Forced into Fate

Morgan's POV

The reflection I was looking at in mymirror 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 werecalling a gown.

“This is ridiculous,” I mumbled, pulling at thebodice that was reconfiguring my internal organs. “I looklike a marshmallow that got squeezed through a keyhole.”

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

“Stop it, Morgan,” she said sharply, slappingmy hand from the bodice. “This dress costs more than your yearlysalary. Show some respect."

Irolled my eyes so hard I almost saw my own brain. “Oh, forgive me for not adequately worshipping the holy robe that’srestricting blood flow to my extremities.”

Victoria’snostrils flared as if she was about to breathe fire. Your attitude is not assisting anyone, and for the record least of allyou. She fixed my veil with hands that preyed like they were dressing acorpse for viewing. “Reiterate whyyou’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 Flemingestate like a package from Amazon Prime. All because my sister had played house with my boyfriend and gotten pregnant beforeyou could say “betrayal.”

And here I was now, on the verge of marryingMaxwell 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 uncomfortablein 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 tiarashe’d practically staple-gunned to my head. “Surely,he’s going to notice that I’m not Kylie?”

Victoria’s smile was narrowerthan her patience. “They only care about bloodlines and business opportunities,not which daughter they get. Your father's company is what they'remarrying, not you specifically.” The implication in her lookwas that I should be damn grateful for this arrangement. “Besides, Maxwell hasn’t placed eyes on Kylie in reallife. The familiesarranged the engagement.

“How medieval, howlovely,” I said to myself. “Will there be a moat anddrawbridge at the ceremony?”

Victoria also narrowed her eyesto dangerous slits. "This is not a joke, Morgan. The Prescott Flemings are an EastCoast power family. Words cannot express howmuch 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 Icould count her pores. “(So you willsmile, 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 cooperatewith this nonsense. But the image of my father’s haunted eyes when he’d toldme 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 myhopes for a happy future.

Victoria stepped back and looked meup 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 andsmile for the pictures. A smallreception will follow the ceremony. You will dance once with Maxwell and once with your father, and then we’ll make ourexcuses and leave.”

"And then what?" I asked, the bitterness seepinginto my voice. “Am I to be sent away to Fleming Manor to live happily ever after with a man whobelieves he’s marrying someone else?”

Victoria’sface was inscrutable. “The specifics ofyour marriage are between you and Maxwell. “Our concern is to make itthrough today without incident.” She looked at her diamond-studded watch, a giftfrom my father when he was still happy. "It's almost time. His father will be here soon toescort you down the aisle.”

As if responsiveto 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 turningto 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 hisown daughter like this, selling her. But his slumpedshoulders defeated told me it would be pointless. And the man I had once known as Richard Reynolds the mighty industrialist was nownaught but a marionette on Victoria's hand.

Victoria eyed mefor a last time, her hands tugging my veil into clinical order. “Remember, smile,” she commanded, before sweeping from the room with the imperious demeanorof a general going into battle.

My fatherextended his arm stiffly. "Shall we?"

The dress tightenedaround 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 sacrificesfor our family, Morgan.”

“Some more thanothers,” I said, linking his arm.

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

As we neared the chapel doors, I heard classical music driftingout. My stomach twisted with a sickeningcocktail of dread and rage.

“Wait,” Isaid, stopping my father in his tracks. "Is he... is he in there? Maxwell?"

My father hesitated, his browfurrowing. "He should be. Victoria said everything was inplace.”

But something in hisface made me feel my heart racing. ”Dad, what are younot 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 froma business trip. Victoria reassured me that he would make it in time for the ceremony,but..."

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

My father glanced aroundnervously, as though expecting Victoria to appear from the woodwork. “He has not been seen since his planearrived. Victoriahas been calling all morning.”

A bubble ofhysterical laughter almost spilled out of my throat. “So I have to marry a stranger, but the stranger mightnot even come?” That's just perfect."

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

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

Victoriawas glancing between us suspiciously. "Well, the moment's over. The officiant is getting antsy, and the Flemings arebeginning to ask questions.” She took hold of myarm with incredible strength, almost pulling me through the entrance. “Smile,” she grated throughclenched teeth.

I put on a smile that felt more like a grimace asthe 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 canwear well. My heart beat so fast, I was sure they couldsee 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 glaringlyempty.

A murmur rippled through the crowd, and I felt Victoria’s grip on my arm tighten to vise-likeproportions. 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 hersmile.

An elegant older woman whocould only be Mrs. Fleming stood up in the front row, her face a perfect combination of concern and irritation. “Victoria, dear, issomething wrong?”

Victoria’s laugh sounded likebreaking glass. "Not at all, Eleanor! Just a slight delay. Youknow what men are like, always late.”

Before Mrs. Fleming couldanswer, 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 Fleminghimself, in all his blue-blooded glory.

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

“Sorry I’m late,” heproclaimed to the room at large, his voice deep and authoritative. "Traffic was a nightmare." He walked down the aislewith the swagger of a man who owned the joint and stopped right in front of me.

“You must be Morgan,” he said, shakinghis hand. "I'm Max. So, I guesswe’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 therails…