Why would I get to pick out something so important in my life? That’s insane, right? To think I should have any say on what I wear on the day I give my life to another.
It’s as if she thinks his wealth will impress me. It’s blood money. I know this because it’s the same fortune that I grew up with. I never did want the finer things in life. I know a poor person would roll their eyes at that statement, but it’s true. Give me a beer, a cheap hoodie, and a hat to hide my three-day old mop of bleach-blond hair, and I’m happy.
But no. That is unacceptable. The one percent aren’t allowed to look anything less than perfect. Not in public anyway. I’m surprised they even let us speak. We as women might as well walk around with duct tape over our mouths dressed in nothing but chains.
A Lord needs a Lady but not because of reasons you may think. It’s a way to hide who he really is. He’ll have fucks all over the world, but we’re expected to cook, clean, and spread our legs for him when he’s home. Worship him like he’s God himself and birth his children.
I’ve never been religious, and I’m not going to start worshiping a man now.
My brother comes up behind me, his eyes scanning over my dress in the mirror. “At least he has good taste.”
I roll my eyes. “As if that matters.”
“Just pop out some kids and get fat.” He shrugs. “Then he’ll screw anyone but you. Oh! Hire a hot, much younger nanny.” He nods to himself. “Let me try her out first, though. Make sure she’s good enough.”
His words just prove that all Lords are the same. He’s been a Lord for years but has yet to marry. He has the privilege of fucking his way around the world while I sign my life away.
A cell starts to ring, and he pulls it out of his suit jacket to answer. “Hello?”
Sighing, I pick up the train and walk over to the stained-glass window. You can’t see shit out of it. This place is ancient. The cathedral is to a Lord as a church is to a religion—their sanctum. It holds a hundred years of secrets like a sarcophagus encloses a mummy.
It was handed down to them years ago—a place to perform their sick and twisted rituals. There’s nothing fancy or special about it, if you ask me. I could be walking down the aisle in blue jeans and a T-shirt or lingerie. Doesn’t matter.
Not all Lords and Ladies are required to wed here. But it’s where my future husband picked. He wanted it to be as traditional as possible. It’s a bullshit reason, if you ask me. He just wants to make a spectacle of my family handing my life over to him. We might as well be standing in a courtroom with a judge sentencing me to life in prison without the chance of parole for a crime that I didn’t commit.
I place my hand on the cold glass, listening to the rain fall. It’s been storming for the past two days. It’s like the world knows I’ve been destined for a lifetime of servitude to a man that I’d rather kill than kneel and suck his dick.
I blame my mother. She raised me and my brother to be strong-willed and determined. But now, I’m just supposed to turn it off and believe that I’m to devote my life to a man that will neglect me during the day but demand I spread my legs at night?
I won’t accept that. I deserve more. I want more.
My brother hangs up his cell, getting my attention, and looks at me. “We have a problem,” he states.
My whole life is a fucking problem. “What?”
“Luke is missing.”
I snort. “Don’t toy with me like that.” That’s not a problem, that’s a prayer answered.
“I’m serious.” He swallows, looking around the large room nervously as if he’s going to appear out of thin air. “He’s not here. He never arrived. He’s also not at the house. He’s missing.”
“I’m not sure why that’s a problem.” I don’t want to marry the sick bastard. Luke Cabot is the highest-ranking Lord you can come by. Which just makes this even worse.
He steps over to me. “Laikyn …”
The door opens and my father enters with my mother. I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m guessing this good fortune has nothing to do with you two?”
My mother’s injected lips seem to thin a tad at my comment. She’s told me a million times that this is just the life we live. That it’s a ‘tradition’ and that I just have to accept it. That as far as Lord and Lady goes, we’re royalty. Bull-fucking-shit. I’d rather be someone’s bitch than a Lord’s Lady.
My father, however, stares at the floor while running a hand through his dark hair. “Daddy?” I ask, stepping over to him, holding my dress in my hands so I don’t step on the hem. “What’s going on?”
His throat works, swallowing before his eyes find mine. There’s a look of regret in them, and hope fills my chest. Maybe he’s realized that I don’t want this life.
He clears his throat. “I just received a call…”
“Please tell me you did this—called off my wedding?” I rush out, my words hopeful.
“I’m sorry, Laikyn, but the wedding is still on.” He sighs.
“But Miller said he’s missing.” I point at my brother.
“You are no longer to wed Luke.” He yanks on the collar of his button-up.
Picking up the dress so I don’t trip over it in my six-inch hooker heels—that my soon-to-be husband also picked out—I take a step back, my heart picking up speed. “I don’t understand. If he’s not here—”
“A new Lord has chosen you,” he interrupts me.
My mother places her hand over her mouth, trying to quite a sob.
“No,” I argue. “That can’t be.” It was decided that Luke would be my husband when I was sixteen—five years ago. Things like this aren’t just changed at the last minute. I’ve lived the last five years preparing for this day. To be his wife. What he wanted. A Lord can’t choose to marry me, not when I’m already promised to another.
“Who?” my brother demands. “Who in the hell would make this change?” Fisting his hands to his sides.
I reach up and grab my pearls that my mother gave me. She thought they would give me some kind of comfort and I laughed, but now I hold on to them as if they’re an anchor.
“I—” The door swings open once again, this time hitting the interior wall and making me jump.
A set of baby blue eyes meet mine and my stomach drops. I haven’t seen them in years, but they have haunted my dreams ever since.
“Tyson,” my brother growls, shoving me to the side and pulling me out of that memory, and steps in front of me. “What are you …？”
Ryat, Tyson’s best friend, slams the door shut just as hard as he opened it.
I take a step back, tripping over the dress, but thankfully the stained-glass stops me from falling to my ass.
“How?” my father growls, turning to face him.
Tyson just gives him an evil smile that reminds me of how fucked up he really is. “Leave us,” he orders.
“I will not!” My father sidesteps to block their view of me.
Tyson takes the steps to close the small space between them and leans in, whispering in my father’s ear. His eyes are on mine and even if he were screaming, I wouldn’t be able to hear him over the pounding in my chest and the blood rushing in my ears. Sweat instantly beads across my forehead, and I’m having trouble catching my breath at the sight of him. Suddenly, the dress is too tight. The expensive material an anchor, pulling me down into a bottomless sea.