The Marriage Clause ( Web Of Lies )

Chapter 5

Mia POV

Ever heard of a bride waiting for her groom?

Let me introduce myself—I'm Mia Lawrenson, standing in the lobby of a cathedral in a wedding gown I didn't pick, my hair pulled back too tightly, makeup dripping down my jaw. All of Alexander's people were in already—staff, press people, bodyguards disguised as guests. But no groom for me on this blessed Saturday morning.

I looked at the clock again. 11:49 AM. The ceremony was to start at 11:00 AM. I was getting embarrassed by my groom, but what did I expect?

A man who felt I forced him into a marriage would show up?

My phone buzzed when the planner sent me a text. "He's on his way. Please be calm."

Calm?

I was marrying a man who hadn't uttered one nice word to me since I met him. Who actually threatened to hurt me outside his dad's building? Who glared at me as if I were a roach in his breakfast cereal.

And yet here I was, preparing to say "I do" to him.

A woman from the media team poked her head out and gave me a thumbs-up like this was some fashion show. I gave a weak smile in return and looked away. I wasn’t in the mood to fake confidence today. Not when the future I’d just signed into looked like a prison cell with designer curtains.

One of the camera guys tripped over a cord and cursed under his breath. I wish the floor would just open up and swallow me whole. At least then I wouldn’t have to deal with any of this.

And by the time he finally got there, you'd have thought it had dropped five degrees lower.

He walked up the stairs in a black tuxedo, his jaw clenched, his face impassive, not even a word to me. Not even a nod. Just walked right past me like I was invisible.

Okay, I couldn't blame him.

The ceremony itself was brief. Too brief in fact. There were no speeches, no music. We simply stood before some old guy who didn't even bother to make it sound pretty or romantic.

"Do you, Peter Anderson, take this woman—"

"I do."

No hesitation. No breath. For someone who said they didn't want to marry me? That was quick and almost too desperate.

My turn, and my mouth trembled. I had opened my mouth to say something, but the words got caught. I could feel Peter's glare burning into me.

"I… do," I whispered.

"Kiss the bride."

Jeez, he didn't even say "you may now..." He said it like a command.

He leaned in, pecked me on the cheek as if I had leprosy, and quickly turned around before the photographer could even snap a photo.

I wasn't certain whether I was going to laugh or cry.

I guess this was what it felt like to sell your soul.

The planner looked more devastated than me. She tried to smile and nod at people as they stood and clapped out of obligation. I looked around, wondering who half of these people even were. Most of them probably didn’t even know my name. Just here for the photos and headline.

Someone tried to hand me a bouquet, but I just stared at it. I wasn’t sure what the point was anymore. There wouldn’t be any tossing or cute pictures. No one was catching anything today except trauma.

We didn't have a reception. No drinks. No first dance. Not even a slice of cake.

Just silence in the back of a black car.

I tried to say something about the note I’d gotten the night before—the warning to call it off. "I saw your note but I had already signed. I'm sorry— we both didn't..."

“I don’t care about your dramatic little excuses," Peter said flatly, not looking at me. “Save them for someone who gives a damn.”

I turned my head toward the window. Swallowed the words that wanted to crawl up my throat.

The drive felt longer than it actually was. At some point, I just started counting street signs to keep myself from crying. One. Two. Red light. Turn. Another light. My chest was starting to ache but I just pressed my hand there like that would fix anything.

The house was beautiful but it did not feel like a home. It was so elegant in the sort of way that made you feel small. Not a house—a mere ornament on the cover of a magazine.

He didn't offer me a chance to go inside with him. The housekeeper took me into a guest room.

"Guest?" I asked.

The woman just gave me a pitiful smile and left.

Peter appeared briefly to leave something on a side table—a box. There was a set of house keys and a gold card I took to be for expenses inside.

"Married on paper, Mia. That's all," he said, not even looking in my direction. "Don't make yourself too at home."

"I wasn't going to," I grumbled.

He turned away but stopped in the doorway.

"You're here because my dad has this twisted idea of loyalty. You're bait, not a bride. Don't get it confused."

Got it. Message understood. I said to myself, but I didn't say anything to him.

That evening, I padded downstairs into the kitchen in my bathrobe, my bare feet slapping against the floor, my hair disheveled. I needed something—anything-to—calm me down.

It was weird but being in my own house, so the only thing that could ease that was good and peace.

And instead, I stumbled upon Peter hovering around the counter, sipping directly from a bottle of whiskey.

He hadn't noticed me initially. Or pretended not to.

"I didn't want this either, you know," I whispered.

He slowly turned. "But you said yes."

I closed my eyes. "Because I had no choice."

"There's always a choice."

"Not when you're under and someone throws you a rope—even if the rope is barbed wire."

"You sound as if you rehearse these speeches," he said, laughing bitterly. "I want you to understand that I didn't request this. That this is not some fairy tale."

"I'm not trying to make it one."

"Then don't act like a victim in something you came barging in on."

"I should never have married you," I said directly into his eyes.

"And I never should've had to tie myself to a desperate liar with daddy issues—oh my bad, you don't even have one."

Those words stung.