I may not have wanted this marriage, but I was all in now that we were past the point of no return. For better or worse, Lucy would be my wife, and it was in my best interests to try and make it work.
We lived to push each other’s buttons but had at least one thing in common when all was said and done. Only time would tell if that dynamic ever made its way into our marital life—there was no denying the chemistry we shared. But if I were a betting man, I’d put those odds at a million to one.
Lucy would likely shut me out if she learned of my true self, not wanting me to taint the world she held dear.
Lost in my thoughts, I allowed Lucy to answer the following few questions, not paying much attention to her answers. She was polished and perfect, falling into her role with ease. She knew how to play the game, having been a participant since birth.
Suddenly, one question piqued my interest: “When’s the big day?”
Lucy fidgeted, for once not having an answer, whether true or false.
Without thought, I blurted out, “October 7th.”
Yeah, I knew I was playing with fire, but I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t some tiny part of me that wished Lucy knew I was the man she called Tony at Desire.
The cameras continued to flash, and I saw Lucy’s head turn in my peripheral vision, so I looked down to meet her stare. To the casual observer, with our smiles never slipping, it would appearlike a tender gaze between lovers, but that was the furthest thing from the truth.
Bracing for the backlash of showing my hand, Lucy’s brilliant blue eyes were wide, but there wasn’t any hint of recognition in their depths. Another emotion clouded those eyes—guilt. Was it possible she felt remorseful about sneaking out to meet another man, not once but twice since our arrangement began? What she didn’t know was that I didn’t have a leg to stand on in that regard because that first time, I hadn’t expected to run into her. I was just as bad, seeking comfort in the arms of a stranger, knowing there was a woman I was expected to marry. The semantics of a formal engagement didn’t matter—we both knew what we’d done was wrong.
The royal press secretary thanked those in attendance before effectively ending this portion of the day. The press filed out, and I envied them for being allowed to leave. Answering questions and pretending to look the picture of the blissfully in love couple from a distance was child’s play compared to getting close and personal with Lucy and creating that same image for a private photographer.
The moment the door latched behind the final straggler, Lucy dropped her hold on my arm, and the smile vanished from her face. My cheeks and jaw ached from holding my own smile for so long, and I rubbed a hand over the sore muscles, opening my mouth repeatedly in an attempt to ease the tightness, to no avail.
How did Lucy do this almost daily? Granted, her normally muted public smile was on steroids today, but still. I could see why she wanted to leave this part of her life behind—today unintentionally revealed another piece of what made Lucy tick. I suppose that was something, right?
We were ushered out of the throne room toward the gold drawing room. After seeing our announcement outfits, thephotographer deemed the room a perfectly complementary color scheme.
Lucy, a fashion designer to the core, coordinated our look. She had plucked a navy suit from my closet that paired perfectly with her burgundy dress.
I had to give her credit. Not only did she have an eye for colors, but her personal fashion sense was spot on. The burgundy color looked amazing against her winter-pale skin, and long black locks—currently tamed into loose waves—hung down her back, offering a perfect contrast. It was fitted without being too tight to be immodest, with a scoop neck, a hem that stopped just below the knee, long sleeves that flared past her elbow, and an enticing, exposed gold zipper that went all the way from the nape of her neck to the hem.
It also hadn’t escaped my notice that she was wearing a pair of those come-fuck-me heels, with the red soles flashing from the bottom of the black pumps.
She had no idea how much she was tempting me.
Clenching my fists to stop myself from doing something I’d regret later, I followed her into the room where our engagement portraits would be taken.
The gold drawing room was aptly named; the walls featured an intricate gold design laid over ivory, with rich navy upholstered furniture strategically placed throughout the room. The photographer was right—this was the perfect room to complement the colors we wore today.
A young woman dressed in all black, with a state-of-the-art camera hung around her neck, greeted us enthusiastically as we entered the room. “Hello, lovebirds! I’m Carolyn, and I’ll be your photographer today. I have a few planned poses requested from the palace, but beyond that, we can have some fun, allowing the shoot to showcase your unique couple style.”
Oh, I do not have the energy for this today.
Lucy was much more practiced at keeping the polite mask on her face and took the lead in discussing the intricacies of the photo shoot. Funny, she could fake it for strangers and even members of her own family, but there were no holds barred when it came to her interactions with me over the past two decades. Perhaps I would be honored that she dropped the act for me, that I alone was afforded a rare glimpse of her fiery personality—if she didn’t hold me in such contempt.
“Preston, if you could join Lucy over here, we can begin with the traditional shots,” Carolyn’s voice called near the ornate golden fireplace that perfectly fit the theme of the room.
God, give me the strength.
Following orders like the good soldier I was, I reached Lucy’s side, awaiting my next instruction. Carolyn fussed over us, maneuvering our bodies into position—a hand here, a chin angled just so—before finally stepping back and getting behind her camera.
“Relax your faces and give me a nice natural smile,” Carolyn called out, ready to get to work.
Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath. Opening them, I threw on my most charming smile and prepared for what promised to be at least another hour of torture. A few rapid-fire flashes from the light umbrellas pointed at us, then we were moved into another position.
The first had been just as we were in the throne room, side by side, the ring showcased as Lucy’s left hand held my elbow. The next was slightly more intimate, forcing Lucy and me to face each other, her left hand on my chest as my arms circled her back, keeping her close.
Lucy was stiff as a board in my arms, but with how I held her curves pressed against the hard planes of my own body, I was reminded of those stolen moments I enjoyed with her at Desire.
