Arranged(8)

He owned me. I was property that was expected to behave in a certain way, and if I somehow showed I was not worth what he’d paid, I was positive that he’d promptly cut his losses and walk away.

Even so, I was surprised when I woke up completely alone after our wedding night.

It didn’t register at first what that meant. I assumed he’d just slept in his own room, which had been a relief after such a stressful day.

But he hadn’t just left my room. Or even the property.

He’d left the country. I didn’t see him again for a month.





CHAPTER





FOUR





It was a busy month, which was for the best. When I wasn’t busy, my mind went back to him, and our disaster of a wedding night. I’d relived, rehashed, obsessed over every moment of it.

It was a completely useless line of thought. A waste of energy. He’d done his duty—swiftly, badly—I’d humiliated myself and he’d left without a word.

I hated that I thought about him at all, because I knew that he sure as hell wasn’t thinking about me.

He hated me on principle, and he fascinated me in spite of myself.

So I tried to keep myself active, and my mind occupied with other things. That wasn’t too hard.

Two days after the wedding I was moved into a luxurious apartment in midtown Manhattan and began modeling again.

I loved that apartment. I loved that it felt like mine.

I’m possessive. I like to feel like the things I covet belong to me. Everybody does to some extent, I think. Everyone goes I have this little café I love or you have to try my yoga studio or check out my apartment. Those phrases are a lie in cities like New York. Nothing belongs to anyone who isn’t filthy rich. Not even a little bit. Everything is shared, but now I was one of the elite few who got to share less. It was great.

Even better—my six month marriage-training hiatus didn’t seem to have done any harm to my career.

Just the opposite, in fact.

I now had more callbacks than hours in the day. My high profile wedding to the handsome son of a famous billionaire had drawn the hungry attention of the fashion world. Everyone wanted to work with the gorgeous, rich boy’s fresh new bride.

One thing surprised me, though. How hard it was to swallow the pill of going from hunger to gluttony practically overnight.

I’d wanted this kind of success for so long. I’d been working my ass off for it for years. Achieving it—especially the reason I was achieving it—was not nearly as satisfying as I’d always pictured. Sure, there was some gratification to be had from my newfound success, but more than anything I found contentment in the fact that it was keeping me very, very busy.

Life was all about perspective, and I was trying my damnedest to appreciate my new position in spite of the things I’d done to reach it. To appreciate the fruits of my labor with all of the enthusiasm my cynical young heart could muster up. Thanks to my new status, modeling now came with a sense of security. All of my extravagant living expenses were taken care of by my absent husband, so every cent I earned went into my bank account, which was already very well padded due to the details of our prenup.

I told myself that was a good thing. Just what I’d been going for. The relief of that took a lot the stress out of the job, that and the fact that I was instantly treated with more deference now that I was Mrs. Castelo.

I’d always loved fashion, enjoyed dressing up, and for the first time I enjoyed the photo shoots, had fun with landing ad campaigns, and walked new runways like I didn’t have a care in the world. See? Untouchable.

Well, I did have a few cares. One of which was that it felt strange to be a married woman and not feel married at all. Even when I attended events that I was invited to as Mrs. Calder Castelo, I went sans husband.

I obediently went to Mass every Sunday with the Castelo family minus one very significant presence. I sat every week in the pews amongst his charming brothers, but his charmless self never bothered to come.

I’d also agreed to attend many designated galas in our contract, and I even liked that part of our arrangement, but I’d always assumed I’d be attending on his arm.

I was used to being alone. I’d been completely independent since I was sixteen, and had taken care of myself from a young age, but it still felt strange to be doing everything as a newly made Mrs. by myself.

Well, that wasn’t precisely accurate. I never actually went anywhere alone. Two men escorted me. Their names were Chester and Vincent.

Vincent was my driver. He was a short, small-framed bald man with a trim gray beard. I never asked but I guessed that he was in his fifties. He was quiet but polite to a fault. He had a rare but kind smile.

Chester was my bodyguard. He was built like a bear, massive from his head to his size fourteen feet. I was far from short, and I almost always wore heels, and still he towered over me. He had to be at least a few inches taller even than my tall husband, though I’d never seen them standing side by side, due to the fact that I never saw my husband at all.

He had a generous mane of fiery orange hair threaded through with streaks of gray. He usually wore it in a man bun though he refused to call it that. It matched his perfect beard and handlebar mustache. He wore thick framed glasses that complemented his sweet brown eyes. If he was a little younger, I’d have pegged him as a hipster.