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.”
I glare at him, not saying a word. He’s not a mind reader, I realize this, but I wish he could understand me without having to explain myself.
His smile fades the longer I say nothing and his brows draw close. “What exactly did we forget?”
“The ring. A ring. Any ring.” I quickly glance over my shoulder to find both the photographer and my mother watching us. The photographer—her name is Susan—even picks her camera back up and starts taking more photos. Of us.
Oh God. I’m tense and stressed and I don’t want her taking photos of this moment. This conversation. My skin grows tight. Itchy. I feel as if I could burst from the unwanted attention.