Inwardly, I cringe, because she’s not wrong. There hasn’t been much kindness from my father in the last ten years.
When not doing his damndest to keep me dependent on him (only paying for college if I agreed to live at home, refusing to buy me a car, holding my relationship with my sister hostage), he dragged me along to fundraisers, galas, and other political events—desperate to pawn me off on someone.
Luca’s party was only one in a long string of attempts.
I know my father likes to believe I’m inept and useless, but that’s only because it’s the narrative I’ve been feeding him. Revenge is a lot easier to exact on someone when they don’t think you’re capable.
He’s in D.C. campaigning for a friend, but I can almost feel the anger resonating over state lines. News travels fast around King’s Trace, and when it’s about the Harrisons, the local papers hike into overdrive. When he hears about my engagement, he’ll freak. And I can’twait.
I flop onto the bed beside Juliet and stretch out. “I guess I’m just not the kind of person you can set up.”
She eyes me, looking for a wall to break down. I hate to tell her they’re impenetrable, although my future husband put in a good chink. At Luca’s party, Elia just waltzed in and obliterated every visible defense—a Viking pillaging a European village. When he asked—no, demanded—my hand in marriage, it seemed like my only choice was to agree.
His scent, his body—all of it bewitched me, a sorcerer casting his spell, capturing his victim. It wasn’t until much, much later, as I came down from the high of having his mouth on me, that I worried he might be bad for me.
A man disguising venom beneath his custom-tailored suit.
But there wasn’t time to think with logic. My father’s decree to hand me off to the first pervert to clear his debt was already in motion; I could practically hear the ink drying on our marriage license.
If my fate is tied to marriage, the least I can do for myself is find someone attractive. Then, when our union inevitably goes up in flames, at least I can say I had a good-ass time.
And Elia’s mouth on my skin is the purest pleasure I’ve ever known.
“So…” Juliet says, dropping to her back beside me, bumping her shoulder against mine. “Who is it?”
“Who’s who?”
“Oh, Jesus. Don’t start.”
I can’t stop the grin from spreading, despite the turn of events my life has taken. “I don’t know if I should say.”
“Okay, well, you can’t just keep it a secret. How will that work at the wedding?”
Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I glance at her sheepishly. “There isn’t going to be a wedding.”
She blinks once. Twice. Three times. On the fourth, she shakes her head, as if dispelling some kind of fog. “I’m sorry, what? Nowedding?”
“Nope.”
“Youdon’t want a wedding? Since when?”
It comes out accusatory, highlighting her contempt with me. I get it, because to her, I’m the golden child our father smiles down upon, but I don’t let her see the truth. She doesn’t know what he’s done to me—what he’d do to her if given the chance. Ignorance keeps her safe.
“Since now, I guess, Jules.”
“You’re eloping?”
“Yep.”
“Okay, this is officially insane. Youalwayswanted a big wedding. I mean, Jesus, you even wanted to bake the cake yourself, like no one else in town would have the skills to please you.” Her blue eyes, clear pools just like mine, widen, and she jerks backward, clutching the comforter. “Oh, my God! Are you pregnant?”
“What? No!” I whisper-shout, eyes flickering to the door.
Our mother’s just down the hall in her room soaking in her jacuzzi, pretending as if the outside world doesn’t exist—as usual.
“You totally are! Oh, God, this is hilarious. Miss Perfect-and-Responsible, having a shotgun wedding.” She starts laughing, the sound bouncing off the walls of my bedroom.
It brings a small smile to my mouth, but I push it down, clamping a hand over her mouth. “Would you stop? I said I’m not pregnant. That would require having sex.”Which I haven’t in a year.