Chapter 3 Forced into Fate

Morgan's POV

The reflection I was looking at in my mirror would have made me think that I was experimented on by aliens and shipped to another world where I was body snatched. The wedding dress squeezed my body like an overeager snake, all satin and lace and asphyxiation. Breathing felt like an option in this contraption they were calling a gown.

"This is ridiculous," I mumbled, pulling at the bodice that was reconfiguring my internal organs. "I look like a marshmallow that got squeezed through a keyhole."

Victoria circled me like a shark that had just seen a particularly tasty surfer, her appraising gaze eyeing every inch of fabric and flesh.

"Stop it, Morgan," she said sharply, slapping my hand from the bodice. "This dress costs more than your yearly salary. Show some respect."

I rolled my eyes so hard I almost saw my own brain. "Oh, forgive me for not adequately worshipping the holy robe that's restricting blood flow to my extremities."

Victoria's nostrils flared as if she was about to breathe fire. Your attitude is not assisting anyone, and for the record least of all you. She fixed my veil with hands that preyed like they were dressing a corpse for viewing. "Reiterate why you're doing this."

How could I forget? The past seventy-two hours had been a fever dream of Victoria's schemes, my father's tacit approval, and my disbelief as I was wrapped and sent to the Fleming estate like a package from Amazon Prime. All because my sister had played house with my boyfriend and gotten pregnant before you could say "betrayal."

And here I was now, on the verge of marrying Maxwell Prescott Fleming - a guy with a name that sounded like he should be signing the Declaration of Independence not signing a marriage license with me. I'd seen precisely one photograph of him, looking stiff and uncomfortable in a navy suit, with a smile as genuine as a politician's promise.

I was still confused about why Maxwell was even going along with this bait-and-switch, I said, watching Victoria adjust a ruby-encrusted diamond tiara she'd practically staple-gunned to my head. "Surely, he's going to notice that I'm not Kylie?"

Victoria's smile was narrower than her patience. "They only care about bloodlines and business opportunities, not which daughter they get. Your father's company is what they're marrying, not you specifically." The implication in her look was that I should be damn grateful for this arrangement. "Besides, Maxwell hasn't placed eyes on Kylie in real life. The families arranged the engagement.

"How medieval, how lovely," I said to myself. "Will there be a moat and drawbridge at the ceremony?"

Victoria also narrowed her eyes to dangerous slits. "This is not a joke, Morgan. The Prescott Flemings are an East Coast power family. Words cannot express how much I have loathed doing this," says this marriage that will save your father's company from bankruptcy and prevent our family's name from a scandal that your sister has caused." She came close enough I could count her pores. "(So you will smile, you will say 'I do,' and you will not embarrass us. Is that clear?"

I locked eyes with her; the rebel in me wanted to yell and run and do anything except cooperate with this nonsense. But the image of my father's haunted eyes when he'd told me how bad the company's finances were, when he'd told me how many jobs would be lost, made my protests die in my throat.

"Crystal," I said, my voice dead, like my hopes for a happy future.

Victoria stepped back and looked me up and down as if I were a prize cow at auction. "Good. Now, let's go over the plan again. You'd walk down the aisle, stand next to Maxwell, repeat your vows and smile for the pictures. A small reception will follow the ceremony. You will dance once with Maxwell and once with your father, and then we'll make our excuses and leave."

"And then what?" I asked, the bitterness seeping into my voice. "Am I to be sent away to Fleming Manor to live happily ever after with a man who believes he's marrying someone else?"

Victoria's face was inscrutable. "The specifics of your marriage are between you and Maxwell. "Our concern is to make it through today without incident." She looked at her diamond-studded watch, a gift from my father when he was still happy. "It's almost time. His father will be here soon to escort you down the aisle."

As if responsive to her words, there was a gentle knock at the door. Victoria opened it to show my father, dressed in an uncomfortable tuxedo, his eyes dodging mine like I was Medusa and he feared turning to stone.

"You're beautiful, Morgan," he murmured, so quietly.

