Mine

I sat at the ornate wooden dressing table, desperately averting my eyes as the hairdresser carefully put the last finishing touches on the elaborate hairdo she’d determined was perfect for a bride. I could feel her gently tugging, spraying, and spritzing my long, straight black hair as she coaxed it into ringlets that curled around my face, then added a final sprinkle of subtle glitter. I guess that even on my wedding day it would be the happiest and shiniest thing about me.

The hairdresser stepped back, admiring her work. “You’ve got such beautiful hair. Your husband-to-be is a lucky man!”

I forced a smile. “Thank you... I hope he thinks so too.”

At twenty years old, I never imagined I’d be a bride so soon after my university graduation. I took a slow sip on my glass of tart, cold passion fruit juice, hoping that the acidity would help settle my roiling stomach, but the churning anxiety refused to settle down.

“Careful not to spill anything,” the woman said cheerily, admiring her handiwork with a tilt of the head. “You wouldn’t want to ruin that gorgeous wedding dress!”

“I’ll be careful,” I replied,

I looked down at myself, taking in as if for the first time the red silk and gold embroidery of the sari I was wearing. It wasn’t a traditional white bridal gown, but then again, I was getting married in the East Indian tradition, in which brides usually wore red. It was considered a happy, hopeful color, full of promise and made for celebration.

The fabric was baby soft, the tiny hand-stitched beads picking up the bright overhead lights and echoing the gold filigree of my heavy bangles, necklace, earrings and headdress. My bridal jewelry must weigh three pounds; I was sure of it.

I wondered fleetingly if my groom would appreciate the intricate details of my attire. Would he find me beautiful? The thought sent an unexpected flutter through my stomach.

Outside in the courtyard below, I could hear the sound of people bustling, staff getting everything ready, glasses and cutlery clinking as they were put in place for the feast we would all consume once I was properly married. I could hear the musicians turning up their instruments for the live performance of the wedding march, as well as the entertainment to follow.

My stomach twisted.

I wished I could center myself with a few deep breaths and stretches, the way I did during my daily yoga practice, but the tight sari restricted my movement.

The hairdresser stepped away smiling, satisfied with her handiwork. “You’re the most beautiful bride ever!” she assured me, in tones so sincere I could almost believe her.

“Thank you,” I said, though my heart wasn’t in it.

“I can’t wait to see the look on your groom’s face when he sees you for the first time!”

A lump formed in my throat. What would he think when he saw me? I wondered. Would he be as nervous as I was, marrying a stranger? The thought of his reaction, of the unknown that lay ahead, sent a fresh wave of anxiety through me. Would he be kind? Would he be disappointed? I had never met my groom, and the uncertainty gnawed at me. What if he couldn’t hide his dismay? Or worse, what if he was indifferent? The questions swirled in my mind, making the room feel even more stifling.

I forced myself to take another sip of juice, hoping to calm my nerves, but the tight knot in my stomach only seemed to tighten further. What kind of man was he? I wondered. Despite my fears, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of curiosity. Would he be handsome? Charming? I pushed away the unbidden hope that he might be someone I could grow to like.

“Léa,” my father said softly as he entered the dressing room, his dark skin a stark contrast to the crisp white of his formal shirt. He tapped on the door frame even though he was already through it. “It’s time.”

I turned to face him, my heart heavy with the weight of our family’s predicament. Papa’s once-proud shoulders, broad and strong like many men from our island, now sagged slightly. The stress of our financial woes was etched in the lines of his ebony face. He had always been my rock, but the collapse of our family’s shipping company had shaken him.

“Already? I... I need a moment,” I replied softly.

He nodded at the hairdresser, who quickly left the room. “We can’t keep them waiting, sweetheart,” he said gently, his eyes pleading. “Remember why we’re doing this. The Kanama Finance Group is our last hope.”

I nodded, feeling the weight of his words. Just months ago, my biggest concern had been my final exams at UWI. but since then our small island nation of Ruby Coast had been hit hard by the global economic downturn, and our family’s company had suffered the brunt of it. The merger with the Kanamas’ finance empire — sealed through this marriage — was our only chance to save not just our family, but the livelihoods of hundreds of our employees.

He smiled sadly, pride and guilt warring in his eyes. “You look beautiful.” He came close enough to lightly touch my cheek. “My lovely, brave daughter,” he murmured. “You shall be the savior of us all.”

“I hope so, Daddy,” I whispered.

I rose, taking his proffered arm and allowing him to escort me down the winding staircase. As I caught sight of the courtyard decorated with tropical flowers and the guests milling around, the rock that had been lying coldly in the pit of my stomach seemed to grow. It’s the only way, I reminded myself. There was only one thing I could do to save my family from financial ruin, and I was doing it. Nevertheless, I clutched Daddy’s arm more tightly to steady myself as the scent of the flowers threatened to overwhelm me. I was not going to faint.

