The Accidental Marriage: Chapter 3

–twenty-seven days later

“I don’t know when she’s going to be up. But we can’t drag her out to get the marriage license like this. She looks like a bleached cabbage,” my aunt huffs, probably complaining to her husband or stepson Rupert.

I stay limp on the bed, but crack my eyes open surreptitiously and scout the area as much as possible. The bed’s large, probably king-size, and we look to be in at least a two-bedroom suite in a hotel. Aunt Doris, holding a phone to her ear, undoubtedly booked and paid for it with my money. Continuing to play Sleeping Beauty isn’t such a bad idea when my head hurts from whatever their doc injected me with so I wouldn’t fight back on the flight from Nesovia to Vegas.

“Can’t we just slip some cash to the clerk?” Rupert’s nauseating voice comes through on speaker.

“And get arrested?”

“We gotta hurry up. There’s only six months left,” he says impatiently.

“You don’t have to remind me. If you’d been able to butter her up…!” She lets out a soft growl of frustration. “Just how hard is it to say some sweet nothings and seduce her? It isn’t like she’s surrounded by boys!”

True. Since my aunt and her family can’t have their source of income fall into someone else’s hands, they made sure to keep me away from not just boys, but most girls my age as well. I have no bestie I can call and pour my heart out to, and the only classmate I sort of know is Ethan Beckman, who was in the classic art course I took online. But since then, we’ve lost contact. Thank you, Doris.

Nesovia has some of the shittiest and most archaic inheritance laws in the world. Until I’m married or turn thirty—whichever comes first—I can’t control my own money. So Doris, as my sole living blood relative, has had control over my sixty-billion-dollar inheritance since I was eight.

Initially, she was good to me, always making sure to treat me as well as Rupert, although she told me at least once a week that Rupert saved me from the forest fire twenty-two years ago. The constant reminder was irritating, but Doris claimed it was to help me remember even though the details never seem to add up. Besides, I just can’t imagine Rupert lifting a finger for anybody unless it benefited him. And he was only ten back then, too young to understand the complexity of my inheritance situation.

Everything changed when I overheard her and Rupert a couple weeks before my thirteenth birthday. They were disappointed I still couldn’t accept how Rupert saved me from a horrible death—being burned alive is pretty shitty, after all—and somehow failed to fall in love with him. So they wanted to engineer a heroic scenario, which they’d make sure would be embedded in my memory forever. The plot was simple, albeit clichéd. I was to get kidnapped and Rupert would rescue me. Doris believed I’d fall in love with him for sure and marry him as soon as I was old enough. Then they could rightfully take full control over my trust.

I should’ve kept my mouth shut and played them. But my youthful brattiness and inexperience made me lash out. Doris took away my phone and started to control me, including putting drugs into my food. Unlike me, she understood the importance of managing public perception.

While living lavishly on my money, she goes on TV and other media to brag about how she’s fighting for girls in Nesovia to gain agency. Her dream is to leave a name for herself—a legacy of her own, since Grandfather refused to let her run Hayworth Shipping. Of course, if she really believed what she spewed, she would’ve handed me the reins over my finances when I turned twenty-one.

“I tried, but she’s impossible! She’s probably a lesbian!” Rupert shouts in impotent fury.

I’m not. But I could be if he were the only man left. Hell, entering a nunnery would be a better option.

“She’s too stupid to know when somebody’s flattering her!” he adds. “And stubborn. She won’t accept my explanation.”

“About what?”

“That what she overheard back then about the abduction plot was a misunderstanding.”

Won’t accept it because he’s too stupid to make me believe it. Lies only work if you’re sincere in your deception—you have to believe your own bullshit. Sadly, his contempt and derision for me are obvious every time we interact. He could drop to his knees, kiss my feet and call me his goddess, and I still wouldn’t believe him.

And his girlfriend, Parker Jacoby, hasn’t helped the cause either. Rupert and Parker pretend they’re just friends—probably what they agreed to do in front of me—but she’s too impetuous and impatient to play her part with any consistency. Every time Rupert isn’t around, she shows off the fancy jewelry or purses he bought for her, doing her best to provoke me.

