Nothing can make you feel as helpless and crazy as not being able to trust your own memory and perception of your life.
Something or someone was gaslighting me, and at that moment, I was convinced it was Malachi.
“However,” he clipped, still all up in my face, “explanations of before are irrelevant. I signed that contract with your father. You will be my duchess. You will be my wife. And you will be compliant with the duties of your position just as I will be.”
My duchess.
My wife.
Just like the promises from before, only these were a sick, twisted, alternative version of them.
“Malachi,” I couldn’t help retorting, my words barely backed by breath, “do you hear yourself right now? What happened to you?”
He snapped his hand out of his pocket to grab my arm and jerk me close to him. “You made a vow to me.” He lowered his face to growl like a blood-thirsty predator in my ear. “And I have come to collect.”
He lingered next to my face for a moment, his fist gripping my arm so hard I had traces of bruising the next day, and pressed his lips in a kiss to the leaping pulse point just below my ear.
Just like his voice, it was an eerie, sinister clone of everything it had been before, and my blood ran cold while my body flushed with an aching heat of longing.
And then he let go, pivoted on the balls of his feet, and marched back inside.
And that was how this was going to be.
There was no escaping this arrangement. No avoiding this marriage.
Malachi was going to make me suffer. So, I made a vow to myself right there in the courtyard.
‘Til death do us part, I will make him rue the day he met me.
TWO
ISLA
Present – One Year Later
MY SIBLINGS THINK MY royal wedding is one big, fat joke. More specifically, they think it’s funny that Malachi and I are getting married after breaking up years ago, but they don’t know how bad everything got. Then again, I don’t know exactly how bad everything got because I don’t remember the worst parts.
Actually, the worst part was the break-up itself, and I do remember that—what there is to remember, that is: the fact that there was no actual break-up and only sudden radio silence from Malachi when I needed him most in the aftermath of the other worst thing that ever happened to me. King Andrew, Queen Deirdre, and Prince Philipp all looking at me with disdain and basically telling me to fuck off. Really horrible things had happened just prior to that, but even those paled in comparison to the person I’d loved more than anyone or anything in my entire life disappearing like a wisp of smoke in the air.
But I digress. I am sitting here in the bridal chamber of an ancient cathedral in Corwick, looking like a porcelain doll, and feeling like I’m about to get snatched up and thrown to shatter against one of the cold, stone walls. And my siblings are laughing.
“Oh!” Graciela suddenly exclaims, pointing at me, her giant canary diamond from her own arranged marriage glinting in the sunlight that pours in from one of the arched windows. “I know. This is what you do, princesa. When it’s time to seal the deal tonight, just think of that one time me and Lili caught you both in the boathouse. You seemed to really be having a good time right then… you know, before you noticed that we all found you.”
My younger brother, Joaquin howls with laughter so intense he nearly slides off the stiff-backed chair where he’s seated, sipping from a flask. A devious grin stretches Graciela’s pouty, red lips as she arches one black eyebrow at Liliana, our youngest sister, who’s standing in front of a mirror, adjusting her gown and cringing at the memory.
When Lili doesn’t give her the reaction she’s looking for, Graciela turns to Colin Flannery—our surrogate brother for all intents and purposes after Papá and Mamá took him in as a teen—and his fiancée, Elle, who’s holding their eight-month-old baby girl, Audrey. “They were being very loud and very naughty in the boathouse.”
Colin does a rapid double-blink of his blue eyes as if trying to shake a mental picture out of his mind. “Really good to know, Graciela. Thanks,” he says dryly, scooping Audrey out of Elle’s arms and then pressing a kiss to her mouth before crossing the room to a window so he can redirect the baby’s attention.
“De nada,” Graciela chirps, attention still fixed on Elle, who’s seated in another chair close to me because she’s the only person in this room who seems to understand how shitty this situation is. I met Elle last year when Colin brought her to the engagement party and La Pedida celebration, and it was clear she saw this horrifying arrangement for exactly what it was. Elle is a down-to-earth, self-made woman from humble beginnings, and I would love nothing more than to call this whole damn thing off so I could move to Manhattan and hang out with her every weekend.
“Also,” Graciela goes on with emphasis, and I think she’s a little tipsy, “I can attest to the fact that the Duke of Corwick has un muy buen culo, so you should honestly be grateful, hermana.”
Joaquin coughs and then actually does slide out of his chair. “Dude.” He coughs again and sucks in a breath as he stands. “Shut up. Nobody in this room needs to hear about Mal’s culo. God damn.”
“Well, I’m the one who had to see it, so all of you have to hear about it.” Graciela snickers wildly and pitches forward in her chair to address Elle specifically. “Actually, I know Papá saw it, too, and that’s why he nearly killed Malachi that day.” She cups the side of her mouth to whisper-yell. “She was underaged, and he was not.”
Elle’s sable-brown eyebrows flatten as she turns to me. “Really,” she deadpans. “How much older is he?”
I open my mouth to answer, but I don’t even remember this alleged day at the boathouse, and Graciela is too quick to speak up for me. “He’s only two and a half years older, but this was during that dicey period when he had just turned nineteen and she wasn’t seventeen yet, so it was technically illegal. And Papá pulled a shotgun on him.”
“Wow,” Elle mumbles, pursing her lips, and it’s clear the information doesn’t exactly encourage her to like Malachi or the idea of this marriage.
Meanwhile, I still have no recollection of this alleged shotgun incident, and tilt my head incredulously, but also carefully so that the weighty, diamond-and-ruby-encrusted tiara doesn’t slide off. “Did that really happen?”
Graciela snorts, and Joaquin breaks into laughter again.
“Jesus Christ, Isla.” Joaquin crosses the room to lightly tap the center of my forehead with his index finger. “You really need to get that head of yours checked one of these days. You are the most forgetful person I’ve ever met.” He spins on the balls of his feet, turning to Elle. “I swear to God, she’s probably forgotten about seventy-five percent of our childhood.” He gestures at me with the flask. “What do they call that? Selective memory?” He hitches a shoulder and slips one hand into the pocket of his black slacks. “She only remembers the good stuff, like Christmas mornings, or like when we used to visit Corwick to see Mal and his fam, or like when Papá bought her a pony once. She doesn’t remember any of the times Papá broke out the belt or when the California primos showed up unexpectedly and Papá lost his shit.”