THE CONTROL: An Arranged Marriage Romance by Elena Monroe (best big ereader txt) 📗

horn and let the sound blare into the air when Bowey remarked, “Great idea. It’s way safer to have you behind the wheel.”

Slanting my eyes at him, I tried pulling off the curb again, this time successfully, when I asked him for directions. Instead of talking to me, he asked his phone for directions to his own house.

For some reason, it seemed like he relied on that feature more than the average person. Probably for all of the times he was too drunk to see the road or know where he was.

Welcome to LA.

This is your future husband.

Finally pulling into his driveway, there was no gate, keypad, or anything that alluded to privacy. This new Bowen seemed all for privacy with none of the parameters in place.

Maybe just from me.

Neighbors be damned.

Bowen jumped out the minute he could and jingled his keys as he walked away. “Better get your bags out quickly; I’m locking my car when I get to the door.”

For a split second I thought he was kidding, but just in case he wasn’t, I hauled ass to get my bags out. Otherwise, I’d be sleeping naked tonight. Not that I minded, but I’m sure he would. Every time I had been back to visit him over the past year, he didn’t take any of my bait and never once touched me.

Not a single goodbye kiss... or even a simple, friendly hug for that matter.

Yanking my bag out of his car and rushing towards the door that he’d left open, I almost let myself think he might lock that too if I wasn’t fast enough. Once I stepped inside, I took in the stark

white interior with contrasting deep onyx caging it all in, coating the moldings and accenting the clean aesthetic.

Nothing had changed since the last time I was here, but I was seeing it all with new eyes as his pending wife. All this wouldn’t be only his, it would be ours.

Ours was really more like mine since he was practically unalive, and I’m sure wherever the booze was kept was the only room he ever occupied. Hell, I could smell the drunken stupor from here as he waltzed into the house, not bothering to help me get settled.

He was showing no interest in me and it made my mind wander around in loops trying to figure out why: other girlfriends... I wasn’t who he wanted anymore... the dresses instead of overalls covered in paint... my manufactured personality that I was groomed into—everything about me now was grating.

I was probably everything he hated because none of it was actually me.

The old me only existed in my mind, and he wasn’t going to be able to crack my angelic surface hailing from Denmark.

“Pick whatever room you want as long as it's not mine,” his voice was airy the way I only imagined it was when he was buzzed off his ass. When he’s more sober, it’s downright cruel.

“Okay… I guess we are still taking the impending nuptials seriously.” I practically had to jog to keep up with his long strides up the stairs and smile through the suitcase attacking my ankles every time I yanked it up a stair behind me.

Taking in the walls that were left blank just like his expressionless face, I almost tripped in my designer heels my mother forced me to wear when a nip of Hennessy dropped to the floor.

Kicking it out of the way, I knew what Bowen was doing. He was trying to get me to welcome the idea of us living parallel lives instead of what I was going to force him to do—be my husband.

When I pushed my eyes up from dragging my suitcase, I nearly bulldozed right into him standing in front of me, staring at me like he could see through me. Pulling all my focus from daydreaming about his lips, I made sure my exterior was still in place—poised and shatterproof—as his eyes bored into mine.

Bowen’s brows caved in when he spoke through his teeth, “Impending nuptials? You were sold to the highest bidder. This,” waving a finger between us like there was an ocean of hate instead of just dead air, “is a business exchange, and as I see it I paid for you to sit pretty—nothing else.”

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I took a deep, calming breath as my chest tightened. My fingers strangled the plastic handle of my suitcase until the sting felt like it could eventually rival the jab I just absorbed from him.

Sold to the highest bidder?

I was groomed to be his perfect wife, not anyone’s perfect wife.

Bowen was the only reason I survived being in that circle of hell where every part of you was picked at until you constantly felt like an open wound, unrecognizable, and bruised so badly you felt too sensitive for the outside world.

A castle full of princesses, like we all demanded some kind of boot camp, so we’d behave how they wanted us to. Only they wanted impossibilities that led to scary realities. We would all leave that castle with scars so deep, we’d think we were nothing but ugly.

That’s what Bowen was doing, making me feel ugly to make his awful point.

Pushing past him, I let my suitcase roll over his shoe and I felt my face flinch. I would punish myself later for misbehaving.

I always do now.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Bowen. I’ve traveled all day, and I would like to be pointed in the direction of a room, please,” my voice was delicate and soft the way they taught me.

I watched his effortless features morph into tension at how I wasn’t breaking the way he wanted me to. I was taught to not break every time I survived a moment that could have eaten me whole.