Right now, I can’t bask in my brother’s approval. Even though it means the world to me to have it. “Marrying someone I don’t know isn’t something I can readily agree with. Marriage will change the course of my entire life.”

  “Only for a little while,” Mother says.

  My gaze returns to hers. “What do you mean?”

  “You’ll have to go through a very public engagement. A rather public wedding. You’ll need to remain quiet and appear the devoted husband to your new, beautiful wife, but eventually, you may…stray. If necessary. It’s part of the contract.” She offers a delicate shrug.

  “What the fuck? Are you serious?” I’m angry on my future wife’s behalf.

  Who the hell adds in an it’s okay to cheat clause into a marriage contract?

  The same asshole who barters his daughter off for an arranged marriage, that’s who.

  “You can worry about all of that shit later,” Winston says, glancing at his watch yet again. “I have to go. Am I still needed here?”

  “You may go, Winston,” Mother says, as if he won’t leave until he receives her approval.

  He’s already striding away before she can get the words out, the door closing on a soft snick, leaving us alone.

  I steel myself, prepared for a barrage of convincing words. I know how this works, and she does too.

  She firmly believes she’ll get me to agree to this, but for once…

  Pretty sure Mama Constantine is wrong.

  Chapter Two

  Charlotte

  I’m sitting in my favorite chair, reading a book with my cat in my lap when my bedroom door bangs open, startling me so badly I drop the book.

  “We need to talk.”

  The booming sound of my father’s voice makes Doja jump off my lap with an irritated meow.

  “What do we need to talk about?” I barely make eye contact with my father. Reginald Lancaster is intimidating. Angry. Lately almost all the time. He’s rarely home, thank God, and when he is, my mother makes herself scarce.

  Not that I can blame her. I do the same thing. And really, she’s rarely home, so it’s nothing different. Usually, it’s just me and the servants wandering around the monstrosity that is my family’s townhouse in Manhattan.

  Oh, and Doja the cat. Can’t forget her.

  “I’ve found someone for you.” He shuts the door and moves further into my bedroom, his gaze scanning over every little thing, though I doubt he actually sees anything.

  He doesn’t know me. He never really has. I’m the forgotten one—the only daughter when all he wanted was a houseful of sons. Big, strapping Lancasters to carry on the family name. The legacy. A baby girl is useless. Only good for one thing—making babies.

  And even there I fail in his eyes. None of my babies will be Lancasters.

  “What do you mean, you’ve found someone for me?” I ask warily, bracing myself.

  “Your future husband.” He settles into my desk chair, turning it so he’s facing me. He’s getting older. There’s plenty of gray at his temples and lines fanning from his eyes and bracketing his mouth, but he’s still handsome. Dignified. He lures everyone in with his charm, but I know the truth.

  Deep down, he’s cruel. Cold. Hard on my brothers, especially the baby of the family, Crew. When I was young, our father ignored me. As I got older, he treated me with indifference.

  Until I became rebellious. That last year in high school consisted of me testing my limits on a regular basis, taunting the devil, so to speak. I eventually broke him, and felt his wrath.

  More times than I care to admit.

  He’s currently assessing me with those cold blue eyes we all inherited. The Lancaster gaze, my mother calls it. She has brown eyes, which are genetically dominant, but not when it comes to the Lancasters.

  Wait a minute. Did he actually say—

  “My future husband?” I squeak.

  Irritation flits across his features. “Your tone, Charlotte. Please. And yes, you’re engaged to be married.”

  I sit up, suddenly struggling to breathe. I’ve been very comfortable in my existence, despite how boring it truly is. I don’t cause my family any trouble—not anymore.

  Once upon a time, I did though. And that’s the reason I’m being kept in a cage.

  Now I leave the troublemaking up to my brothers and cousins, who create enough havoc to last twenty lifetimes. I stay at home most nights, reading or watching movies—old ones usually. At one point, I read a lot of books on witchcraft and even considered becoming a witch who sought revenge for others. Doja could be my familiar and I would go around casting spells on unsuspecting men who did their women wrong.

  This still sounds like a good idea, if I’m ever out amongst the living once again. It’s been a year since I came home from Paris, hurt and humiliated. I went there to study architecture at one of the most prestigious universities in the world and learn from the experts. My father was dismissive, believing I went to France for an extended shopping excursion, though I proved him wrong with that idea.

  I’m not my mother.

  No, instead I fell under the spell of my history of architecture instructor. A charming Irish man with dark eyes and hair, who was older and worldly. I had the most obvious crush on him—all of us did. But I was the one he kissed in the empty classroom. That kiss turned into a whirlwind affair that lasted almost the entire semester.

  Until his girlfriend showed up for a surprise visit—during class. She burst into the room and ran up to him, smothering him in kisses. Leaving me completely devastated.

  Ruined.

  Like the hurt, immature girl I was, I promptly dropped out of the university and came home, proving my father right. He always said I wouldn’t amount to anything.

  I proved him right.

  The pain Seamus put me through has mostly faded but sometimes it returns, like a dull, throbbing ache deep in my chest. Reminding me I still have a heart.