Thank God the wedding party was small, wisely limited to just immediate family. I don’t know what I would have done if I had to undergo this awful charade in the presence of a host of random people, casual acquaintances, co-workers and distant cousins. The gathering was small enough that I didn’t need to fear making a complete fool of myself in front of half of Guadeloupe. Even so, as I walked up the aisle to the sound of the band, I could feel all their eyes on me, taking me in, wearing a dress I didn’t deserve to wear. A dress that should have been worn by a bride who was happy on this special day.

I made it to the altar without falling over, and I was grateful for that. The elevated platform was dominated by an archway of flowers, dazzling with color. Underneath it, in stark contrast, was a man in a black sherwani, the traditional Indian wear of the groom. There he was, the man I had agreed to marry. And I was seeing him for the first time.

For a brief moment our eyes met and I saw his eyes widen, a flicker of surprise and what might have been appreciation crossing his face before the anger set in. He didn’t want to be here, either. That much was clear.

His features were a striking blend of his Indian heritage and the sun-kissed warmth of the Caribbean—high cheekbones, full lips, and skin the color of burnished bronze. His eyes, deep and dark like pools of black coffee, were framed by thick lashes any woman would envy. A neatly trimmed beard accentuated his strong jaw, adding a touch of maturity to his otherwise youthful face.

The sherwani fit him perfectly, emphasizing broad shoulders and a lean frame. He stood tall and straight, exuding a quiet confidence that seemed at odds with the anger I saw flash in his eyes.

He studied me intently, his gaze taking in every nuance. My heart raced, and I felt a blush creep up my cheeks. I hadn’t expected him to be so... striking. His presence commanded attention, and I found myself drawn to him despite my apprehension.

As I took my place beside him, he leaned in slightly. “You’re... unexpected.” His voice was low, almost husky, and his French accent was thick and delicious..

Surprised, I whispered back, “Is that good or bad?”

“Let’s just get through this,” he replied tersely.

My head swam and my hearing faded in and out as the priest conducted the brief ceremony in French. I had no idea what he was saying, but it had all been explained to me beforehand. I knew at what point I would have to respond, and what was the significance of each stage of the procedure. I stood stock still as I signed my freedom away forever.

For a moment, I felt as if I was dreaming, and the small audience of beaming family members, his and mine, didn’t really exist. I’d eaten too much cheese the night before and this was all a nightmare. Pretty soon I’d wake up in my own bed, safe and sound … and single.

“Léa,” the priest prompted gently.

It was my cue. My groom’s dark brown eyes bored into mine as if he was drilling his way into me, penetrating me with his spirit. I wanted to turn and run, every ounce of instinct yelling at me to do so, but I stood there, rooted by obligation and the huge promise I’d made to my father.

“Je le veux,” I replied, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside.

The next thing I knew, this man, this stranger named Jamal Kanama, was taking my hand and slipping a gold ring onto it. His fingers seemed to caress mine as he slid the ring on, the touch lingering just a fraction too long.

A shiver ran through me at his touch, and I was shocked to realize it wasn’t entirely from fear. There was something about him, an allure I couldn’t deny, even in these bizarre circumstances.

I stared down at the ring in surprise, as if it was now on some other woman’s finger. I was startled by the simplicity of it, the plain gold band that seemed so out of place contrasted with the opulence of everything else I was wearing. It was simply symbolic, a punctuation mark at the bottom of a contract. It hadn’t been chosen out of love by a man who wished to put his stamp on his woman for all of eternity.

It was just a ring.

And just like that, I was a married woman. The priest said something more, and turned expectantly to me. I became painfully aware that every single pair of eyes in the place was riveted on me, and I almost panicked. I’d said what I was supposed to say. I’d let him put the ring on my hand like a tiny pair of handcuffs. I belonged to him now. So what the hell did everyone want from me?

His head lowered to mine and I had my answer. The kiss. The wedding kiss, the one I remember sighing over in every romance novel and every romantic movie I’d ever enjoyed as a teenager.

Jamal’s lips were upon mine and my crazy freaked out mind started spinning. His kiss was brief, formal, yet I felt a spark of something—lust. It left me breathless and confused. How could I feel anything for this man—this complete stranger?

Behind me, I could hear the enraptured audience let out a collective Awww, followed by a smattering of applause. Jamal lifted his head, and for a split second, I saw a flash of something in his eyes—desire? confusion?—before his face settled back into its expressionless mask.

A woman approached us, beaming. “Congratulations! You two make such a lovely couple.”

I forced enthusiasm into my voice. “Thank you, we’re... very happy.”

“Oui, we are... trés happy.” Despite the coolness in his voice, I felt his hand press slightly firmer against my waist, drawing me closer. The warmth of his touch sent an unexpected tingle through me.

As the guest moved away, I caught Jamal’s eye. For a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of something—uncertainty? Curiosity? But it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

Despite the anger and reluctance I’d seen earlier, there was no denying his appeal. I found myself hoping that maybe, just maybe, there could be more to this arrangement than I’d initially thought.