“The oranges!” I say excitedly.
“The oranges, indeed! And so the king discarded all of the gems and jewels and loaded up with all of the oranges he could carry. ‘The princess is mine,’ the peasant said as the king made his way back outside. And yet again, the king denied the man, giving the goldfinch back to him instead before going back to the castle.
“But when the king got back to his castle, the oranges were rotten. He summoned the peasant immediately, but this time, the peasant came dressed in kingly garb, showing who he actually was. The king apologized profusely, and when his daughter came out to see what was happening, she learned all about what her father had done.”
“Did she marry the king?” I ask her.
“She did. And do you know what her father did as an apology?”
“No, what?”
“He gave her husband the golden orange tree as her dowry. And that is why our family always celebrates new marriages with oranges. One day, my sweet girl,” she says as she brushes the white strands of hair out of my face. “One day, a king will come calling for you.”
“No king would want me,” I tell her, thinking about my violet eyes, impossibly pale skin, and hair so white it’s almost translucent. “I’m not pretty like the other girls.”
“You are not like the other girls, cara mia.” She leans forward and kisses my forehead. “But that is where your strength lies. You are beautiful, but you are also clever and quick-witted. You are smart and kind. And one day, your father and I will find someone who appreciates all of those things.”
I sigh and snuggle further down into my bed. My mother turns the lamp off on my bedside table and then stands to leave the room, checking the windows to make sure they’re locked.
“Buona notte, Aurora. Sleep well.”
“Buona notte, Mamma.”
When she finally leaves the room, leaving the door cracked just enough for a little light to filter in, I turn on my side and try to daydream about the day when a prince will come and save me. The prince in my mind won’t bat an eye at my strange looks; in fact, I think he will like the way I look.
And I slowly drift off, praying over and over again for someone that won’t look at me with disgust.
CHAPTER ONE
OWEN
Present Day, Sicily
If Jack could do it, I can do it. That’s what I keep telling myself over and over again as I stare at myself in the mirror. I look ridiculous. And Jack was—is—in love, my brain reminds me. I am not in love. I don’t even know this girl. And yet here I am, dressed to the nines in eighty-degree weather to marry a complete stranger.
“There’s something you should know,” my father says, straightening my jacket and brushing off the shoulders. My stomach plummets through the floor.
“What now?”
“We’ve not seen her,” he admits, turning away to put his own jacket on.
“What do you mean you haven’t seen her?” I ask him. It’s supposed to be blind for us, neither the bride nor the groom seeing one another until we’re there. But for my parents to have not seen her is worrisome. “Why wouldn’t you have seen her?”
“Her parents were adamant that her looks remain a secret from even us. Although, we have heard the rumors. Pale skin, white hair…she’s odd-looking. But you know these people, with their superstitions…” He trails off.
Not that my parents have ever really given a fuck about what I wanted out of life, but the fact that they don’t care to the point of knowingly betrothing me to someone they’ve never even seen is a new low.
I don’t like to think I’m a shallow person, but I’m worried about marrying someone…odd-looking.
“Shake it off, son,” my father says, giving me a hard slap on my back. “This is a big step for the families. And you can fuck her facedown if she’s hideous and then get a side piece or two that better fits your needs.” He winks at me in the mirror, and my stomach rolls.
I’ve never been close to either of my parents, but hearing my father talk about women like that, knowing he probably has done that exact thing to my mother, has my rage simmering. I manage to hold my tongue, though, until he leaves the room. I don’t want to be my father, and I refuse to live in an unhappy marriage. I’ll do whatever it is I need to do to make this work.
I finally make my way out of the room and down to the ceremony. When two families come together like this, there’s not only one aisle but two. I have my own, and she has hers. We walk down them at the same time, coming together in front of the families in the middle. That way, no one is walking to the other, and not one person is waiting. It’s a mutual marriage, starting off on the right foot by making everything equal.
Hence neither of us seeing what each other looks like before the ceremony. We’re supposed to come together in the spirit of love and the bringing of two families together. It’s not supposed to be a marriage of desire.
“Ready?” one of my cousins asks me as I make my way outside. I’m hidden from view, just as she is on the other side of the back garden somewhere. But I can see everyone sitting in their seats and the priest at the altar.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
I wave at the priest, and he turns his head toward my bride, waiting for her signal as well. Once he gets it, he motions for the music to begin. I don’t know the song, but it isn’t the normal bridal march that we’re used to in the States. It’s just some pleasant-sounding classical music.
Her bridesmaids and my groomsmen begin their walk to the altar, meeting in the middle and then going to their places on the makeshift stage that overlooks the groves. I wonder if the decor is to my future wife’s taste or if it’s just what her parents decided would look best. Because it looks like they threw every orange from their grove into the decorations and called it a day.
When the last groomsman makes his way down the aisle, I can feel the butterflies in my stomach take hold. It’s like I’m rooted to the spot. I don’t want to move. I don’t want to walk down that aisle and sign my life away to someone I’ve never met.
No more fucking random people.
No more fucking my best friend.
No more doing whatever the fuck it is I want to do.
“Fuck,” I whisper, running my hands through my hair and then instantly regretting it as all the product sticks to my hands. I quickly wipe them on my neatly pressed pants. I crack my neck, waiting for the music to change. That’s my cue. When the song changes, my future bride and I will begin our long walk down the aisle to meet each other in the middle, seeing each other for the very first time.
When the music does change, my feet move without my brain’s permission. I don’t want to do this, but I know my place. I know that this is the only thing that’s going to bring our two families together, hopefully for good. And we need the outside support. I know my duty, even if I don’t like it.
So, I start walking.
When I make my way around the slight curve of the carpets laid out at my feet, my bride comes into view. We lock eyes immediately, like we’re both drawn to look at each other at the exact same moment.
My steps falter.