  And that it’s still wounded.

  It’s an angry pain though. One that makes me clench my fists and wish I could punch something. He was my rebellion, and for those three blissful monthly, we had a thrilling, passionate affair.

  Until he broke my heart when I found out I was the mistress.

  The asshole.

  The sadness is mostly gone, as is the hurt. The revenge though? It still lives inside of me, like a tiny little flame, flickering and sputtering but never completely out. I seek it against one specific man, though I have no idea how to find him. I’ve searched social media, the staff pages at the university, and have come up mostly empty. Seamus McTiernan doesn’t have much of a social imprint.

  “Charlotte!” My father’s booming voice pulls me from my thoughts. “Did you hear what I said?”

  I sit up straighter, stuffing the irritation down. “Yes, I did.” I clear my throat. “Who exactly am I marrying?”

  Father turns to face me, his expression impassive. As if he’s talking about something as mundane as the weather, when he’s really about to tell me the name of the man who will change my life forever.

  “Perry Constantine.”

  I frown, the name on repeat in my mind.

  Perry Constantine.

  I have no idea who he is.

  “I don’t know him.”

  He makes a dismissive noise. “You don’t know many people. I’m not surprised.”

  When you’re wounded, you retreat. And that’s exactly what I did for far too long. So long, I got comfortable.

  Too comfortable.

  “I don’t want to get married. I’m too young.” Expressing my feelings normally wouldn’t matter to this man, but maybe…

  Just maybe he has an ounce of compassion buried deep inside of him, and he’ll realize this is something I don’t want. He’ll actually listen to me, and grant my wishes.

  A girl can dream.

  “How old are you again?” he asks gruffly, his upper lip lifting in the faintest sneer as he once again looks around my room. At my belongings.

  All of my many belongings.

  I’m a collector. Some might say I’m a bit of a hoarder, but I love bits and baubles and books and photos and pretty, shiny things. Nothing too expensive, though I can afford to purchase whatever I want.

  I prefer old things. Previously owned and lovingly used. An old bracelet that belonged to a heartbroken woman. A necklace with a heart locket, a crumbling pressed flower kept inside. A long-forgotten photo of a family with smiles on their faces and their arms around each other. As if they actually enjoy spending time together.

  In other words, the complete opposite of my family.

  “Twenty,” I tell him, faintly hurt that he doesn’t know.

  That he doesn’t care to know.

  “Plenty old to become a wife. You need to clean out this room anyway.” His gaze returns to mine, cold and unwavering. “Getting married and moving out is the perfect excuse to do so.”

  I stare at him, at a loss for words. He’s giving me no choice, but when has he ever? Reminding myself I need to sound like a rational human, I release a deep, cleansing breath, hoping he’ll respond to logic. “I don’t even know this man.”

  “Doesn’t matter. What’s done is done.” His voice is firm.

  “This is my life—”

  “No,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “It’s our lives. You’re a Lancaster, and as my only daughter, you will do as I say. The last time you tried to do something for yourself, you bungled it up completely and came home humiliated.”

  The reminder isn’t necessary.

  “I don’t trust you to not mess it up again. You need to be told what to do. Guided through your life. This marriage will do you good. Keep you in line,” he explains.

  He treats me like an idiot. He actually believes I’m one too. That I’m too stupid to make my own decisions without his guidance. I suppose I proved that to him with all of the horrible choices I made in Paris.

  No way can I just readily agree to marrying someone I don’t even know, though. This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.

  “But—”

  “Don’t go against me, girl. You know how I feel about that.”

  The ferociousness in his tone has me clamming up, dropping my gaze to the floor. I grip my hands together, trying to contain the sudden shaking.

  “Where is Mother?’

  “In the kitchen. Don’t think you can convince her that you shouldn’t do this. She’s in agreement with me.” He rests his hands on his hips, the cut of his gray wool pinstriped suit absolutely perfect. I couldn’t begin to tell you what he does for a living. The Lancaster money is generational. The original Augustus Lancaster made enough to support his family for almost two hundred years.

  “I just—want to talk to her,” I say, feeling defensive. “If I’m going to get married. We’ll need to plan.”

  His smile is faint, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Being agreeable for once. I appreciate that.”

  The words are like a slap. A painful reminder that once upon a time, not too long ago, I wasn’t that agreeable. I fought against him, rebelled in the worst way possible, only to be left devastated and broken.

  I came home and swore I’d be stronger. I had new rules to follow.

  Never trust anyone.

  Don’t give away your heart.

  Men suck—avoid them at all costs.

  I’ve lived by those self-made rules ever since.

  “I don’t think you’re giving me much choice,” I say with an edge of defiance in my tone.

  The smile fades, his gaze growing stormy. “You’re right. The engagement party is in a week. I’ll send your mother up and you can go shopping for proper attire.”

  I glance down at myself. I’m wearing all black—my favorite color. If he thinks I’m going to wear something demure and pastel colored to an engagement party that I never asked for, that’s happening in a week, he’s got another thing coming. “Okay,” I say simply.

  “Yes, sir,” he snaps.

  I lift my gaze to his, glaring at him. “Yes, sir.”

