Where the water meets the sky

‘Please stop the wedding, Dad.’

“Do you, Miss Laurel Ivanda – ”

My tone was high, my throat dry and itchy from the many days I cried out to him.

“Take Mr. Ivan Briggs – ”

But hoping for my voice to be heard ended up a wishful thinking.

“To be your lawfully wedded husband – ”

‘It is your responsibility!’ he had told me.

“To love and to cherish – ”

But those were all lies. I was merely a tool used to save his company from going under.

“In sickness and in health – ”

To save himself from failing, I was to be sacrificed, given off over a mere signature on papers I wished I could lay my hands on.

“Until death do you part?”

So I could burn them. But unfortunately, both parties had a mutual agreement. The question is ‘why?’

“Miss Laurel?”

Why did HE agree to marry me?

“Miss Laurel.”

The name-calling finally clicks in my head and I am called back to the wedding ceremony where indistinct murmurs now swirl around me.

Standing before me is Ivan Briggs, the most ruthless C.E.O. in the world of conglomerates, and unfortunately my groom. To onlookers, he may look serene but to me, those sharp hazel eyes of his are almost fiery, like a predator silently observing its prey.

“Do you?” I look over to my caller – an advanced man in a priest’s robe with a few grey strands lining his mustache.

“Do I what?” I mumble, giving the mic to my confused expression to echo.

“Do you take Mr. Ivan to be your husband?” he asks and at the mention of his name, my eyes reunite with his.

Wrong. The word is ‘buyer’ and not ‘husband.’ This is a trade fair and not a wedding. I am being given off for chump change that runs into several billions of U.S. dollars, in the guise of a wedding. And yes, compared to me, sextillions would still be ‘chump change.’

“Ye-yes. Yes, I do,” I force out when the murmurs around me grow.

“With the power bestowed on me – ” The rest sounds gibberish until he gets to the “Husband and wife” part that makes my stomach turn. A loud cheer pours in from the crowd and I am far from being excited. I turn to the crowd, and for a second I sincerely wish I could smile as half of the way they are. My wedding is finally here but it’s nothing like I ever wished for.

He takes my hand gently, bringing his Icy fingers to touch mine, the chills making goosebumps march around my skin for a second. He tugs me to the point where our bosoms almost touch and slides one hand down my back while the other wraps my neck, our eyes never parting. Then he tilts his head to the crowd as he pulls me in for a kiss but suddenly stops midway, close enough to make anyone watching believe we’re kissing. Instead, he straightens, landing those lips on my forehead instead, leaving me no time to think about why he did that.

Another cheery applause erupts when he pulls me in for a hug. He snuggles me closer and it is meant to be an affectionate hug – coming from ‘your man’ on ‘your wedding’ – but it’s just stuffy and mechanical for me, no feelings attached. I am left empty and wishing it is ‘him’ instead.

Steeping his head lower, he whispers into my ears, “The smile doesn’t have to be genuine. But you don’t have to look like you’re at a funeral either. This is YOUR wedding.”

Like a switched-on robot, my hands move to round his back while my lips twitch difficultly to form a smile even when I know no one’s seeing it. ‘YOUR wedding’ rings in my ears, its growing emphasis has my heart sinking.

Water pools around my eyes and I pucker my lips like a forsaken child. I mumble softly, “Why do you care?”

Seconds morph into minutes, minutes into hours, until a lot of those pass by, bringing the evening to us – 8:30 pm precisely.

I am now in a red dinner gown, my petite hand in Ivan’s as we walk down the hallway together. We’re on the twentieth floor in one of the most luxurious five-star hotels in Washington, alongside six of his lackeys whose footfalls trail continuously behind us, our heel-clacking protecting the space from absolute tranquility.

I look over my shoulder to the men all po-faced, making it impossible to read their expressions. My gaze shifts to Ivan who has eyes fixed ahead, and then down at my poor hand firmly in his. He had told me he’d be hosting an after-wedding feast right here at this time. But c’mon this is his hotel. What if he plans to do something bad to me up here? He’ll be more than able to hide any traces.

Was that why he agreed to marry me?