My Arranged Husband Humiliated Me At A Ball — Then I Discovered Why He Really Bought Me
Part 1
The air inside the ballroom was practically unbreathable.
I stood at the threshold, my hands clammy inside thin cotton gloves.
The warped whalebone corset biting into my ribs pressed against my diaphragm with the blunt force of a fist.
Three weeks ago, my father’s extensive gambling debts had been quietly erased.
In exchange, I had been wedded in a rushed ceremony to a man who had barely looked at me twice.
This borrowed plum dress was a catastrophic mistake.
The tight silk clung unyieldingly to my hips, demanding a deliberate walk that I lacked the grace to execute.
Stepping into the light, I noticed the low hum of the orchestra didn’t stop, but the conversation nearest the doors certainly did.
Faces turned with the sharp, predatory calculation of high society gossips.
Then, the dense crowd parted.
Brian did not walk so much as he displaced the air around him.
His cravat was tied perfectly, a stark white slash against the angry flush rising from his collar.
He stopped barely two feet in front of me.
His pale eyes snagged on the expanse of bare skin at my chest before snapping back up to my face.
Leaning in, his voice dropped below the noise of the room, vibrating with tightly coiled fury.
“Who dressed you tonight?” he asked, his jaw locked tight.
“My gray gown was ruined, so this was all there was,” my voice shook just enough to ruin my defiant delivery.
He rasped his words, the sound scraping roughly out of his throat.
“You look like a tart from the slums.”
The insult landed like a physical blow, hot and stinging.
Before I could step back, his hand clamped down on my bare arm.
He pulled me flush against his chest, a profound breach of ballroom etiquette.
“Smile,” he ordered, his breath hot against my ear.
“Let me go,” I hissed through gritted teeth.
“If I let you go,” he murmured, “that frayed bit of string holding your bodice together will snap.”
I froze, the fight draining out of me as I realized he was absolutely right.
“You are my wife,” he said, the word sounding foreign and heavy in his mouth.
“You do not appear in public looking like a woman begging for coins because it reflects poorly on me.”
I nodded, a humorless smirk touching my lips.
“I see, it is not my dignity you are concerned with, but your pride.”
“We are leaving,” he said abruptly, not bothering to wait for the music to end.
He stopped dead in the middle of the floor, grabbed my hand, and dragged me through the dancers.
We burst into the dimly lit, vaulted hallway, the sudden quiet feeling absolutely deafening.
Brian marched me down the corridor until we reached the heavy oak doors of his private library.
He shoved the door open, pulled me inside, and kicked it shut with a resounding slam.
“You lack the sense God gave a goose,” I said, my voice small but piercing.
“I told you it was an accident, and I certainly didn’t want to wear this wretched thing.”
Closing the distance between us, I felt fueled by a reckless bravery.
“You bought a wife, Brian, not a doll.”
“You don’t get to dress me, undress me, and lock me in a closet when I displease you.”
He spun around, crossing the rug in two massive strides until he stopped just shy of touching me.
“You think I care what they think of the debt?” he asked, his voice a harsh whisper.
“They were looking at a scandal, not a woman,” I retorted.
“They were looking at my wife,” he snarled.
“I am not yours!”
I yelled, pushing hard against his chest.
It was a terrible mistake.
With a sickening dry snap, the velvet ribbon on my left shoulder completely gave way.
The heavy plum silk immediately dragged downward, slipping entirely off my breast.
I gasped, my hands flying up to catch the bodice, but I was entirely too slow.
A heavy, suffocating silence slammed into the room as I froze, my hands hovering uselessly.
Instead of a sneer or a biting comment, I heard the soft rustle of wool.
Brian didn’t look away or even blink.
Slowly, carefully, he raised his massive hands and gently caught my wrists.
“Brian, please,” I whispered, a genuine note of panic bleeding into my voice.
He had stripped his gloves off, his warm, calloused skin rough against my freezing flesh.
He didn’t touch me with lust or violence.
He touched me like I was something incredibly fragile that he was terrified of breaking.
With agonizing slowness, he pulled the heavy silk back up to cover me.
He slowly tied the broken ends of the velvet together into a harsh, ugly knot that dug into my collarbone.
When he finished, his thumb rested against my rapidly beating pulse point.
“I bought your father’s debts because you were going to be sold to Lord Craig,” Brian said, his voice stripped of all emotion.
“Craig is a monster who breaks his horses and breaks his women.”
I stared at him, the air violently leaving my lungs as the horrifying truth settled in.
“I did not buy a doll,” he continued, his eyes finally meeting mine with painful intensity.
“I bought a war, and I will kill any man in that room who looks at you as if you are spoils.”
He dropped his hand from my shoulder, his expression turning terrifyingly cold as he finally revealed the true reason he had purchased me.