Her face turns red every time I respond along the lines of: “Things you bought with my money. So technically, it’s me who gifted you. No, no, no need to thank me, Parker. I don’t want your body. You aren’t my type, even if I were inclined to play for the other team. I prefer my bed partners intelligent and disease-free.”

It’s oh so satisfying to watch the steam come out of her ears, especially since she can’t do anything about my mockery. Telling Rupert would only earn his anger. She told me he’s only marrying me for money. Once he’s in control of my inheritance, he’ll get rid of me and marry Parker in a ceremony that will put the British royal family to shame. Clearly, she thought the revelation would upset and humiliate me. But you can only get upset if you have expectations. And those vanished years ago when I overheard Doris and Rupert talking about fake-kidnapping me.

It’s sad how low people can stoop for money. On the other hand, I guess sixty billion can negate pretty much anything, including one’s conscience.

“You should’ve just slept with her and gotten her pregnant!” Doris says.

So now rape is being packaged as “sleeping with”? Even more astounding—she actually believes that I’d have married Rupert if he forced himself on me! What century does she think we’re living in?

“I would have if she didn’t carry that damn fruit knife everywhere.”

I almost killed him when I slashed at his neck with it. When he came at me again, I threatened to cut my wrists. Since then, he’s quit trying to force me physically. Anything that could cause my death isn’t worth the risk.

He continues, “But if you want, I could do it now.”

Dread unfurls, tensing every cell in my body. Doris probably took my knife away. Damn it. Is there anything I can use as a weapon in the room? There has to be a minibar with a corkscrew in this place.

“Never mind.” Doris sighs impatiently. “You’re going to marry her before midnight anyway.” A sharp ping from the phone. She looks at it, then gets back to Rupert. “I have to take care of this. Think of some good way to get her to agree to get the marriage license.”

“Fuck. Grandfather shouldn’t have let the money go to charity if she dies.”

“Shut up. What if somebody hears?” she hisses.

“Like who?”

Like me? I think, feeling the weight of my aunt’s gaze.

“A big ring might do the trick,” she says. “Something really ostentatious.”

Translation: I have no taste to expect any better. But then, that’s the public persona I’ve cultivated, because eccentricity is one of my most important tools of survival. And to be honest, it isn’t that difficult to be a tasteless heiress when I don’t have any. Taste, that is. I didn’t inherit any of my artist mom’s discerning eye or talent. One of Doris’s frequent lamentations is, “Susan wasted six years trying to impart some of her artistic genius on you. She should’ve just settled in Nesovia after marrying William, rather than frittering away our money taking you to all those fancy museums and exhibitions.”

Tiresome how everything’s measured by money. Mom wanted to create memories with me and protect me from the worst laws of Nesovia. She didn’t come back until Grandfather altered his will and trust to protect me as much as possible.

“Why? I already bought her one for the engagement!” Rupert says.

The engagement? When did he ask me to marry him? I move my left ring finger and realize there’s a ring there that I didn’t have before. Oh my God. Did he propose during the flight when I was out cold from the drugs administered by their “doctor”?

“Just shut up and do as I say. Or maybe buy her some gourmet chocolate. No girl can resist that.”

This girl can. I haven’t touched food from them for years now. I filch meals from the staff in the mansion and throw wild parties that I never attend but are beloved by other idle and aimless heirs and heiresses. Acting eccentric and unreasonable has its benefits. No matter what I do, nobody questions it anymore. They just chalk it up to me being me. Too much money, too little control.

I add fuel to the fire by devoting most of my free time to painting whatever moves me at the moment. Although I didn’t get Mom’s talent, she tried to teach me before she passed away. Every time I complete a piece, Doris replaces it with a blank canvas, saying art is a good way to vent my emotions. She clearly doesn’t understand I’m not dumb enough to fall for her faux concern and encouragement. I always rein myself in just enough to ensure nobody will consider me clinically insane. Getting locked up in an asylum? No thanks.

