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

Faye’s head snaps up in surprise when I walk into the house, her gaze lowering seconds after her eyes meet mine. I swallow down the rush of guilt that threatens to overwhelm me and take a step forward, my hand wrapping around her waist. I pull her closer, taking in the dress and heels she’s wearing, clearly ready to leave the house. “Where are you going?” I murmur, confused.

It’s been a few days of stilted conversations that are painful for both of us, but there’s no way I’m giving up so easily. Considering what she told me, chances are high that I’ll have to let her go once our three years are up, but until then, she’s mine. I’ll use every second I’ve been granted to convince her to stay. I may have stolen away much of her childhood and most of her choices, but I can’t return the time that is lost. What I can do is ensure that once our time is up, she’ll still choose me.

“My father’s house,” she says, her voice trembling. She hasn’t looked me in the eye for more than a handful of seconds in so long, and fuck, I miss her. It’s odd to have her so close when there’s so much distance between us. It’s obvious she regrets saying what she did, and each of my attempts to discuss it has only driven us further apart.

“I’ll come with you.”

She looks at me then, a hint of panic in her eyes. “Oh, no. That’s not necessary. Lauren made you dinner.”

I tighten my grip on her waist and take in her expression. This is the Faye I used to know, and it’s odd, because the girl staring back at me isn’t my wife. “I’ll come with you,” I repeat.

She nods and slips out of my hold as she walks out the door, but I notice the way she trembles. Is she reacting this way because she doesn’t want me near her? Asking my wife questions she doesn’t want to answer sends her into a panic, and I hate seeing her that way, but fuck, I need her to talk to me. I’ve never done anything that should cause her to fear me, yet there are moments when she clearly does. I’ve never felt so at a loss. I’m a Windsor. There isn’t much I can’t have, yet my wife’s thoughts and feelings are decidedly out of reach.

Faye is silent as I drive us to her father’s home, and I’m not sure what to say either. Each step we try to take toward each other only tears us further apart.

“H-he isn’t expecting you,” she stammers as I park in front of her father’s house. “I should’ve called.”

Her hand is clammy and cold in mine as we walk up to the front door, and I glance down at her. “I’m your husband,” I remind her. “Surely it doesn’t matter if I join for dinner?”

She looks up at me with a hint of frustration, as though I couldn’t possibly understand, and I’m starting to feel like that’s true — but I’m also starting to see that the missing puzzle pieces that complete the picture I’ve glimpsed are all here, in this house, and she doesn’t want me anywhere near it.

Her father’s gaze snaps up when we walk into the dining room, and his stern expression melts into the polite and pleasant one he reserves for me. I take him in, the graying hair, that calculating look in his eyes, and the tight smile he forces onto his face. I never thought much of him — he was always my grandmother’s problem. I wanted nothing to do with Faye or him, and that’s where I went wrong.

“Dion,” he greets instantly, ignoring his daughter. “Faye didn’t tell me you’d be joining us.” The look he throws her raises my hackles, and she tightens her grip on my hand, shifting her body just a fraction, leaning into me. I wrap my arm around her and lock my jaw.

“My wife wasn’t aware I’d be joining until she was ready to leave the house. I apologize for intruding. If you’d like us to leave, we can.”

Faye’s body begins to shake, her gaze trained on the floor, and my own anger begins to rise. How the fuck did I miss this? Every question she refused to answer about her upbringing, the fear in her eyes when I asked if her father knew about Eric, and even the emotional wreckage I found after my trip to Canada. There’s one commonality. Jimmy Matthews. He’s the only person she’d seen other than our housekeeper and driver. I dismissed him too easily, having forgotten that not every father is like mine.

“No, of course you’re welcome. If I’d known, I’d have prepared a nicer dinner. This is, after all, the first time Faye has brought you home.” I nod as Jimmy shows me to my seat and pull Faye along with me. “Go help your sister and Abigail in the kitchen and inform them we have a guest,” he says, his tone firm. “I’d like to talk business with Dion.”

