probably the same guys that helped practically kidnap me when I was in his house, or maybe, they’re paid actors. The latter makes a lot of sense, and both options aren’t very romantic. Figures. Good thing I’m not a scrapbook wedding enthusiast because this would absolutely shit on any and all expectations.
Bryant is dressed in a razor-sharp, perfectly tailored suit. The little black bow tie that is hooked around his neck catches my eye, mainly because I’ve never seen him in a bowtie, he’s almost always wearing a tie. I bring my eyes back to his and I watch as he runs his own down my body, slowly. Yet, even though this is my wedding day, and although I know that it’s not the traditional wedding—not even remotely, a part of me does feel a tinge of guilt, or discomfort, knowing how fake the whole set up is. But as Bryant takes my hand with a cocky grin, I notice something. On my side of the church sits Lydia, my father, a couple of my aunts whom I haven’t seen in years, my cousin Trish—who is a nutcase—her husband and three kids, and a few distant cousins, but when I look to Bryant’s side, it’s full.
Way fuller than my side. I didn’t realize it, but he has a massive family. I don’t know what I was expecting, actually, no, I know that I was expecting a lot smaller.
Not saying people with smaller families are snobbish, but Bryant just comes off as someone who wouldn’t have a large family. I’m guessing the woman standing at the front with a wide smile on her face is his mom. She has soft brown curls, warm chocolate eyes and a smile that could light up this entire church.
Bryant narrows his eyes on me, interrupting my gawking. “What’s wrong?”
I perch my eyebrow. “Want the list?”
Bryant chuckles then looks back toward the priest. “Begin.”
10
“Get in the car, Isa,” Bryant growls into my ear while his hand is pressed firmly against my lower back.
I smile my ‘smile’ and give one last polite wave to our family and friends before gripping my dress in the palm of my hand and slipping into the backseat of the limo. Bryant’s family was normal which surprised me. I didn’t quite expect his mom to be so…. Motherly? I don’t know, but a man like Bryant just screamed to me mommy issues, so that left me with thoughts of his father, but was proven wrong there too. His father, all though he seemed rather brooding, was in my opinion, normal. Everything about his damn family was normal and just… nice.
My family and their rich ass friends were always such assholes to other people. I always thought it was money that made people assholes, but nope. Bryant’s parents sure shat on that theory.
My smile drops as soon as I’m in the enclosure of the limo. I reach for the unopened bottle of champagne, unwrapping the cork and quickly popping it off.
Without seeking out any wine glasses, I bring the rim of the bottle to my mouth and pound it back, letting the bitter rich liquid bubble down my throat. In the corner of my eye, I see Bryant slide into the chair opposite me, but I keep drinking.
I’m a wife.
A. Fucking. Wife.
I feel like I should be wearing a “ain’t no wifey” shirt right now. I’m not fucking wife material, I’m life-changer, will-fuck-your-world-up, bitch-with-problems, material.
Bryant chuckles, slamming the door closed and that’s when I lower my lovely bottle of champ while wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. All class, obviously. Hashtag classy wifey.
“What!” I snap at him, raising the bottle once more to take a drink.
“I didn’t say anything, wife,” he snarls. The pet name sets off goosebumps, or pissed off bumps, over my flesh. What the actual fuck have I done? I’ve made a lot of very questionable decisions in all my twenty years, but this…oh this has got to take the crack cake.
“Easy on the wife,” I add, as the limo drives away from our guests.
“I’ll call you what I want, but for the record, that’s exactly what the fuck you are.”
He loosens his tie and tosses it across the seat. His dark eyes come to mine, and I take this time to scan his features, what with the soft lighting in the limo casting shadows over his chiseled jaw. There’s no denying how stunning Bryant Royal is.
No questioning at all. But then again, that’s never been the issue.
“Why me?” I ask, you know, classic me, spitting out whatever is on my mind before I can throw up any kind of filter. “I mean,” I rest the bottle of champagne between my thighs, “I mean, just why me?”
He pauses, and my eyes come to where his index finger is working his upper lip.
Just when I’m about to tap out and look away from his annoyingly sexy glare, he answers. “Would you believe me if I said I don’t know?”
“No.” I want to scoff, but I can’t find the will to do it. It’s somewhere between all the tension that has heightened to dangerous levels, and the urge to punch him square in the nose.
He exhales, reaching forward and taking the bottle from between my legs. “Good.
At least you have something switched on in that brain.”
“Not funny.” I throw back at him, my eyes narrowed.
“I’m not trying to be funny, Isa.” He takes a large gulp of champagne, his Adam’s apple bobbing past his swallow.
“Well then what, Bryant. I know what I did to your brother… but why would you want to marry someone who took someone so close to you?”
He stops, his eyes snap straight to mine and if I didn’t know any better by knowing that it wasn’t (actually) possible, I’d say flames roared inside those dark pupils.
“Why the fuck do you have to ask so many questions?” He tilts his head and runs his eyes over my body. “For someone who didn’t ask fuck all questions when she was supposed to, you sure ask a lot now.”
“That’s not fair,” I flinch, mumbling it more to myself than to him because truly, someone like Bryant doesn’t give a flying fuck about what I think is fair.
“A lot of shit isn’t fair,” ding, ding, ding, maybe I should have been a psychic, “but you being incapable of asking questions is not one of them.” Oh, we’re definitely going to kill each other before we’ve even reached the boring phase of marriage.
Deciding to ignore him for the rest of the trip, I lean my head against the cool window and watch the passing of trees. All these recent events have had me thinking about Brooke a lot. I think she’s with her dad somewhere, I haven’t heard from her in some time.
Looking to Bryant out of the corner of my eye, I want to ask him what we’re doing.
What his plan is and why he had to marry me. Aside from being the president’s daughter, and having history with his brother, I don’t see why he would (truly) benefit from having me as his wife.
Pulling into the underground parking lot, we get out of the limo and I clutch my dress in my hand. This isn’t as I imagined I spend the night of my wedding, not that I thought about it much, but still, I watch movies, and this isn’t usually how it plays out, but then again, nothing ever is.
Going back into the penthouse, I toss my phone onto the counter and head straight for the fridge. Taking out the only champagne bottle I see in there, I rip the cork off and bring it to my lips. I hear Bryant snicker behind me. “You know I have glasses, right?”
Swallowing the bubbles, I turn to face him while letting my hair down. “You know it’s our wedding night, right?”
His mouth snaps closed as his eyes darkened. “Don’t ask for something you ain’t ready for, Isa.”
“Mmmm.” I inch my finger up. “And who says that I’m not ready? Sex, yes, Marriage, no.”
Bryant comes closer, so I step backward until I’m colliding with the fridge doors.
Once he’s close, he brings both fists up to my head and cages me in. He tilts his head, running his tongue over his teeth before his lip curls up. “Take off your dress,” he growls, so deep that it awakens that same dark little girl who shamelessly begs for Bryant every day. Every night. Every time he flashes those annoying fucking eyes toward me, she stirs deep inside me begging to be fucked—hard.