Chapter 1

Sunlight. I fight the instinct to open my eyes and try to keep my face still. It’s useless. I sit up to find Bo lounging on the chaize, reading the morning paper.

Pull yourself together, Izabel. He wants to get help. That’s a good sign. There is a process to this kind of healing. We’ll work on it together. He’ll overcome this. He will. He will.

As I wipe away the tears, I see my wedding dress, a symbol of eternal love and happiness, now a mound of crumpled lace and tulle on the floor. Yes, he will overcome this. He will.

“Good morning, baby. I didn’t want to wake you too early. You look so peaceful when you sleep.” He rises and makes his way to my side of the bed and lingers over me. “I had some coffee brought up.” He offers what appears to be an apologetic smile.

I stare up at him, my thoughts a scramble with scenes from last night. Fighting back tears, I reach for the mug. “Thanks.”

He gently wraps his hand around mine, bows his head, and releases a big sigh. After a moment, he begins to pace along the edge of the bed. “Izabel, I’m . . . It’s just you . . . sometimes you leave me no other choice. I’ll talk to someone about . . .” he trails off. “My issues. Forgive me. I will make it right again.”

I won’t let him see me cry. I have to stay strong, but I know if I answer him, I won’t be able to hold back a torrent of tears. I lower my eyes, nod, and hope I look agreeable. He leans down and kisses me on the forehead.

“All right then. I’ll leave you to get ready. We’re having breakfast with my parents. Meet us in the dining room in a half hour.”

The door closes, and I collapse back onto the bed.  I turn to my side and cradle one of the pillows to my chest, sobbing raggedly as I reflect on yesterday’s events. It was supposed to be the best day of my life. My wedding day.

☐ ☐ ☐

The Carmichael’s have spared no expense. I’m sure they have invited all of Illinois’s most influential and affluent dignitaries, politicians, and socialites. It’s a who’s who of potential leads and allies that will help advance Bo’s career, or so I’ve been told. I won’t know most of my guests with the exception of a few old friends.

It’s a glorious September afternoon. I’m standing in front of the large, ornate mirror that leans against the wall in the bridal party suite of the Waldorf Astoria. I don’t recognize the girl staring back.

I’m glad I went with the strapless, lace vintage dress. Vintage always feels so familiar.

All my work at the gym has really paid off. I slimmed down, and the silhouette of the dress flatters my new shape. I achieved my goal of getting down to a size six—well, Bo wanted me to be a size six. The diamond embellished belt that’s tied around my waist is the perfect finish. I look so tiny, and the dress falls elegantly down my hips, snug in all the right spots.

My hair is in loose tendrils down my back, pulled up on one side with a pin and adorned with a delicate cluster of stephanotis flowers. My makeup is light and natural looking, as usual. Too much, Bo says, makes me look like one of those “girls” that hang out on the north side of town, not a future governor’s wife. I give myself one final look over and can’t help but smile. Yes, Bo will be delighted when he sees me.

Finally—finally—this  day  is  here.  We’ve  been engaged three very long years. Bo’s father was adamant that he needed to establish himself on the political scene before he got married, even though the Carmichaels have a historic political lineage. I don’t know how many times I’ve heard the story about how it all started with Lord Carmichael who served under King George II. From birth, Bo was groomed to carry on his family legacy. The right clothes, the perfect connections, acceptable behavior ingrained into his every thought and motion, into his very public being.

Natalie bursts through the door in her usual bull- in-a-china-shop fashion, snapping me out of my reverie. “All right, as much as it pains me to say this, let’s get you married, bitch!” She really needs to work on her graces.

Natalie Spencer is my oldest and dearest friend. We’ve been inseparable since elementary school, even though we’re polar opposites. In high school, I had to work hard to get good grades, my face always in a book, and she could’ve been working for NASA at the young age of sixteen. But, ever the rebel, she ran with the emo crowd. The only thing we had in common back then was that we were both growing up without a father. Somehow, it was enough for us. We knew we would have a life-long connection.

Natalie is tall and naturally slim with ridiculous curves she doesn’t even have to work for. The kind of woman who could make a garbage bag look trendy, she keeps her short, dark-brown hair a perfect rock ’n’ roll mess on top of her head. Any time of the day or night, that hair is ready to party.

Nothing makes her happier than booze, blow, boys, and boobs. She makes no excuses and never apologizes for her chosen lifestyle. Natalie has accomplished so much in her life, and I secretly admire her. I would never tell her, because one of us has to be the responsible one in this friendship, but I suspect she knows.

She is openly bisexual. Her words: Love is love, regardless of what’s below the belt.

We tried to fool around once a few years back after too many glasses of pinot grigio, but halfway through I started giggling and couldn’t stop. I like cock too much to ever be a lesbian. That’s according to Nat’s crude theory. I never told Bo. He was raised in an ultra-conservative and religious household. Me, not so much. The only time I heard my mom reference Jesus was when something went wrong, and it was usually followed by an expletive. I respect Bo’s opinions and values, though, and deep down he’s just a big softy. He’s also drop-dead gorgeous, which I don’t mind one bit.

