CHAPTER 3
1112 Words
CHAPTER THREE
LAURA
The reception was on a rooftop in Tribeca with a view of the Hudson I would’ve loved if I wasn’t busy being miserable. Kyle and I sat at the head table together—together being generous. He was on his phone the entire time. Emails. Calls. Slack. Whatever. I sat beside him in my white dress, eating nothing and drinking water because I needed to stay sharp, though there was nothing left to be sharp for.
People congratulated him, talked about powerful alliances, strong unions, and pack politics, then glanced at me for two seconds before looking away. No one asked my name. I was furniture—expensive furniture that matched the aesthetic but served no real purpose. When someone took a photo, Kyle put his arm around my chair, not me, and smiled. I smiled too. I’ve gotten good at smiling when I want to scream.
Mia was there somewhere. I’d seen her near the bar earlier, watching me like she was debating whether to commit a crime. I texted her under the table.
I’m going to die here
Mia: You’re not going to die
Me: You don’t know that
Mia: How is he?
I glanced at Kyle, still typing.
Me: Imagine a very expensive piece of ice. That’s my husband.
Mia: I’m so sorry, babe
Me: I got K’s text
Mia: I know. I saw. What are you going to do?
I didn’t answer because I didn’t know.
The speeches blurred together—strength, unity, the future of the Northern Pack—while I kept thinking about a silver wolf mask, gold eyes, and a ring that fit perfectly. I kept touching K’s ring on my right hand. Kyle hadn’t mentioned it. Kyle hadn’t mentioned anything.
We cut the cake and fed each other while cameras flashed. Kyle placed a small piece in my mouth without touching me, like I was a task to complete. I did the same. People cheered. He swallowed and went back to his phone. I considered throwing the rest of the cake at his head. I didn’t—but I considered it.
An hour later, it was time to leave. Kyle buttoned his jacket and finally looked at me. “Ready?”
“Sure. Can’t wait.”
No reaction. We said our goodbyes and were escorted to a black SUV, sitting on opposite sides as if distance were the point. The moment the car moved, he was back on his phone. I watched the city instead as we drove up the West Side to Central Park West.
The building screamed old money. A uniformed doorman opened my door. “Good evening, Mr. Blackthorne.”
“George.” Kyle walked past him. I followed into a lobby of dark marble and gold fixtures, then into a silent elevator that opened directly into the apartment.
I stepped inside and stopped. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked Central Park, the moon bright above it. It was beautiful—the most beautiful apartment I’d ever seen—and it made me furious. Of course Kyle Blackthorne lived somewhere like this while Maya and I shared a bedroom in Queens. The place was minimal and expensive, clean lines and serious art, no photos, no clutter. Just money pretending to be taste.
Kyle dropped his keys and loosened his tie. “Your room is down that hall. Second door on the right.”
“My room?”
“Yes. My room is the primary suite on the other side. We won’t be sharing.”
“Oh, what are you thinking? That I would want to share a room or my bed with you? I’d rather f**k a ghost,” Kyle said to me.
“We’re married,” I said.
“On paper. This is a contract. A legal arrangement. Nothing more.” He poured himself whiskey and didn’t offer me any.
“You couldn’t have mentioned that before the ceremony?”
“Would it have changed anything?”
“So what is this?” I asked.
“You’ll live here. Attend pack events as my wife. Maintain the appearance of a functioning marriage in public. In private, we don’t exist to each other.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“And if I refuse?”
“The binding prevents that.”
Right. The magical leash.
“I want a divorce.”
“No. The contract is permanent. No divorce clause. Good night, Laura.”
He walked away. I stood there in my wedding dress in that beautiful, empty apartment, married to a man who had just told me I didn’t exist.
“For what it’s worth,” I said to his back. He paused but didn’t turn. “I’d rather be anywhere else in the world than here.”
“So would I.” His door closed. The lock clicked.
Eventually, I found my room. Of course it was perfect—a big bed, walk-in closet, soaking tub, shelves of products that probably cost more than my phone. The closet was stocked with expensive clothes in my size, chosen by someone who wasn’t me.
I sat on the bed, still in my dress, still holding white roses. On my left hand was the platinum ring—cold and heavy and wrong. On my right was K’s silver wolf ring, still warm.
I texted Mia.
I’m married to the wrong person
Mia: I know
Mia: Are you okay?
Me: No
Me: He said we don’t exist to each other in private
Me: Separate rooms
Me: Separate lives
Me: He’s so cold, Mia. Not even mean. Just empty.
Mia: Do you want me to come over?
Me: No. It’s late.
Me: Also, I don’t know if the building lets in poor people
Mia: Babe
Me: I’m fine
Me: I’m not fine
Me: I don’t know
I lay back on the massive bed in the empty, beautiful room that wasn’t mine and cried. Not pretty crying. The ugly kind. I cried for Mom, who should’ve been at my wedding; for Maya, probably worried sick; for myself, twenty-four and married to a stranger who looked through me like glass; and for K, wherever he was, whatever had stopped him from getting there in time.
When I finally stopped, I unzipped the dress and left it on the floor, took the longest shower of my life, and changed into sweats someone had bought for me. In bed, I touched the ring on my right hand. Outside, Central Park was dark and still. Somewhere in this apartment, my rude, arrogant husband was sleeping, unaware of me. And somewhere in this city, the man I was meant to be with was trying to find me.
- Writer
