Arranged(74)

It was everywhere. Gossip rags. News sites. Talk shows. Vicious Twitter threads.

My secret was out. And maybe it was a slow week in news, or perhaps it was just that outrageous, but it dominated the headlines internationally.

The Bride Catalogue had been outed to the public, and I was its poster girl.

Everything Asha knew came out in one long, vindictive interview. And she knew plenty.

The arranged marriage. The prenup. The rules and requirements of my lifestyle. Way too many of the sordid details from our awkward wedding night. All of it was now public.

A few other names were thrown around, speculated brides and buyers, but none as often or loudly or with nearly as much detail as mine.

For these reasons and more, I became the focus of the scandal in its entirety.

People put things into patterns they can understand. It’s only natural. I had done something that most people couldn’t relate to so they put me in that other category people create to separate them from us.

I was dragged publicly. Deeply and often. The internet went after me with an almost religious fervor. Editorials were written about me that were foaming at the mouth with their own sense of self-righteousness. I was cancelled repeatedly on Twitter. All with endless speculation and a few confirmed facts that kept them going for quite a while.

People who rarely agreed on anything could agree that I was trash.

So much judgement from every direction at once. I was overwhelmed.

Men hated me for what I’d taken in the exchange.

Women hated me for what I’d given up. It was ironic how people would use the fact that you made your own choices to use even feminism against you. I was no expert, but wasn’t that missing the point just a bit?

I learned a lot about human nature during that news cycle. How quickly the mob could turn against you. How much it wanted to. How effortlessly admiration could turn to antipathy, like that had always been the path it was fated to take. How deep and powerful of a hold envy held and how it was always poised for the natural evolution into a grudge.

It was so personal, the loathing the horde aimed at me, as though the things I’d done had been done to steal from them rather than to enrich myself.

It would be a lie to say it didn’t change the way I viewed my decisions. The way I viewed myself. Those were hard lessons.

But not everything I learned was negative. I also discovered that I had inner stores of strength I hadn’t discerned before. I could take these hits. They were hard but they could only knock me down if I let them, so I braced myself and faced it with my head held high, and I didn’t have to do it alone. Jovie, Chester, Vincent, and even Santi offered me all the moral support I needed.

Banks was wonderful to me at the hospital while I was recovering. He barely left my side. At home, it was different. My disappearing husband started disappearing again. It stung more than I ever thought it could. I thought perhaps he blamed me for the mud being slung his way, which led to resentment on my part, because it was barely more than a speck on his shoes. I was covered in it.

I wasn’t well enough to return to work right away, but more jobs were pouring in than ever. The public might hate me, but the model world loved to model drama above all else, and I was draped in more than my fair share of it.

I met my new assistant, Sara, a few days after I returned home. She was a petite, brown-haired girl in her mid-twenties. She was pleasant but no nonsense and a vast improvement over Asha. She quickly got my schedule in hand. I told her to start booking me again as soon as the bruises and swelling went down enough to be covered by makeup.

Outnumbering the job offers were calls and inquiries for interviews. Everyone wanted firsthand scoop from the mouth of the mail-order bride herself. Pasco set me up with specialized PR coaching before I answered even one question. Part of me just wanted to tell the world, ‘Yes, I did everything you’ve heard, and I don’t regret one thing. It’s my life and my business. Get over it,’ but Pasco talked me down. I was told to categorically deny everything. Rumors were being spread that Asha was just a bitter ex-employee looking for a paycheck. The allegations were so outrageous that it just might work. Why would anyone think that a rich, gorgeous young thing like Banks would ever have to pay for a bride?

I wasn’t the only one being questioned and coached. We caught a clip of Banks and one of his brothers being called out by TMZ as they left an uptown office building together.

A mike was thrust into Banks’ face as a bored sounding voice called out, “Will you comment on the rumors about your wife? Did you really pay an extra five mil to pop her cherry?”

Banks paused, glared. “That’s a ridiculous rumor,” he said stiffly.

His brother even stepped in. They made a striking pair, of a height with the same dark coloring and light eyes, though to my besotted gaze Banks was better-looking. “Because young, rich, good-looking men often have to pay for sex,” his brother remarked scathingly.

“Who is that?” Jovie asked. She was deep in the sofa to my right, eyes glued to the screen.

“Banks’ brother, Kingston.” I thought for a moment and answered, “He’s the second oldest.”

“I hate him,” she said with rueful smile. She couldn’t take her eyes off him. “He’s just my type. I can’t resist beautiful, sarcastic men. Keep me away from that one, Duchess.”

For the first time in days, I laughed. “No problem. He’s too old for you.”