“Izabel Jones, aren’t you a vision of the oppression of women, all dressed in white.”

“Nice, Nat! How many mimosas have you had already?” I try to sound offended, but it’s impossible in the face of her joie de vivre.

“Come on, Jones. It’s your wedding day. Let’s have some fun. Look, I’m even wearing a bra for you.” She flashes me her lace-covered boob with her free hand. The other is occupied by two glasses of champagne and orange juice. She gestures for me to take one of the long-stemmed flutes from  her.

“Nat, you know Bo’s not keen on me drinking.” “Bo, Shmo . . . He’s so boring . . . You never have fun

anymore.” She pushes out her lower lip in a pout and thrusts a glass at me.

“One drink, Nat, and that’s it.”

She raises hers, and with her worst, uppity British accent, she toasts, “To the future Mrs. Bo Carmichael. May all your champagne wishes and caviar dreams come true.”

“Robin Leach, really!” I giggle, we clink glasses, and we take a long sip.

My mother walks in the room and eyes us suspiciously. “You two look like you’re up to no good.”

In the twenty years we’ve been friends, Natalie has never become my mother’s favorite person, but my mother tolerates her. My mom has always wanted the best for me. She was a single parent working too many hours, determined I would get more out of life  than she did. She always said I deserved to marry a rich man to take care of me so I wouldn’t have to work as hard as she did and miss out on the grand privileges of life. Natalie, of course, would never let a man take care of her, so to my mother, Nat was always just an obstacle in her chosen path for me.

“Izabel, you look beautiful. Bo is going to be so pleased!” She gives me a loose hug so as to not pull at my dress. When Mom lets go, she holds me at arm’s length, scanning me from head to toe before giving me an approving smile. “Oh, honey, I’m so happy for you. You are going to have a wonderful life. You’ll never have to worry about anything.” If she had a choice, I think she’d be marrying Bo today.

Natalie looks at me and rolls her eyes, and I give her the don’t-start stare.

“Okay, sweetheart.” Mom’s voice is a sing-song testament to her happiness. “Let’s get you married!”

Natalie watches me take a final sip of my drink and flashes me one of her signature smiles, her right boob again evoking an eye roll from my mom this time. Mom and I are alone in the room now for my last few single-girl moments before we make our way down the hall to the chapel room.

With nerves of delight coursing through me, Mom and I stand arm in arm waiting for the doors to open. On cue, two impeccably dressed men in full tuxedos and white gloves open the double doors. The low buzz of several hundred guests murmuring among themselves greets us as we step into the room. The guests stand, and Mom and I start our slow march to the altar where my future husband waits. I float down the aisle to the euphoric melody being played by the string quartet tucked away in the corner.

All I see is Bo’s sweet, genuine smile. He’s fiddling with the boutonniere on his lapel. He looks as nervous as I feel. Man, he is gorgeous. He’s wearing a tailored, charcoal pinstripe suit that drapes without flaw over his 6’3” frame. His blond hair is tousled to perfection. And he’s all mine.

In a blur, we move from being two single people to man and wife. With Reverend Wallace’s,“You may now kiss your bride,” Bo grabs me, dips me down low, and plants a long, deep kiss on my lips. The guests applaud and cheer around us. He stands me back up, steadies me, grabs my hand, and we walk toward the exit amidst smiles and congratulations. When the doors close on the guests behind us, Bo takes me in his arms and swings me around.

“Well hello, Mrs. Carmichael.” He flashes me his perfect smile.

“Hello yourself, Mr. Carmichael. Why don’t we take a quick detour to our room before the party starts?”

His smile fades. “Izabel, we have guests waiting for us.”

I pout and give him my biggest doe eyes. “You can deviate from your schedule just this once, Bo.”

He wraps his hand around my forearm, squeezes, and jerks me toward him. I gasp. “We can’t deviate from the schedule, Izabel. Do you understand?”

I look up at him, and he softens his grip then pulls me into an embrace. I tense up as he hugs me.

“I’m sorry.” His whisper blows the loose tendrils  of hair away from my ear. For a moment, he regards me, his face expressionless. “Come on, darling.  Let’s go have a good night with our guests. I’ll make it up  to you later.” And with the flash of his pearly whites, I melt a bit and let it go again.

Bo and I spend the rest of the night floating from table to table, greeting our guests, most of whom I’m meeting for the first time. For the most part, I listen in a daze, smiling and accepting their congratulations. I don’t have much to offer when it comes to politics. I guess I’ll have to work on that now that I’m the wife of the future governor of Illinois.

A shriek jolts me to attention. “Are you kidding me?”