The mattress dips. Cool fingers skim my forehead. “Why can’t you just accept our story about the fire? Rupert isn’t a bad catch. You should totally be in love with him.” It’s less a lament than resentment. Doris would love nothing more than for me to slavishly agree to everything Rupert wants. Gross.

The mattress springs back, and a few minutes later the door opens and closes. I count to ten, then open my eyes. Just the bed, an ornate ceiling fan with gold foil, a giant TV and a vanity.

I’m alone. Perfect.

I sit up, my bare feet touching the thickly carpeted floor. Doris hates giving me shoes, as though they’d allow me to run away. I grab a bottle of Evian from the minibar, bypassing a pitcher of water by the bedside stand. I’m not touching anything that isn’t sealed.

The mirror shows a pale woman in a white wedding gown. It’s designed to cover my shoulders, arms and back. Modesty isn’t the point, but covering the hideous burn scar on my shoulder is. It’s as big as my palm, but I can’t remember how I got it. You’d think a trauma significant enough to mar such a large patch of skin would’ve left a lasting impression. But no.

Doris told me it’s from the fire, where Rupert rescued me. Without his pulling me out of the flames, the injury could’ve been more significant—or worse, I could’ve died. Rupert didn’t get any scars or injuries from it—how lucky. I was supposedly hospitalized for a week, unconscious and feverish. Bet Doris and Vernon were biting their nails, since they need me alive to get my money.

The burn mark doesn’t hurt or anything, but Doris, Vernon and Rupert act like I’m running around with a used sanitary napkin stuck to my skin every time they see it. Maybe it looks that awful to them, but I don’t think it looks quite that horrible. Hard to say, since I’m probably not the most objective when it comes to my own scar.

But does the dress have to be so hideous? With such huge, poufy shoulders and lace on the sleeves and so many layers of chiffon—to the point that the skirt looks like a cross between a tutu and a rococo-style dress?

The lipstick on my mouth is bright red—ridiculous for my ghostly complexion, but then, Doris isn’t known for her taste, either. But she is good with hair. My platinum mane is twisted into an elaborate style with a few tendrils framing my face. If I had a bit more color in my cheeks, I could pass for a radiant bride.

I look down at my finger and scowl. There’s a diamond solitaire stone set on a plain platinum band. About as interesting and creative as Rupert himself.

All right. Time to grab my passport from the safe—where Doris always stores important documents—and get out of here. I’m only six months away from my thirtieth birthday and freedom. No way am I going to be forced into marrying Rupert. I don’t know exactly what Doris is planning, but she’ll stop at nothing to get her hands on my inheritance. And neither will her husband Vernon, who would make your average bribe-taking banana republic politician look conscientious.

I quietly head into the living room. Nobody’s around. I reach for the safe. It’s a simple four-digit combination type. I press 0-8-2-5, the birthday of Doris’s favorite actor, Sean Connery. She isn’t aware that I know it, but then, I’ve become very good at playing dumb and biding my time. Doris has grown “protective” after the fruit knife incident and put multiple bodyguards on me to keep me safe. But they’re actually spies, reporting my every move and ensuring I don’t do anything to harm myself. If I die too early, my money will go to a charity in America she can’t touch.

For this trip Doris brought two guards—probably the only ones she could bribe to look the other way as she forces me to marry her stepson—and they’re stationed outside the suite. When Doris, Vernon and Rupert aren’t around, they look at me like I’m a piece of meat. I call them Creepy and Creepier because the latter copped a feel a couple of times while “helping” me to my room after Doris put something in my drink. No matter how careful I am, it’s impossible to avoid all poison and drugs in the food and drinks—another compelling reason I need to get the hell away from my so-called family.

The safe clicks open, and I take out my passport and stuff as much cash as I can into my bra. The glint of Rupert’s diamond ring catches my eye. Making a face, I yank it off my finger and place it where my passport was.

“Sayonara, fuckers.”

I reset the safe with a satisfied grin. Doris likely feels secure, thinking the bodyguards won’t let me leave.

She doesn’t know there’s more than one exit to a hotel.

