Arranged(3)

His mother, Diana Castelo, was somewhere in her fifties, but no one would have ever guessed it. Science and good genes had her aging like the supermodel she was. She was dark-haired and gray-eyed like her son. She had an ageless beauty and a smile so warm I almost believed it.

She’d been a model, who’d had a brief career in film, which was where she’d caught his father’s eye. Their courtship had been high profile and was widely considered to be a romantic fairytale.

His father, Pasco Castelo, had been a lone son born into a billion dollar empire. Looks-wise, he was much like his son. Large, austere, formal, intimidating, and quite handsome. He had black hair, black eyes, and a swarthy complexion. I didn’t think he liked me, but I wouldn’t be marrying his son if he didn’t approve. I’d been told by my handlers that he was quite conservative and traditional, and the fact that I was a virgin and had attended Catholic school had gone a long way toward earning that approval.

Next was the receiving line. It was beyond tedious and seemingly endless. It felt like a test. I passed. I appeared happy and remembered all of the pertinent names.

The reception itself was less tedious than what preceded it, mostly because of my first taste of champagne.

“Drink up,” my groom told me quietly. “You’re going to need it.”

I’d been ordered by my handlers to drink as little alcohol as possible, and never to overindulge, but it was my husband that handed me the flutes of champagne, and his wishes overruled all of my instructions, always, so I wound up consuming more than was perhaps wise.

“How’s the champagne?” my husband asked me, his cold eyes watching me as I tried my first taste.

I wasn’t sure what to think of it, but I told him I liked it because it seemed the appropriate thing to say.

“Have you had it before?” he asked, his eyes becoming more intent.

“No.”

“Have you tried any alcohol before?”

“No.”

He was clearly annoyed. “Well, that’s not helpful. You’ll be expected to drink at most social gatherings. You have to build up at least a token tolerance.”

“I’m too young to drink in the states,” I pointed out. We were at his family’s estates in Portugal for the wedding, but we’d be living in New York.

His eyes on me were disdainful. “We aren’t in the states now, and the types of functions you’ll be attending will not require you to show proof of age, so there’s no need for you to point it out.”

“I apologize,” I said, and finished off the glass.

He went from looking annoyed to stiff and almost angry. “Slowly. Don’t choke on it.”

I hated that I almost apologized for apologizing, but held the words back. Barely.

In spite of that less than encouraging interaction, he nabbed me another flute almost immediately and told me to drink it.

I wasn’t sure who’d planned our wedding or reception, but it was obviously someone with luxurious, expensive tastes. The ceremony had been beautiful, as was the gathering that accompanied it. The theme of the day seemed to be white flowers of every kind, threaded through grand crystal chandeliers, strewn across tables, even decorating the walls until it felt like the large room was boxed in with tall hedges of pure blossoms. It must have cost a fortune. Someone had wanted our wedding to impress.

I complimented my husband on his choices.

“You worked with the wedding planner to pick everything out,” he said tersely, voice pitched low. “You’ve been tirelessly planning this for six months. It’s all your doing. Your taste is impeccable.” It was impossible to mistake the biting sarcasm in his words.

“Of course. Thank you,” I said, following along with the charade. That was what my life was going to be, after all. One big, pretty, elaborate lie.

Dinner was a lavish seven course meal, and I made a point to take a few neat bites of every dish. I was sure it was all up to snuff, of course it was, but I didn’t taste anything except the champagne, which became more crisp and delicious with each sip.

My husband handed me another glass after I drained the second one.

My head already felt a bit fuzzy, but in a pleasant way, like the day suddenly had a softer filter on it.

“Do you like to dance?” my husband asked.

I glanced at him. He wasn’t looking at me, his eyes trained straight ahead.

Instead of answering the question, which was irrelevant, I listed off all of the dance training I’d been through. It was extensive. I was a well-trained bride, and I wouldn’t embarrass myself on the dance floor.

He sighed, knocking back another glass of the dark amber liquid he’d been consuming since we sat down. It was immediately replaced with a new one by a diligent server. I didn’t know what he was drinking and I didn’t ask. Do not ask him questions or pry in any way, no matter how innocuous the subject. That rule was clearly imprinted in my brain.

“I’ll take that as a no,” he finally remarked, his voice deep with something I couldn’t name. “So if you don’t care to dance, are you ready to retire?” He met my eyes squarely with that question, and I felt a jolt of something move through me.

I couldn’t take his eyes.

I looked away. “Whatever you prefer.”

He thrust his glass at me suddenly.

I shook my head, taking the glass because it seemed to be what he wanted.