I whip my head around, recognizing Nat’s voice. Bo glares down at me with a get-her-the-fuck-out-of-here look. I excuse myself and rush over to where she is standing. She’s holding her champagne flute in one hand and gesticulating furiously with the other. I smile sweetly at the two elderly gentlemen Natalie has clearly outraged.

“What’s going on?” I whisper through clenched teeth and a fake smile.

“I’ll tell you what’s going on. These two fuckers have just informed me that homosexuality is a sin, and any man or woman who decides to become gay will live in eternal damnation. What the fuck, Jones?”

“Nat!” I hiss at her. With a quick apology to the men, I grab Natalie by the arm and usher her toward the door. Without even looking at him, I can feel Bo’s angry glare on my back as we exit the room. I’ll have to deal with that later.

I get Natalie into the hallway and duck into a utility room off to the side. “What the hell, Nat?”

“I’m sorry, Jones. I didn’t know your hubby invited neo-Nazis to the reception and I would be subjected to this bullshit.”

“Why can’t you just keep your opinions to yourself for, like, ten minutes?” Then, a bit softer, but still firmly, I say, “It’s my wedding day. Please don’t make Bo angry.”

She stares at me for a long while and opens her mouth to say something but decides against it. She leans in, gives me a hug, and then kisses my cheek.

“Anything for you, Jones.” She holds out her hand. “Come on, let’s go party.”

I let out a big sigh in hopes I’ve just defused one  of Bo’s blowups. Hand in hand, we walk back into the reception. I smile and laugh and make my rounds with an unsettling prickling on the back of my neck.

The evening continues in much the same way I imagine most girls dream their wedding will be. I’m sitting at a table with some college friends, giving my sore feet a much-needed break. What made me think I could last eight hours in my mile-high Louboutins?

I watch Bo across the room, working his magic, wooing our most prominent guests. He looks the way a man should on his wedding night: overjoyed at the notion of spending endless days and nights with the love of his life. He sees me admiring him and starts the slow progression toward me, one handshake and bout of small talk at a time. When he reaches the table, he offers me his wide, flat hand. Even it is beautiful.

“Will you dance with me, Mrs. Carmichael?” “I thought you’d never ask, Mr. Carmichael.”

He leads me to the dance floor and pulls me close.

We start to sway to the sweet sound of Etta James,  and he lip-syncs the lyrics, “At last, my love has come along . . . lonely days are over.”

I’m suspended—just like that—in his arms, inches from the ground when he dips me low and brushes a feather-light kiss on my lips. Somewhere, seemingly so far from here, our guests applaud around us. He swoops me up and twirls me around the dance floor a few times. The applause grows louder. When I’m steadied back in his arms, I look up to meet his eyes, but he’s not looking at me at all.

It’s one a.m. when we finally make our way down the hallway to our suite. Exhaustion has set in, and I cling to Bo’s arm for support. My Louboutins are twisted through my fingers in my other hand. I can’t believe I survived the entire day and night without taking them off.

Beauty and comfort are not synonymous when it comes to designer footwear.

The tension between me and Bo is palpable. I   suspect he’s stewing about Natalie’s outburst now that he doesn’t have the distractions of our guests. His silent treatment is ridiculous. It’s our wedding night. We should be drunk on happiness and whirling in the anticipation of making love as newlyweds.

Pulling his hand up to my mouth, I kiss his knuckles and gush,“What a day! It was like the perfect fairy tale. Everything went off without a hitch.”

“Not entirely,” he grumbles and opens the door to the suite. I open my mouth to rebut, but decide it’s to my benefit to keep my comments to myself.

The room is beautiful and spacious. An oversized floral arrangement of my favorites— magnolias and freesia—are on the dining table, and there is a silver platter of chocolate-dipped strawberries and a bottle of champagne chilling in an ice bucket. “Oh, Bo, look how beautif—”

The word is lost in a gasp as my shoulders make contact with the wall. He’s up against me with the full force of his weight, forcing his tongue into my mouth like venom from a snake.

“Bo, please, not like this. Not tonight.” My voice  is little more than a whisper as I use my forearms to gain an inch of space. “We’re married now. We’ve been waiting for this night for so long. Make love to me.”

He looks up at the ceiling, his frustration apparent. “Turn around.”

The vibration of his growl galvanizes me. He knots my hair in his hand and pulls hard to one side. He buries his face in my neck and bites down until I can feel the skin break. With his free hand, he unzips my dress, and it falls to the floor like a deflated balloon. I hear the quick, practiced undoing of his belt and fly: clink, zip. Silent tears roll down my cheeks.

“Bo, please.”

“Shhhh.” He grunts.“Spread your legs.” He pulls my white silk panties to the side and takes me. It’s devoid of any love. I know that.

In a minute, he’ll press my face into a pillow, and I’ll drift to that serene place in the back of my mind where we make passionate love and punishment fucks don’t exist.