  I make it sound like fuck you. I hope he can tell.

  Unfortunately, I don’t think he could. He turns on his heel and storms out of my room, slamming the door behind him.

  Doja jumps on my lap the moment he’s gone, purring and rubbing against my hand, seeking affection. I give it to her absently, my mind racing as I grab my phone and go straight to a new browser.

  And type in the name Perry Constantine.

  Hitting the images tab, all sorts of photos fill my screen. All of a man who looks only a few years older than me, which is confusing.

  Perry is such an old-fashioned name. I was half afraid he’d be some old geezer around my father’s age in search of a fresh young wife. Or like Seamus, who was in his late thirties, which at the time seemed so…forbidden.

  Clearly I had some daddy issues I was dealing with.

  Instead, Perry Constantine is young. Tall. Broad shoulders and golden haired with vivid blue eyes and straight teeth. I know this because he smiles easily. In every single photo—most of them with a different woman by his side, always beautiful, always dressed impeccably, if a little too sexily. He’s grinning as if he’s won the lottery and I’m sure in that particular moment, he felt that way.

  Just wait until he meets me. His future wife. I’m a little ball of joy.

  Insert sarcasm here.

  I get so lost in scrolling through the endless photos of Perry Constantine, I lose track of time, startling when there’s a soft knock on my door, followed by, “May I come in?”

  My mother.

  “Yes,” I call and the door swings open.

  Doja jumps off my lap and crawls under my bed, a low growl emanating from her throat. She really doesn’t like my mother, and I can’t figure out why.

  Louisa Lancaster cuts an elegant figure no matter where she’s at or what she’s doing. For instance, she’s currently in her “spending the day at home” attire, which is a cream-colored cashmere crewneck sweater and matching cashmere pants. A thin gold chain dangles from her neck and she flutters her hands, the giant diamonds on her fingers flashing and twinkling in the light.

  “Are you excited?” she asks, clasping her hands together and tucking them under her chin as she studies me.

  “About my impending marriage I only just found out about, to a complete stranger?” I roll my eyes. “Absolutely thrilled.”

  Mother drops her hands, disappointment etched all over her face. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I know it’s not quite what you envisioned for your future, but your father is giving us no choice. The deal is done. He thought this was the best way for you to find someone after the other…failed attempts.”

  Failed attempts? I can only think of the one. Did they really believe I would go to Paris and find my future husband? That’s hard to believe.

  Instead, I met a darkly handsome charmer who sweet-talked me right out of my panties after only a couple of months of what I believed to be harmless flirting and endless conversations about Parisian architecture.

  God, what a mess I made.

  And we can’t forget my debutante ball. My father believed the finest young men Manhattan had to offer would be lining up to date me upon my debut. After that disastrous night, not a one of them came calling.

  Is that even a thing?

  My negative vibe that evening didn’t help my chances. I didn’t want to be there, and I made it painfully obvious. I didn’t want to go through the entire spectacle, knowing I would undoubtedly fail. That no one would be interested in me. I was only going through the motions to make my parents happy, and besides, it was expected of me because I’m a Lancaster.

  What they’ve discovered is I’m the most boring Lancaster to ever exist.

  The last year has been peaceful. Quiet. No one has asked me to do anything, and I love it. I fend for myself. I spend time with the servants and enjoy their company. I’ve read enough books to fuel my rather fervent imagination. I’ve dabbled in writing. Mostly poetry.

  I like my solitary existence. I don’t need something like a freaking husband to mess that up.

  Once my father makes up his mind, he won’t budge. He believes this is my only recourse, and he won’t let me back out of it. And if it’s messed up somehow, and we don’t go through with the marriage, it’ll end up being my fault.

  It always is.

  And I’ll pay the price.

  I always do.

  “We need to pick out a dress for you to wear to your engagement party,” Mother says, pointing at me when I open my mouth. I slam my lips shut. “And nothing black. You want to look like a radiant bride-to-be, not a depressed goth girl.”

  I can’t believe my mother just called me a goth girl. “Perfect. I can wear black to the wedding, then.” I smile serenely, knowing she’s going to turn me down, but attempting to shoot my shot anyway.

  The expression of horror on my mother’s face is comical. “Absolutely not. You can’t wear black to your wedding, Charlotte. That’s so…unbecoming.”

  Knew she’d say that. “The whole idea of this wedding is unbecoming if you ask me. I don’t even know him.”

  “You’ll get to know him,” Mother says, like what’s happening to me is perfectly normal.

  “At our engagement party?” I actually scoff, which I can tell irritates her. Everything I do seems to irritate her. “When is the wedding date anyway?”

  “Sometime in late October, though it’s not one hundred percent confirmed yet,” she answers.

  My favorite month, ruined thanks to getting married to a total stranger. “Great. That’s less than six weeks away.”

  Why the rush? And who is this guy? Why would he so readily agree to marry me, sight unseen?

  None of this makes sense.

  “Darling, this is a good thing. A solid marriage you can count on. Someone to have children with. You know, your fiancé is rather attractive.” The gleam in my mother’s eye fills me with unease.