I frown and refuse to let go of Faye’s hand. “My wife doesn’t lift a finger in our own home — I’ll be damned if I let her lift one in yours,” I tell him, before raising our joined hands to my lips to kiss the back of her hand, my gaze unwavering.

His eyes flash with something I can’t quite decipher — interest laced with irritation, if I were to make a guess. Faye sits down next to me, and I place my hand on her thigh as her father instantly begins to talk about his mining business, and the additional mine he’d like to invest in.

“Perhaps a joint venture would be of interest,” he says, his tone eager. “I know the Windsors prefer to keep things in the family, so I thought I’d bring this to you first.”

He says it like he’s doing me a favor, when in reality, he’s asking me for money. I tighten my grip on Faye’s thigh and lift my head to look at him. “Your daughter hasn’t spoken a single word since we walked in here. Did you notice that?”

He blinks in surprise, and Faye turns to look at me. I glance at her, my heart sinking when I find hints of panic interlaced with silent pleas. I was hoping I’d been wrong, that my imagination had been overactive, but there’s no mistaking her expression. She’s scared.

“Faye is always quiet,” her father says, his tone irritable. “She was raised properly and rarely speaks out of turn.”

For a moment, I wonder whether I could crack this marble dining table if I crush his head into it, but then Faye’s stepmother and sister walk in, and I check my impulses.

They both look surprised to find me here and instantly paste smiles onto their faces as they greet me, their movements quick as they put down the dinner dishes. They both make polite conversation, enquiring after my family and my work, but all I can focus on is my wife. Not a single word has left her lips, and no one seems to notice.

“Faye,” Jimmy says eventually, as though he’s finally becoming aware of my rising anger.

Her back straightens, and she nods demurely. “Yes, Father?” There’s a slight tremble in her voice, a hint of deference that I thoroughly dislike.

“How is your piano practice going? I understand you were away for several days? I hope you aren’t neglecting your work. You have a concert in a week.”

She hesitates for a moment, that same blank look I used to hate drowning out her beautiful blues. “Practice is going well,” she answers calmly. “I am certain the concert will go as expected.”

Her father looks pleased, but there’s something more to it. Another puzzle piece falls into place, and my stomach recoils as her voice resounds through my mind. My father forced me to learn from the moment he found out about our future marriage. I was three.

“Just how much do you make per concert, darling?” I murmur, looking at Faye.

Her father goes rigid. “Oh, I’m not sure,” she murmurs. “It isn’t much, though.” She stares down at her plate, and I start to feel sick.

“You’re a concert pianist of the highest caliber. Each concert you play should earn you at least a hundred thousand, and you’ve been playing twice a month ever since we got married.”

Her head snaps up, and she stares at me in confusion. “No,” she begins to say, and my blood runs cold. “It definitely isn’t that much. I’m really not good enough for an amount like that.”

I tear my gaze off her and take in Jimmy’s shaken expression. “I take it you’re managing my wife’s money?” He nods reluctantly. “I’ll send you my bank details. You’ll deposit everything she’s earned from the moment we got married into that account. I’ll send over an independent auditor to verify her earnings tomorrow.”

“I’m sure that’s not necessary,” he begins to say, his gaze trained on his daughter. “Is it, Faye?”

She begins to shake, and I wrap my arm around her. “As you said, my wife rarely speaks out of turn. She wasn’t raised to disobey her husband.” But she’ll learn, sooner or later. She’ll learn that she can do and have whatever the fuck she wants, regardless of what I say. “You’ll deposit the money before noon tomorrow, or I’ll pick you up and drive you to The Windsor Bank myself.”

That vacant look in her eyes makes sense now, and I have no idea how to undo years of damage. He’s been controlling her for the money we promised him and the huge sums she’s unknowingly earned herself, and I’m not sure how easy it will be to cut the strings he’s holding.

But fuck, I’ll try.

There’s no fucking way anyone in this world will ever get to control my wife. Not even me.