Page 1 of Pleasure Lessons

1

CASSANDRA

I’m goingto die in this house. And not in a dramatic way, worthy of a movie or a best-selling, post-mortem biography. Not murdered by my husband or from a dose of exotic self-inflicted poison. No, I’ll just die quietly, slowly, of tortuous boredom and soul-crushing monotony.

It will be the kind of death that smells of bland soap and chopped russet potatoes.

It’s morning and the sun is shining, but I haven’t gotten out of bed yet. I lie perfectly still beneath the most luxurious linens known to man, staring up at a pastel-blue canopy above me, just waiting for it to drop down and smother me.

This is my prison.

A five-wing mansion in Montecito, California. Fountains that run day and night, floors that don’t know the meaning of squeak, and all the latest tech gadgets and electronic conveniences for someone who cares about that sort of thing.

Every inch is spotless. The grounds are so manicured they almost look AI-generated, and the air is so pure and filtered it feels strange to breathe it.

Many girls would kill to live in a place like this.

But I’d kill to get out.

I was placed here by my father three months ago when I turned eighteen. “He’s from good blood, honey. And he’s wealthier than God. He’ll be a perfect match for you. Just be a good girl for him.”

That’s what he told me. That Arthur will take care of me. And all I need to do is play my part. And that’s why today my new coach is coming.

I need to learn how to play tennis. Not for fun, not for competition, but because I need to look the part of an aristocratic wife-to-be. It’s all posturing. All for appearances. Arthur wants me to look “polished,” apparently. My father calls it “fit for marriage.” Some days I wonder just what century it is I’m living in.

Fit for marriage…

My father raised me as a single parent after my mom divorced him, and by “raised me,” I mean he kept me in a silk-lined bubble, completely sheltered from the rest of the world. I was home-schooled with the best tutors money could buy and basically told the outside world was poisonous.

I never went to a real school, never went to dances, never went to the movies with a boy. I’ve never even been kissed before. I was too busy learning French, proper etiquette, drawing, painting, and how to sit like a lady without creasing my expensive dress.

Dad said he was just protecting me. That the outside world was filled with bad influences and men with terrible intentions. He told me I was precious and my body was sacred–a temple that only my husband could enter. And I believed him. Why wouldn’t I? It’s not like I had anything else to go on. It’s only in the last three months since I moved in with Arthur that I’ve started to question things.

I know I’m supposed to be ready for marriage soon, but I still feel like a child most of the time, peeking through the keyhole fora view of a world I don’t fully understand. But sure, let’s worry about how I look swinging a racket in a tennis skirt.

Three taps sound at the door. Clarisse. Breakfast is waiting. I get up and go through the normal motions–showering, moisturizing, doing my hair and makeup just the way Arthur likes it.

I put on a string of pearls he gave me when I first moved in and slip on the ridiculous white skirt that was laid out for me here last night. Talk about short. If I even move in this thing, anyone watching is going to get a view of a lot more than just the match.

Then it’s breakfast. Two eggs, toast, marmalade, and two pieces of turkey bacon. I eat alone in the enormous dining hall that could easily seat thirty people. Arthur is already at the office, working away as the CEO of his tech company. If someone asked me just exactly what it is they do, I wouldn’t be able to give them a real answer. At most, all I could say would be that I know they work with AI and social media. That’s it.

Clarisse watches me the whole time from the corner, waiting for when it’s time to take my dishes away. She’s done this since I moved in, and I used to find it quite unnerving, but I’ve slowly gotten used to it. I tried to open up to her, thinking maybe we could be friends, but she wasn’t having any of it. Maybe Arthur told her to stay in her place, or maybe she just doesn’t like me. Either way, the boundaries of our relationship are clear.

I smile at her when I get up from the table, but she pretends not to notice and takes my dishes into the kitchen.

The walk to the tennis court feels like a small hike. Arthur’s estate is enormous. I forget just how many acres he owns, but it’s a lot. I never see anyone but the staff here and my father, who has only visited me once since I first arrived. Sometimes I feel like I’m living on another planet.

Ted, the gardener, is pruning the hedges with his team, working slowly and precisely like his life depends on it.

The court is still wet in the corners from this morning’s dew. I grab a racket from the small shed by the fence and turn, and that’s when I see him.

Not Ted. Not Arthur.

Him.

He’s tall and broad, with a chiseled jaw and sharp eyes. His hair is auburn and messy, but in an intentional sort of way. He’s wearing a navy-blue track jacket that’s stretched across his thick chest and wide shoulders. And he’s walking right toward me.

Thisis my new tennis coach? Impossible. He looks like he was carved out of marble and should be on display in a museum or an art gallery for everyone to admire. As he walks, he twirls his racket casually in his hand. Something about the way he does it causes my stomach to go tense.

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