I imagine that growing up, most girls dream about their wedding, and my friend Emily and I used to play brides in my parents' backyard for hours. We made braided crowns of daisies and used Ring Pops as the perfect-shaped rings we slipped onto our fingers. The older we got, the vague faces of our grooms took on more specific features, yet however we imagined our Prince Charming to be, we were madly in love with him.

Maybe I held onto this fantasy for too long, but when I regard myself in the full-length mirror in Naiara's dressing room, my wedding day feels all wrong. The gown is absolutely stunning—more extravagant and lavish than what my parents could ever afford—but the glamor cannot replace the void and uneasiness in my heart.

In just over an hour, I will walk down the aisle on the arm of a man I hardly know to marry his son who terrifies me more and more these days. My mother won't be crying in the front row and my sister Juliet will be missing from the bridal party.

Instead, I will be surrounded by people that mean very little to me and listen to a ceremony I don't understand. No one even bothered to translate the wedding vows; Bettina said I would know when to say sí and that was all that mattered. One word, and the last of my sacred beliefs will go out the window. My promises won't mean anything; in fact, I'm not even sure I intend to keep them.

Naiara straightens the long train. "You look beautiful."

"Yeah," I mumble, more to shut her up. My feet already burn in the high heels she forced me into and knowing my luck, I will stumble and make a fool of myself. The wires of the tight bodice stick into my waist just where the dress fans out into multi-layered skirts, making it hard for me to breathe. I can't even chew those perfectly fake fingernails down to the skin to calm my nerves. My teeth would probably break off on the hard acrylic.

I run my fingers over the top layer of the skirts, careful that my long nails don't snag the delicate lace.

"I think we need a little bit more blush." With a big brush, Naiara carefully applies the powder. It doesn't help. When she's done, my face still looks like that of a pale porcelain doll with big round eyes, framed by long artificial eyelashes. My hair is piled up in a sophisticated braid with a crown-like diadem to hold it all together. I feel like a child's dress-up toy.

"Knock, knock." Santino's cold smile reflects off the mirror. "Is Stacy almost done?"

Naiara nods. "Isn't she beautiful?"

He regards me with puckered lips. "You did a good job, honey. She will look great in front of the cameras." He drapes his arm around his wife's shoulders and smacks a kiss on her temple while his eyes stay on me.

I twitch under his stare. "Cameras?"

"Yes, of course." Santino's voice is calm like that of a patient grandfather. "Did Miguel not tell you? There will be news crews from all over the region. The wedding is the number-one event in our neighboring countries this year. Even the Ecuadorian president sent a card and present together with a representative, and we've never gotten along."

I return a pained smile; this just turned from a nightmare into a horror show. If my parents find out, my mom will be really hurt to have missed my special day. I wanted to break the news gently to them during our visit.

Santino produces a necklace with a small cross pendant. "This used to be my late wife's. I gave it to her on our first anniversary and want you to have it. Consider it your first family heirloom."

I trace the outline of the golden cross that is otherwise plain. "Thanks." It must have some sentimental value to Santino and I'm surprised he's parting with it.

"Well, we should be going." Naiara beams at her husband. "You know your son. He doesn't like to wait."

"Yes, one of Miguel's many flaws." Santino's tone is light, but the disapproval is still there.

I stifle a frown. Despite the very limited interaction during the odd family dinner, he has always made it obvious how much his son disappoints him. It's one of the things that made me feel connected to Miguel since I've felt that exact way my whole life. That he can't even refrain from those remarks on our wedding day just shows that Miguel will never be able to live up to his expectations.

Santino offers me his arm. "Shall we?"

When my hand comes to rest on his forearm, it feels odd. He's so different from my father. Despite his age, he's still very handsome, his body toned and in top shape. Even though my dad jogs and goes to the gym, he has gotten quite soft around the waist, and the lines around his eyes have multiplied in recent years. In a sense, he's like a fluffy teddy bear while Santino is surrounded by an impenetrable shield of hard coldness.

The Hummer is waiting for us, decorated with colorful flowers for the occasion. We drive through the woods until we get to the city limits, but at the fork that would take us to the church where Ramon and Bettina got married, the car stays straight.

My brows knit together. "Isn't the wedding going to be secluded?" Usually, events like these are kept away from the general public.

Santino laughs. "No, that would defeat its purpose. The whole country will celebrate today. The ceremony will be live on a monitor in the town square, and there will be a feast for everyone in town afterward. People came from all over to share this moment with you. Today, Malaguay will welcome their future first lady."

The streets are lined with people who are cheering as the Hummer drives by. Most women bend down to get a glimpse into the car, their faces blurred from the tinted windows, even though the Hummer is proceeding slowly. Little girls carry bouquets of flowers that complement their rainbow-colored dresses. I've never seen that many open smiles on Malaguay's citizens.

The town square looks similar to the day of Santino's birthday party, except that a large monitor covers the entire front of the buildings on one side. People are crowded around, and the driver has to honk the horn for us to get through. As the masses recede, I hear many shouts.

"La Novia" and "Viva la Americana."

The church is on the other side of the square; when Santino helps me out of the car, more cheers erupt. The soldiers have their hands full keeping the masses at bay. Arms stretch out for me.

"I love you, Stacy," a little girl with pigtails shouts in heavily accented English.

I signal the soldier to let her through and he obliges after a small nod from Santino. A smile tugs on the president's lips; he's apparently happy with his subjects for making me feel welcome.

The little girl steps forward, a bouquet of flowers clutched to her chest. Her other hand is firmly tucked in the larger weathered hand of an old woman, probably her grandmother. Cheeks flushed, the girl hops from one foot to another, sheer excitement dancing in her eyes.