I just wanted to scream at him, to tell him he had to stand up to Victoria, to ask how he could treat his own daughter like this, selling her. But his slumped shoulders defeated told me it would be pointless. And the man I had once known as Richard Reynolds the mighty industrialist was now naught but a marionette on Victoria's hand.

Victoria eyed me for a last time, her hands tugging my veil into clinical order. "Remember, smile," she commanded, before sweeping from the room with the imperious demeanor of a general going into battle.

My father extended his arm stiffly. "Shall we?"

The dress tightened around my ribs as I inhaled, as if trying to choke out whatever fight remained in me. "Do I have a choice?"

Finally the eyes landed on mine, there was a mixture of guilt and resignation in them. "We all make sacrifices for our family, Morgan."

"Some more than others," I said, linking his arm.

As we walked, our heels clacked on the marble floor. The Fleming estate was a sprawling monstrosity of old dollars and older customs, corridors engineered to inspire a sense of smallness and insignificance. Perfect for today's theme.

As we neared the chapel doors, I heard classical music drifting out. My stomach twisted with a sickening cocktail of dread and rage.

"Wait," I said, stopping my father in his tracks. "Is he... is he in there? Maxwell?"

My father hesitated, his brow furrowing. "He should be. Victoria said everything was in place."

But something in his face made me feel my heart racing. "Dad, what are you not telling me?"

He squirmed, yanking at his bow tie as if it were a noose. "There were some ... complications. Maxwell was held up coming back from a business trip. Victoria reassured me that he would make it in time for the ceremony, but..."

"But what?" I yelled, my voice escalating despite the context.

My father glanced around nervously, as though expecting Victoria to appear from the woodwork. "He has not been seen since his plane arrived. Victoria has been calling all morning."

A bubble of hysterical laughter almost spilled out of my throat. "So I have to marry a stranger, but the stranger might not even come?" That's just perfect."

My father was about to answer, but the chapel doors flew open to show Victoria's tense face. "What is taking so long?" she hissed. "Everyone is waiting."

My father straightened his spine, to reclaim a modicum of dignity. "We're coming, Victoria. Morgan just needed a moment."

Victoria was glancing between us suspiciously. "Well, the moment's over. The officiant is getting antsy, and the Flemings are beginning to ask questions." She took hold of my arm with incredible strength, almost pulling me through the entrance. "Smile," she grated through clenched teeth.

I put on a smile that felt more like a grimace as the music swelled and the assembled guests turned to gawk. The chapel was crowded with faces I didn't know, all in that tasteful finery that only the truly rich can wear well. My heart beat so fast, I was sure they could see it through all the layers of satin, as I looked for my mystery groom by the altar.

But the space where Maxwell should have stood was glaringly empty.

A murmur rippled through the crowd, and I felt Victoria's grip on my arm tighten to vise-like proportions. My father's face looked pale, perspiration breaking out on his brow despite the chapel's oppressive air-conditioning.

"Where is he?" Victoria's fierce whisper through the blaze of her fury-riddled eyes never left her smile.

An elegant older woman who could only be Mrs. Fleming stood up in the front row, her face a perfect combination of concern and irritation. "Victoria, dear, is something wrong?"

Victoria's laugh sounded like breaking glass. "Not at all, Eleanor! Just a slight delay. You know what men are like, always late."

Before Mrs. Fleming could answer, the chapel doors exploded open with a bang that startled half the guests out of their seats. I turned, eager at last to look upon Maxwell Prescott Fleming himself, in all his blue-blooded glory.

Instead, a tall, ruggedly handsome man stood in the doorway, suit rumpled, tie askew, expression a total thunderstorm. His eyes drilled into me with such ferocity that I felt my breath hitch.

"Sorry I'm late," he proclaimed to the room at large, his voice deep and authoritative. "Traffic was a nightmare." He walked down the aisle with the swagger of a man who owned the joint and stopped right in front of me.

"You must be Morgan," he said, shaking his hand. "I'm Max. So, I guess we're getting married today.'

The chapel went berserk when Victoria produced a noise that sounded like a teakettle when it's about to boil over, and I understood with growing horror and sick fascination that my "perfect solution" wedding day had just gone spectacularly, cataclysmically off the rails...