went through with it, even after I left, and he was told I wouldn’t return, that I had “changed my mind.”

Enzo came and took me back himself, threw me in a tower and then made me the queen of it.

This isn’t a bluff. The truth is there, swimming in his dark gaze and in the way his shoulders are loosely set in what can only be considered satisfaction.

I am his now, more so than the contract had already detailed I would be.

I’m fucking married.

My stomach dips. Flips and rolls.

Must be from shock…right?

I do my best to offer no other reaction, not even when he passes the chair at the head of the table and continues this way.

He moves directly toward me, and I pull in a deep breath through my nose to hide the way my pulse jumps with each silent step. How a man his size, who emits as much power as him, can stalk so silently, I don’t know, but he manages it with ease.

I wait for him to tear me from my chair or to get in my face with a warning that he’d prefer not to speak about the bombshell he dropped in front of the bombshell he brought home, but he does neither of those things.

He simply takes the seat to my right, leaving me at the head of the table. He looks to my cup, the whipped cream having already melted into the drink, and lifts the Whip Tech, adding more, following up with caramel drizzle.

The move is so strange that I can’t help but stare at him as he does it.

At the sharp cut of his jaw, the heavy beat of his pulse just below it.

The harsh lines of his Adam’s apple.

There’s a sweetness in the air, rich and almost buttery, and I can’t say if it’s coming from her, him, or the fresh pour of caramel he hit me with.

The woman clears her throat, but he doesn’t look at her. He turns, slowly, our gazes locking like magnets.

Annoyed and, admittedly, self-conscious of my appearance this morning, I lift the damn cappuccino to my lips.

As if that’s exactly what he was waiting for, Enzo finally sits back, the tight pinch to his mouth soothing some.

“Ann-Marie. Have a seat, please. Let’s get the introduction out of the way so things will move along easier.”

Perfect. He wants me to officially meet his mistress.

The woman does as she’s told, her eyes scrutinizing as she takes me in as much as she can from her seated position. They settle on the mug in my hands, and a mocking smile graces her lips. “Hot chocolate. Cute.”

She watches me closely, waiting for me to shrink into myself at her not-at-all-subtle way of calling me a child. Of pointing out the obvious age difference between her and me. Between Enzo and me.

Enzo is watching me, waiting to see if I’ll tell her a distinct mixture of imported beans were grinded and blended together to make the perfect cup—perfect to my liking, of course—but instead I simply take another sip.

Annoyance flickers in her gaze and slowly she settles at Enzo’s side.

She reaches across him, holding her hand out for me to shake, her red fingernails sharp like talons.

“Sorry,” I begin. “But I’ve just washed my hands. I’d hate to dirty them up before breakfast.”

Her lips press into a tight line and when she retreats, she lays her palm against Enzo’s forearm.

My eyes lock onto the spot of contact like it’s the target and I’m the missile.

“You didn’t tell me she was so…witty,” Ann-Marie says to him.

That’s because he doesn’t know me.

Enzo removes her hand, and I manage to break my gaze from the spot just in time to meet his. “Ann-Marie and I are⁠—”

Fucking?

Having a baby?

In love?

“Working through the details of our arrangement,” he says.

“So, is this like an even day, odd day situation?” I cut him off, unable to help myself. “Do we split holidays, too, or am I being too presumptuous to assume I’d be awarded anything outside of the occasional arm candy? Or maybe it’s all in the name and I’m just the broodmare.”

Enzo’s expression grows thunderous, and eerily slowly, he leans forward in his seat. “Excuse me?”

The coolness of his tone has me pausing, the weight of his full attention more than I’m prepared for this morning. I seal my lips and wait for him to tell me what our arrangements are, being they were made without me.

Maybe being the pawn in my father’s games the last few months did spoil me. I almost forgot how things work in this world.

A wife is a pretty party piece…and whatever else her husband allows her to be.

He’s the law.

She is the added task to his overflowing calendar.

Enzo continues to stare, so I’m grateful when the slight clink of kitchenware dings in the space, giving me an excuse to glance away without seeming weak.

The food comes out then, the staff placing the options on the table before us, and my lips curve slightly when the server places the fruit closer to me today than yesterday. He doesn’t look at me, but I attempt to smile my thanks before he’s gone again.

Enzo piles his plate with the exact same items as yesterday, and from the corner of my eye, I watch the woman at his side grab the small tongs, closing them around what looks to be a blueberry scone. Before she can lift it from the plate, Enzo slaps his fork against the item, halting her movement.

