Taming His Father’s Wife

2| MARRYING THE GRANDPA

Lottie

“This is insane.” I muttered under my breath, even more sober now that I was finally handed a bouquet of flowers, standing in what used to be my bedroom years ago.

We landed in Sicily two hours earlier, where I met a swarm of stylists ready to glam me up for the wedding at Papa’s mansion.

Mamma made me wash myself two times to get off ‘the stink’, and my skin felt raw from too much scrubbing. Brushed thrice as well. Oh, and also concealed some of my tattoos with a foundation.

My wedding dress was a bit loose on my body, the shoes too. Mamma had me wearing Felicia’s clothes, threatening every step of the preparation. She blamed me for the bones on my body, cussed me for taking drugs so much.

Where Felicia was the perfect, gorgeous daughter with brown bouncy curls, hazel green eyes and tempting curves, I was… me. Jet black hair, crazy blue eyes and a skinny frame which made my full chest look out of place.

I stared at myself in the mirror, wondering how the hell my day had turned into this. Mamma knew despite how much I loved comfort, I’d rather sleep on the streets then do anything for them. So she’d gone ahead to threaten me with the only thing in this world I can’t afford to lose.

“Your husband is at the church already. Put a smile on that face Lottie, or I’m going to slap one on it.” Mama practically growled at me from the door. I didn’t take my eyes off the mirror, watching my lips curve in the most awkward smile.

“Where’s Papa?” I asked the question that’s been bothering me without glancing at her still.

“He’s at the church. Now come.”

Mamma’s grip on my arm was tight as f**k as she dragged me out. Only loosened her grip when we stepped outside the house. The heat in Sicily was insane, a huge contrast from the chilly weather just this morning in London.

There was a crowd outside the gate, lights flashed and journalists barked questions at us, extending their mic like I’d touch that spit-infested stick.

I felt mamma pinch my skin and speak tightly against my ear, “Smile.”

My lips curved to mimic a smile as I hurried to get into a waiting SUV.

The church wasn’t bustling with people like I expected. Papa stood outside, relief clear on his face. Mamma ran up to him and he pecked her cheek, patting her back with his eyes on me. He spoke to her while I walked up to them.

“Papa, you look amazing—” I started, but he cut me off before I could finish,

“I’ll make sure you regret it if you mess this up for me, Charlotte. It’s a pity you had to step in. Be on your best behavior for the duration of this marriage...” He walked closer to me, bent his arm so I could entangle mine with it. I slipped my arm around his, and he leaned in to whisper against my ear, “… because if you cause me any trouble, if Igor even thinks about returning you… I’ll know, and I’ll gladly leave a bullet in that empty brain. Now smile.”

If I had a dollar for everytime I was reminded to smile today… My palms filled with cold sweat as I forced a smile regardless.

I finally noticed the flashing of lights again as I started walking through the double doors, down the aisle. I smiled shakily, knowing Papa meant every single word he said.

The decor was oppressively white in here. Thousands of imported white lilies and orchids were draped over the pews, their scent so thick and cloying it smelt more like a funeral parlor than a wedding. Cold, flickering candlelights bounced off the ancient Sicilian stone walls as well, casting long shadows.

Instead of a joyful choir, a small group of classical opera singers stood in the loft. Their voices were chilling, high sopranos that echoed off the vaulted ceilings.

Squinting my eyes, I searched for my husband. Almost choked on my saliva when I finally found him—a man who looked like he was in his late sixties or early seventies, seated in a wheelchair.

Oh hell no…

I turned to Papa, opening my mouth to ask him a question but his gaze was straight ahead, and he totally ignored me.

My fist clenched and unclenched. I needed a fix. This was all too much for a sober mind to take in. I could see the disappointment in the faces of our guests as I made my way down the aisle. They’d obviously expected Felicia to walk down the aisle with Papa.

Tough luck, bitches.

Igor, or whatever his name was, watched me keenly, like he was trying to figure something out. My heart hammered against my ribs, and the frantic rhythm didn’t quite match the funeral-march pace Papa was forcing on me. Every step forward felt like sinking into quicksand. I kept my eyes locked on the old man in the wheelchair, wondering why exactly he was here, getting married to me of all women.

He looked like he was quite a sight in his youth, but he was old and worn out now—with gnarly hands, a wrinkled face and saliva hanging at the side of his mouth.

The air seemed to thin, the closer we got to selling me off to him.

We reached the altar, and Papa didn't as much as spare me another glance before he practically shoved me toward the old man. I stumbled, my oversized heels clicking loudly against the marble.

The priest began to drone on in Latin seconds later, his voice a low hum that blurred with the thumping in my ears. I felt like a prize pony being traded for a debt I didn't even rack up. Pricked me the wrong way, but I’d followed them to this church instead of stabbing my fingers in Sandro’s eyes, right?

"Igor," the priest said, gesturing toward the groom.

The old man didn’t move, didn't even blink. He just stared at me with milky, clouded eyes. s**t, that was a whole lot of cataract.

My skin crawled. I looked back at Mamma in the front row. She was smiling, but it was as fake as her entire personality.

"The rings," the priest prompted. A man stepped forward with a box, opened it and my jaw dropped slightly. I could sell the diamonds in there for a fortune!

“Take a ring and put it on.” The priest instructed. I did as he said, and then he motioned to Igor.

“Put his on too.”

My fingers trembled as I took the ring. I reached out, my hand hovering over Igor’s cold, papery skin. When I slipped the wedding band onto his finger, he didn't even flinch. It felt like putting jewelry on a corpse.

"I now pronounce you man and wife," the priest declared, skipping the 'you may kiss the bride' part entirely.

Probably because even he had some shred of dignity left.

A flash went off from a photographer near the altar, sealing our fate. We were taken to a table seconds later, and we both signed the documents that legalized our marriage. Igor also had to answer some questions by a medical doctor for a cognitive test of something of the sorts.

“Get him to the car,” Papa barked at two of Igor's ripped guards, as soon as we were done.

They nodded, then one of them grabbed the handles of the wheelchair and spun him around, his head lolling slightly to the side. I stood there, clutching my bouquet of dying lilies, realizing the months Mamma promised might actually be days.

Good for me, I guess.