My father.
He’s awful. Mean. He treats me like a possession rather than a person, and he’s bartering my life in order to gain some unknown advantage I will most likely never be privy to.
I know Perry has zero desire to marry me, and I can’t blame him. But if I can somehow convince him to go along with my plan so I can eventually be free of my father?
This could work. I’d pay Perry if I had to. I’d do anything to get away from my father.
Anything.
“Finally, he shows up,” my mother mutters, her fingers twisting around one of my curls. I pull away before she ruins it completely, making her gasp. “I’m just trying to fix it.”
“It’s fine,” the photographer yells from where she stands, her giant camera clutched in her hands. The woman is tiny, with an oversized denim shirt on, white jeans, and her dyed black hair cut in a severe bob. Black, thick-rimmed glasses frame her eyes, making them appear bigger than they actually are. “She looks beautiful.”
I duck my head, my cheeks growing warm at the compliment, something I don’t hear often since I don’t spend a lot of time with people, beyond those who work in our home. I certainly feel beautiful in my powder-blue dress. And confident.
Maybe it’s because of the skirt.
The day after our dinner with Perry and his mother, I voluntarily went shopping by myself—something I rarely do—and bought the dress without seeking my mother’s approval first. Another thing I rarely do.
I knew from the moment I spotted the dress hanging on the rack that it was perfect. I didn’t even bother trying it on.
When I arrived home later and showed the pale blue dress to her, I could tell she didn’t like it. Maybe it was the way she scrunched up her nose. And how she pursed her lips.
“It’s rather…short,” she said, worry lacing her tone.
Her response left me satisfied that I made the right choice. I wanted to tell her that was the entire point, but she’d disapprove, so I kept my mouth shut. After Perry made that remark about my legs after dinner, I knew I had to show them off for him again. And this dress shows them off to perfection.
The neckline also dips low, offering a glimpse of my cleavage, which isn’t much. But I’m definitely showing more skin than the first time I met him. Why I want to show off for him like this, I don’t really want to examine at the moment, because I implied to him that I didn’t like the way he checked me out.
The way he called my breasts tits. And that shitty little smirk on his face after he said it, knowing that he irritated me. Like he got off on it.
How his gaze kept sliding down to my legs instead of looking into my eyes.
As I mulled over those little moments later that night in bed, unable to sleep, I came to a realization.
I rather liked the way he called my breasts tits.
And proclaimed himself a leg man.
How he teased me, yet also got a little growly, especially when I started calling him names.
I don’t know what possessed me to behave that way. To be so bold. Maybe because he actually listened to me. Even when he made me angry, he was still paying attention, and that’s something I don’t get too often.
Attention.
I’m a sad little creature, right? But it’s true. My parents neglected me. My two older brothers don’t give me a moment’s consideration and my baby brother, Crew, was my very best friend until he turned thirteen and transformed into a true Lancaster male seemingly overnight.
Meaning he became a complete jerk who acted as if he ruled the world and everyone should do as he bids.
Like father, like all of his sons, I suppose.
This is why I became so introverted. Why I preferred books over people. Books don’t let you down—especially romances. You get that ending you want, even if it’s hard won.
“Darling, quit fussing with your skirt,” Mother chastises, pulling me from my thoughts. I glance over at her, releasing the hem of my dress and doing a little twirl, the pleated skirt flaring out, showing off my thighs.
Feeling like a little girl, I can’t help but laugh. When was the last time I let myself go and actually had fun? I can’t remember. Not that anything about this moment is fun. When you’re about to have your photo taken with a man you barely know for engagement photos, you have to realize that your life has taken a drastic turn.
May as well have fun when I can.
“Oh, keep doing that!” the photographer shouts as she brings the camera to her face and starts snapping away.
Despite my mother going on about my hair and my skirt, despite the photographer constantly directing me to turn left or turn right as she tests the light through her camera, I slowly stop spinning to watch my future husband as he saunters over to where we’re waiting for him. His stride is casual, yet confident, and he smiles at the people he walks past. Almost as if he trusts every single one of them, which I find odd.
I trust no one. Not even him. It’s a Lancaster trait, one my father instilled in all of us when we were young, and I wish I hadn’t let my guard down in Paris. That was a painful lesson I deeply regret. The one time I believed I could trust someone, yet he still lied to me.
They all lie. Men. To cover their tracks, to gain something they want. It doesn’t matter what they’re doing, as long as their lips are moving, they’re lying.
Impatience races through me as it takes Perry what feels like an eternity to draw near. He is in no hurry as he makes his way toward us, which is really quite rude considering he’s almost thirty minutes late.
If there’s one thing my family hates, it’s lateness. But I think Mother is so dazzled by his good looks, she’ll let his tardiness slide.
“Perry!” Mother suddenly calls, enthusiastically waving at him like a teenaged girl in the audience at a Harry Styles concert. “We’re over here.”
“Pretty sure he knows where we’re at,” I tell her through clenched teeth, pasting on a smile as the photographer takes more photos of me.
And he’s dressed impeccably in charcoal gray trousers and another one of those fitted white button-down shirts.
At least the buttons are done up respectably this time. No chains in sight. No rings on his fingers either.
Wait a minute.
The ring.
I glance down at my bare hands, shock coursing through me when I realize we’ve forgotten one of the most essential props in our marriage charade.
And I need this charade to work. To be convincing.
To get away from my old life so I can embark on a new one.
Damn it, I don’t have an engagement ring. What’s the point of us taking photos if I’m not wearing a fat diamond on my ring finger?
I tear away from my mother and start running toward Perry, amazed at how fast I am despite the needle-thin four-inch heels on my feet. Urgency propels me forward, knowing we don’t have much time. Feeling as if everything will fall apart if we can’t correct this one tiny yet large issue.
Perry’s gaze connects with mine, and a huge grin spreads across his face. He holds his arms out. “Future wife!”
I roll my eyes, coming to a stop directly in front of him. Can he not be serious about anything? It’s as if his entire life is a mockery. “We forgot a very important detail.”
“Well, hello to you, too.”