The Reluctant Bride (Arranged Marriage #1)(47)

Even if it fucking kills me.





Chapter Sixteen




Charlotte


I’m entering a wedding dress shop in Soho with my mother on a sunny October morning, the chic woman who greeted us at the door practically salivating over her.

Louisa Lancaster is well known. My entire family is—with the exception of me.

“Her gown is almost ready. We’re prepping it now in one of the dressing rooms,” the woman says with an enthusiastic smile, never looking at me once.

And I’m the freaking bride.

There’s not much I planned for my wedding, but I at least had a say in the gown. After giving up on the black-dress idea—Charlotte, we are Lancasters. You cannot get married wearing black. I won’t allow it—I went through one magazine fat with images, found the style I preferred, zeroed in on it enough to find three gowns I liked, went in and tried them on and made my decision.

All in about forty-eight hours’ time.

Mother was impressed, but what did she expect? This isn’t the dream day I imagined as a child. Plus, I didn’t want to overwhelm myself with too many options. I cut to the chase, so to speak.

“Would you care for a glass of champagne?” the employee asks, her delicate brows raised in question. She’s elegantly turned out in a sleek black dress that emphasizes her slender curves, and my mother is also dressed up in one of her designer dresses.

She came to pick me up at the apartment, took one look at my jeans-and-T-shirt self, and sent me back inside, with her accompanying me. She went through my closet, murmuring her displeasure at the options, until she finally found a simple black shirt dress that I brought with me from home on a whim. I paired it with black booties, some gold jewelry, threw my hair up into what Mother called an artfully messy bun and off we went to the dress shop.

Don’t really understand why I had to get all dressed up only to take it all off to put on the wedding gown, but whatever. This is how it’s done, my mother always said when one of us—usually me—protested having to go somewhere or do something.

“I would love a glass, thank you.” I’m jittery. Nervous.

What if this gown looks terrible on me? It’s too late to change my mind. And the dress cost an absolute fortune, though Mother already reassured me money is no object, and if I hate this dress, we can find another.

Our money can work miracles.

Within minutes Mother and I each have a glass of champagne in our hand, though I’m draining mine at a rapid rate.

“Charlotte, please. Slow down,” Mother chastises.

I finish it off and make an “ahh” sound just to irritate her, which it does. “Hopefully they’ll bring me another.”

“Darling, you can’t be drunk while trying on your dress.”

“Just a nice little buzz, then.” I ignore her sour look and settle onto one of the deep-green velvet couches, surprised by how comfortable it actually is. “Do you have your dress yet?’

The distressed expression on her face is all the answer I need. “It still hasn’t arrived. I’m so worried I won’t get it in time.”

Weeks have gone by since the engagement party. Since the night Perry and I moved into an apartment together and we had our little—interaction.

We haven’t really spoken too much since, and when we do, the conversation is stilted. He’s not home much, and I suppose he’s always working, though I don’t ask him what he’s doing. I spend a lot of time with Jasper. Doja. Or I’m reading.

Meaning life hasn’t changed for me too much. Just living in a new location, there’s a diamond ring on my finger and I’m dealing with my upcoming marriage.

Lately I can’t sleep though. My mind is too full, thinking about far too many things.

Like that one night when Perry came home drunk and talked about seducing me. How mad I’d been—only because I could imagine him doing exactly that. Seducing me.

I would’ve given in. Just out of curiosity, I tell myself.

Or maybe not. Maybe it’s something more.

I feel like I have a connection with him, and it goes beyond the fact that we’re being forced into this. Though lately I don’t feel forced at all.

It’s almost as if I want to marry him.

Which can’t be true. Yes, we’ve gotten closer but after that one night, he’s been distant. Working, he claims. Always working. Is this what I have to look forward to after we’re married?

I can’t believe we’re actually going through with it.

The only time I do go out and do anything is for wedding stuff. Mother and I went to a bakery last week to taste a variety of cake flavors. We went to the florist a few days ago to finalize the flower choices for the ceremony and reception—and it’s going to be so beautiful. There are lots of meetings with Mother to go over color choices, plates and silverware, finalizing the menu.

It’s endless, all the wedding planning. I resented her at first for taking over and now I’m grateful she did it. I’d have no idea what I was doing without her by my side.

“You’ll get your dress,” I reassure her. “It’ll show up in time.”

“I appreciate your faith.” Her eyes lighting up when a gentle tingling rings in the air, indicating someone opened the front door. “Oh, I’m so glad you made it!”