“My wife chooses first,” he tells her, his gaze sliding my way.

I can’t bring myself to look at him.

Is that supposed to be sweet, because now I kind of want to throw an apple at his head in response.

And he called me his wife.

I’m…a wife.

A bitterness coats my tongue, but I don’t swallow it down, and I don’t offer him the satisfaction of a reaction either, instead placing a few strawberries on my plate. Enzo’s gaze burns into my cheek as I stab my fork into the fruit, bringing it to my mouth.

He slams his fork onto the table, but I’ve been on the receiving end of my father’s outbursts more times than I can count, so I don’t so much as flinch, smiling to myself when the mistress nearly jumps from her chair.

Enzo, reaching across me to tug the pile of baked goods closer, moves a few things around until he finds what he was looking for, setting a strawberry muffin and strawberry bagel onto my plate.

I dig my fingernails into the palm of my hand, focusing on the sting there so my cheeks don’t turn an embarrassing shade of pink at being treated like a child in front of the woman who so clearly views me as one.

Ignoring everything he gave me, I force myself to eat another piece of fruit, staring longingly at my mug. It’s no longer piping hot the way I like it, but chilled and drowning in melted whipped cream. Further proving that my server is in tune with his position, he steps from the kitchen just then, a fresh cappuccino in his hands.

He lowers it before me, turning the handle so it faces me perfectly, and moves the Whip Tech within reach of my dominant hand—another thing he must have picked up on.

“My savior.” I smile at his back. “Thank⁠—”

“You’re fired.”

I jolt, my head lashing toward Enzo.

He stares at me coldly, anger and annoyance in his gaze. In the same second, the doors behind me are thrown open, and I glance over my shoulder.

Two guards step in, their black bandanas slung low over their noses. My server steps up to them, pulls the matching one from around his face, exposing himself for the first time, and hands it to the first, silently falling into the middle of the man-muscle sandwich. They lead him from the room without a word.

I gape at the empty exit, my mouth open and ready to say, I don’t know what. What the fuck just happened feels about right, but I don’t get the chance to speak.

Enzo shoots to his feet, charging off in the opposite direction.

“Ann-Marie!” he barks.

Just like that, the woman follows after him, and I’m left alone at the breakfast table.

Anger brews low in my belly and I slap my hand on the tabletop, glaring at the doors he just walked through.

I have no words for how this morning has gone, but I’ll be damned if I sit around as if hoping he’ll come back.

I didn’t even know he was going to be here in the first fucking place.

What I hope is that he chokes on his next meal, especially if his next meal is her.

I don’t wait for Grandma—that is officially her name since she didn’t warn me this was a three-way breakfast when I have no doubt she was aware—to collect me again today, but calmly step up to the sealed double doors and wait to see if they open.

They do, so I head back to my jail cell of my own accord, and somehow manage not to slam the door once inside.

I kick my flats off, shove the chair against the wall, roll the rug up and scoot the vanity closer to the window. I shove the pants from my body, leaving me in the bodysuit, and step into the center of the clear space.

Closing my eyes, I take several deep breaths, allowing my muscles to relax before straightening my shoulders. Starting with the opening chords of Mickey Valen and Joey Myron’s “Chills”, the dark version, I play the melody from memory in my head, moving my body to the beat.

I do it over and over and over again.

I don’t stop until my spine burns, spasming, and sends me crashing to the floor.

I cry out slightly, staying there long after I should before slowly climbing to my feet and wincing my way to the tub, turning the water as hot as it will go.

It’s going to sting, but only for a moment.

I’m slick with sweat, muscles aching as I strip the sticky top from my body, easing into the burning water.

“Ah,” I hiss, clenching my teeth on the way in.

Once I’m submerged, my shoulders lower and a small smile finds my lips.

That’s better.

Just as my mind settles and my muscles ease, a throat clears behind me.

I jerk, my eyes snapping toward the door.

Grandma stands there, brow raised as she looks to the disarray of the room, then my sweat-soaked top on the floor. “Out.”

“No.”

Her eyes widen, only to narrow a moment later. “Out…or he will come in to collect you.”

I tense, reaching up and touching the space between my shoulder blades subconsciously.

Satisfaction blooms along the woman’s face, as if she knows what she couldn’t possibly, and she spins on her heel.

“I can buy you twenty minutes, tops.”

Rolling my eyes, I cringe as I lift from the bath that was nowhere near enough time. “Sure thing, Grandma.”

She freezes. “Make that ten.”

Fuck my life.