Page 80 of Dex

I press my lips together, trying to compose myself.Trying to forget the lies and deceit of this moment that binds us together as husband and wife.A few seconds later, just as my thoughts run rampant, the officiant announces us husband and wife.Dexter takes both my hands in his, and we stare at one another.

Smile,I tell myself, because this still feels strange.I’m about to turn around to face our guests and get ready to walk back down the aisle, but Dexter doesn’t hesitate.He leans forward, his hand cupping my jaw, his fingers firm but measured.Then he tilts my face up to his and kisses me.

It’s controlled.Precise.A kiss designed to convince the audience.More than a press of the lips, but otherwise emotionless.

Nothing like theotherkiss.

The one filled with heat, and passion.

The one that seared my soul and imprinted his lips on my mouth, his hands on my face.

This is a plain and emotionless kiss to solidify the farce.I feel somehow …cheated.And disappointed.As if the suppressed longing in my heart has been kicked back.He pulls away quickly and takes my hand as we turn to face our guests.Then we walk back down the aisle as husband and wife.

It’s my fault, for expecting something when there is nothing.For foolishly believing we could be the couple we were at the bar.

Dexter has shown me who he is and I have to forget that other man—the one who opened up to me and kissed me like I’ve never been kissed before.That evening he was simply playing a part for Raquel, and I should never forget that.

As we walk down the aisle, my fingers grip his arm lightly, as if I dare not encroach his personal space.I glance at him but he’s looking at his family.A heaviness settles over me as I imagine what they must be thinking.

Playing the part of Dexter Knight’s wife isn’t going to be easy.

***

Our wedding reception is about to start in the large tent that has been set up in the grounds.

It’s draped in soft white and gold fabrics and chandeliers are strung across the ceiling, their warm twinkling lights glistening in mid-air.The night sky is a deep indigo, dusted with stars and streaked with the brushstrokes of sunset-lavender and gold.

Earlier, immediately after the wedding, as the champagne was being poured, and canapés were passed on silver trays, Dexter and I quietly slipped away to a private room for the civil signing.A registrar was waiting to handle the paperwork.We gave our signatures, but the ceremony was cold, emotionless, brief.In that moment, the transactional nature of our marriage became so clear to me.

I felt sad and alone, as we walked back to join the guests.I noticed a couple of photographers snapping photos of us, no doubt for leaking to the press.

We were hand in hand, but I quickly realized this was just for show.We mingled with our guests, drifting through the garden, sipping and laughing beneath the late-afternoon sun, the sound of clinking glasses and soft Brazilian jazz floating through the air, but I couldn’t shake my melancholy.

Now the air is thick with the scent of jasmine and night-blooming flowers, and the rich aroma of Brazilian cuisine served on silver platters.

Dexter and I take our seats at the high table adorned with flowers and candles, our chairs larger and more elaborately dressed than the guests’ chair, resembling thrones.To everyone watching, this is a stunning, extravagant wedding.The merging of two powerful families.A cause for celebration.

In reality this couldn’t be further from the truth.This wedding, and our marriage, is like a landmine.Everything looks normal and calm, until one day I’ll step on something that blows up in my face.

The live band begins to play a soft, romantic samba, the melody floating through the air as our first dance is announced.My stomach twists at the sound of our names.I glance at my husband.How strange that word feels on my tongue.Dexter downs the rest of his scotch, setting the glass down with slow, practiced ease before turning to me.

Then, he extends his hand and the moment I place my palm in his, a shiver runs through me.

Not from nerves.

Fromhim.

“Shall we dance?”he asks, his eyes suddenly soft and caring.The aloofness from earlier has vanished.It seems like he’s embracing this role with renewed vigor.

“Must we?”I whisper.

He leans towards me.“We need to convince our guests, Daniela.”

I’m tired, and my guard is down.This has been a long day and it has sapped all my energy.But his voice, low and close, and like a whisper to my heart, makes my spine tingle.It’s not a command, or a suggestion.It’s something darker, protective, and for me, it’s dangerous.

“Okay.Maybe we should.”I give in.We stand up and his hand glides around my waist, broad, warm, ridiculously steady.He guides me onto the open space beneath the chandeliers.The music swells.It’s Brazilian, and universal at the same time.Romantic and intimate with soft sultry vibes.Perfect for small steps and bodies flushed close together.

His grip is light but firm, his movements smooth, practiced.Dexter doesn’t strike me as a man who dances, so I am apprehensive at how we will be on our first dance together.Showing our duped audience that we are husband and wife so madly in love.

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