She looked as though she wanted to protest, and I could see the argument forming behind her eyes before she even spoke it.
“You expect me to live in your house, carry your name, attend your events, smile beside you, and yet you will never even—”
“You will not be carrying my name, there is an actual wife who is carrying my name not you. You do not have the right to protest,” I interrupted, my tone still calm but firm enough that the air in the room shifted instantly. Her mouth closed. “I do not want this marriage,” I continued, leaning forward slightly so there could be no misinterpretation. “I am not interested in you, Delia. I am not interested in building a life with you, sharing a bed with you, or creating an illusion of romance for your benefit. I am doing this for my grandmother.”