I head out to the balcony, where I discover that it’s late afternoon. The suite is on the seventeenth floor. The hotel exterior is ornate with gargoyle bas-reliefs, horns and talons as big as my forearms sticking out. Four such carvings, then a balcony. I look down. Lots and lots of little balconies underneath…and people and cars as tiny as ants.

My heart races, blood whooshing through me. Holy shit. That’s high.

I close my eyes to create a strong visual. First up: me as a bloody pancake on the sidewalk. I shudder. No, no. I’m too young to die.

How about… Me as Mrs. Rupert Fage? My stomach roils, and I start to gag as acid sloshes in my belly and begins to climb to my throat.

That does it. Death is preferable to being married to that piece of shit. I didn’t avoid him for over twenty years just to be forced to be his missus. Parker is welcome to that cootie louse.

Carefully, I reach over and grab the closest horn, then swing my leg up until my bare foot finds solid purchase on the knee of the gargoyle. Gritting my teeth, I pull myself up, then over. The desert wind blows, pulling at my hair and dress, as though telling me to go back to Doris’s luxurious prison.

No thanks.

I slowly and carefully make my way over. My muscles burn as I clench the horns and fangs with all my might. Holy shit, this sort of stuff looks so easy in the movies. At least the stone used for the carving is rough, and I can get a decent grip. Otherwise, I’d definitely slip and die. I inch my way over…

Careful… Careful…

Don’t be afraid, I tell myself. Seriously, death is shitty, but not as terrible as it appears. Should I fall, Doris, Vernon and Rupert would become destitute fairly quickly. I looked up the charitable organization that would get my entire sixty-billion-dollar fortune. The Pryce Family Foundation is run by a woman named Elizabeth Pryce-King, and she doesn’t look like a pushover. The best part is that she has no connection to anybody in Nesovia, and Doris has no way to influence her.

My pulse pounds in my head, and my mouth is completely dry.

Come on. Just a little bit more…!

I stretch my leg as much as possible, and my toes touch the railing. Air rushes out in a big sigh of relief, but I still maintain a tight grip on the gargoyles. Can’t screw up the last step.

Clenching my teeth, I throw myself at the balcony and safety. At the same time the double doors open, and a dark-haired man in a charcoal-gray suit steps out.

I yelp, and he spins in my direction, his eyes wide in shock and alarm. I crash into him, wrapping my arms around him in a death grip. He staggers back a few steps, until his back hits the doorjamb.

“What the hell?”

“Shiii—!” I put a hand over his mouth, looking back at Doris’s suite. “Not so loud.”

He stares at me with wide, blue-gray eyes. My heart still pounding from the crossing—but I’m safe now—I take a moment to gather my thoughts. A neighbor wasn’t part of the plan. Given how extravagant Doris is with my money, I thought she might have rented every room on the floor, just to show how important she is.

The man’s tall—at least six-five—and my toes barely touch the floor while my arm’s looped around his neck. Smells good, too—something woodsy and spicy with a hint of warm flesh.

The few thoughts I’ve gathered scatter as I look at him. He is simply beautiful, something I never thought I’d ever consider any man to be. A lock of dark hair falls over his high forehead. Thick eyebrows are slanted slightly upward, three deep lines settling between them as he studies me, the intensity in his eyes sending scalding shivers down my back. His cheekbones are just high enough to balance his stunning features, perfect spots for a woman to lay affectionate kisses. His mouth is still pressed against my palm, and my pulse speeds up for reasons that have nothing to do with the exhilaration from my daring escape.

I should say something. I’m the only one with a free mouth. “Look, if you don’t scream or anything, I’ll let you go. Deal?” I whisper.

His gaze glides to the gargoyles…then to the balcony on the other side. He takes my wrist firmly, then lowers my hand. Um. Guess he could’ve always freed himself. “Did you just come from the next suite?”

I nod with a smile full of pride, a sentiment he doesn’t seem to share. The lines between his eyebrows become trenches. “Are you crazy?” he demands.

“Maybe?” I shrug, then look up at him. “Which way should I answer to get you to cooperate?”