The Unwanted Marriage: Dion and Faye’s Story (The Windsors)
The Unwanted Marriage: Chapter 9

I park in front of Xavier’s warehouse and stare at my phone, overcome with an urge I’ve never had before. For years, I kept Faye off my mind easily, yet now I can’t go two seconds without thinking of her. Was it the vulnerability she showed me when she fell apart in my arms, or was it the defiance in her eyes as she bit down on my thumb? Maybe it was a little bit of both. Somewhere along the way, Faye broke something inside me, invading my carefully controlled thoughts whenever I least expected it, and she doesn’t even realize it.

I give in and call her, all the while refusing to analyze my need to hear her voice. She picks up almost instantly, her tone conveying her confusion. “Hi, this is Faye,” she says, clearly not recognizing my number.

I smirk and lean back in my seat, my head against the headrest. “Hi, this is your fiancé,” I reply, my tone amused.

Her breath hitches, and my cock jumps to attention. Those little gasps of hers drive me wild, and it’s fucking ridiculous, because I haven’t even kissed her yet. What is it about her that I replace so endlessly fascinating? What is it that makes me unable to stay away when I had no problems doing so for years?

“D-Dion,” she stammers.

I chuckle, unable to help myself. I wish I could see her face right now. I should’ve video called her instead. It will be evening for her now, and I love the idea of watching her lying back in bed.

“You complained that I hadn’t given you my new number, so I thought I’d better rectify my mistake. Now that you have it, I expect you to use it.”

“Use it how?” she asks, her tone cautious. This is the exact tone she’s always taken with me, and now I know what she sounds like when she reveals her emotions, this falls flat in comparison. There’s so much distance between us, and I’m not sure how to eradicate it.

“You are aware of the uses of a phone number, are you not? And you’re acquainted with the functions of your phone?”

I hear a soft huff and smirk. Got her. “You want me to call you?” she asks, unable to fully hide her indignation. Fuck. I wish I could see her right now. I have no doubt her eyes would be blazing with poorly concealed irritation, just like in her dressing room, and it’d be a sight to behold.

“I’m not that fussy,” I tell her. “I’m fine with you texting me, too.”

“You’re… you’re not that fussy,” she repeats slowly, incredulous. I hum in agreement, enjoying messing with her. It’s crazy, but something about her makes me act unlike myself. I’m desperate to see more of the woman she tries to hide from the world. The version of her that she buried, that’s the one I want all to myself.

I know I shouldn’t dare crave her the way I do, but fuck, I’m weak. With only a few months until our wedding, I want to occupy every single thought, so there’s no space left for Eric. I’m done staying away from her. I made that mistake once — it won’t ever happen again. This marriage is inevitable, after all.

“Okay,” she says, resigned. “I’ll text you, if that’s what you want. Would you like me to send you updates on my daily activities?”

I frown, confused. What the fuck? I ask her to text me, and she instantly assumes that I want her to report shit to me? I suppose I had that coming — until recently, nearly all of our conversations were utilitarian. I’d made my displeasure with our engagement obvious, and now I’m paying for it.

For one single stupid moment, I think back to Lexington’s presentation. I didn’t think I’d actually have to steal her away from Eric, but what if he was right?

“That depends entirely on whether you intend to send me photographic updates of every shower you take,” I murmur, suddenly all the more eager to mess with her. Angering her wasn’t quite part of Lexington’s plan, but I’m starting to realize the only way she’ll let that mask slip is if I provoke her. “I’m also open to you sending me videos of various outfit choices for next week’s charity gala, especially if you keep the camera rolling while you change.”

She gasps, and I can just about imagine the outrage in her eyes. I reckon angry sex with Faye would be the highlight of my fucking life. Someday, I’m going to have to provoke her into riding my cock, her nails digging into my skin.

I doubt she showed Eric any of the venom coursing through her blood. She’d have shown him all the best parts of herself, never realizing how much freedom there is in not having to put up a pretense. I suppose that’s why I’m suddenly replaceing it so hard to stay away from her — because on that day at The Lacara, I recognized something in her that I never expected to replace. Something dark, broken, and utterly perfect for me.

“You’re crazy,” she snaps. “Make that kind of request again and I’ll call your grandmother pretending not to understand what you meant. I’ll act dumb as she scrambles to excuse your words.”

There’s my girl and her pretty claws. I burst out laughing, I can’t help it. How did it take me so long to realize that everything she’s shown me throughout the years was a facade? She only has herself to blame for making me addicted to tearing that illusion down.

I can almost hear that haze of anger drain away as realization dawns. My darling fiancée isn’t used to speaking her mind, and it shows. I listen as she draws a shaky breath.

“I-I… I’m sorry,” she rushes to say. “I didn’t—”

“Don’t,” I cut her off. “Don’t you dare apologize for being real with me, for calling me out on my bullshit. You’re about to become my wife, Faye. My equal. Hearing you act your part is a fucking delight. Keep fighting me, baby. I’m loving every second of it.”

A startled laugh fills my ears, and I smile to myself. “I think you might actually be insane,” she murmurs, her tone filled with wonder.

I let my eyes fall closed, enjoying this moment with her. I think this is what I’m developing an addiction to — real moments with her. No pretense, no expectations, nothing standing between us. I want more of this, of her. I just hope it isn’t too late to have that.

When I was younger, I was so certain that I could never want her, that I’d never overcome the guilt seeing her brings me. I burned every bridge she tried to build between us throughout the years, only to replace myself drowning in her.

“Dion,” she says, her voice soft, hesitant.

“Hmm?”

“I… would it be okay if I asked a question?”

“Of course.”

She draws a shaky breath, and I tighten my grip on my phone. She’s nervous, why? “That day at The Lacara, when you told me you were mine as much as I am yours… Those were pretty much your exact words, weren’t they? What did you mean by that?”

I frown, intrigued by her sudden question. “I thought it was obvious, Faye. I didn’t think I left much room for misunderstandings. I was referring to mutual fidelity, and you know it.” What the fuck is going on in that warped mind of hers? Is she trying to replace a fucking loophole so she can still be with Eric?

“Okay,” she simply says, her voice shaky. I stare out the window, uncertain how far I can push her, how much I can demand. Each conversation with her feels like playing Tetris — one wrong move, and I’ll be building an unstable foundation entirely in the wrong direction, getting in over my head with no way to rectify my mistakes. One wrong move, and it’s game over.

“I’ll see you next week, at the annual Windsor charity gala,” I tell her. “We’ll talk more then. Try not to miss me too much in the meantime, my darling fiancée.”

I’m not sure what brought on her question, but whatever it is, I’m going to replace out. In person, when I can look her in the eye and read those emotions she tries to hide so hard.