I pass my bridal bouquet to Naiara. "Ask her if I can use her flowers?"

Quick Spanish words are exchanged, and the cheeks of the girl turn from pink to crimson red as she eagerly nods. She stretches her bouquet out to me.

Before I can take it, the old woman grabs my hand."Dios le bendiga." Tears sparkle in her eyes. "Por favor, ayude a nuestros hijos."

"What did she say?" I ask Naiara.

"She said, 'God bless you,' and that you should help the children," Santino responds in her stead. He mumbles something to the soldier who nods. "We have to move on. The ceremony is set to start."

I give the old woman a warm smile and take the bouquet from the girl. "Gracias. To both of you."

We enter the church. The front room is just big enough for me to turn around. It's cold and I shiver in my strapless dress, wishing I had a light jacket. Flicking candles in the cast-iron holders on the walls dip the whole room into a surreal light. Sucking in a deep breath to calm my nerves, I get a bit dizzy from the slight scent of incense. It's as if I'm walking in a dream.

"I let everyone know you're ready." Naiara disappears behind the double doors.

Santino chuckles. "I've never dreamed of walking a foreign girl down the aisle, let alone an American." His gaze pierces into me, sending a new shudder down my spine. "But I have to hand it to you. You have a natural knack of appealing to the masses. What you just did with that little girl will be the one thing people will talk about for years. It was brilliant."

I frown at him. "I didn't do that for some type of publicity."

"It doesn't matter why you did it. People cannot see into your head. Only your actions count. You are in politics now, Stacy. One day, Miguel will take my place and you will be the woman by his side. People here hope that you will make a real difference—build bridges between worlds. It's a ludicrous expectation, but it helps to give people hope. They will die for you if they believe in you and that's really all you want."

I'm baffled by his statement. This is definitely not what I expected to sign up for; the people of Malaguay looking to me to bring peace to their country. So much hope was in the old woman's eyes that it makes me cringe.

When the double doors open, music fills the church. My bridesmaids are lined up in front of the last row, and with one soft clap of her hands, Naiara sends Ana on her way to the altar. Shauna follows before it's Naiara's turn.

Bettina finds my eyes. As my maid of honor, she is last. "Nervous?"

I nod, my stomach so tight that I'm about to hurl. My teeth chatter all of a sudden.

"Deep breath," Santino mumbles when Bettina walks toward the altar. He gazes at me, a smile playing on his lips. "You can do this, Stacy. My son loves you and you will make a wonderful wife. Smile for the cameras. It's showtime."

We take a step forward in perfect unison. I clutch his arm, praying I won't stumble. My gaze searches for Miguel; he stands at the altar next to Ramon. He chews his bottom lip, his gaze fixed on me. In his tux and gelled hair, he looks gorgeous.

Yet, with every step, more and more pressure weighs on my chest. My legs feel heavy as if I'm dragging cement cylinders along, an invisible force fighting me. It's like I'm holding on to a stretching rubber band that will snap me back at any second.

The faces of the guests blur by until one sticks out like a sore thumb. The guy from the warehouse. He's flanked on either side by Pearson and the woman. His smile is so wide that it threatens to fall off his face. Pearson, on the other hand, looks as if he's just about ready to chew me out. His face darkens with every step I take toward Miguel.

I refocus on the groom, my gaze grazing Tomás on the way, who stands tall next to Ramon. His blue eyes are even darker in the obscurity of the church; like a mysterious deep ocean that wants to be explored.

We reach the altar. Santino bends forward and gives me a kiss on my forehead. I abandon his warm arm and take the last steps on my own before I come to a halt next to Miguel.

Father Lucas raises his hands for the blessing. The ceremony begins to roll up like a well-rehearsed movie, Spanish songs alternating with long passages of readings and the sermon of the priest. I twitch in my tight gown, cold sweat spreading on my forehead and down my neck and spine. No doubt that everyone in the church is staring. The nausea is now a constant lump in my throat.

Finally, Miguel takes my hands with a slight pull, forcing me to look at him.

"Miguel, tomás tu a Stacy como tu esposa, promotes amarla, protejerla, en la salud y en la enfermedad, todos los días de tu vida?"

"Sí." The word echoes through the church like an exploding bomb.

"Y Stacy, tomás tu a Miguel como tu esposo, promotes amarlo, respetarlo, en la salud y en la enfermedad, todos los días de tu vida?"

Even though my Spanish is still rather meager, the word respetarlo sticks out. It's also a word Father Lucas failed to mention in Miguel's vows. The message is clear; I will be the respectful wife while he is the protective husband.

My gaze flicks to the guests in the church. Santino leans back in his seat with an even expression, General Varela next to him gazing at me through hooded eyes as if he's about to doze off. The guy from the warehouse is at the edge of his seat, his glare drilling into me. It's all down to one word. What would he do if I bolted?

Father Lucas clears his throat at the same time Miguel squeezes my hands. I focus on Tomás; for a breath, he lightly shakes his head. Little does he know that this is not a true option.

"Sí." As the word leaves my lips, my heart tears to shreds. All I want to do is cry. This doesn't even come close to the special day I imagined as a child.

~~~~

The meal and speeches go by in a blur with me not understanding a single word. Isolated and frustrated, I let the cheerful chatter that fills the ballroom bounce off me, though every laugh is like a stab to my heart. Everyone is having a good time at my wedding while I'm loathing every second. Miguel barely tries to include me.

When he leads me to the dance floor, my feet already hurt during the first waltz. The pain in my ankles soon becomes unbearable and I insist on a break. My heels are just as sore; I can practically feel the oozing blisters.

Miguel excuses himself to use the bathroom and I'm left sitting at the bar. As I stare at the champagne glass in my hand, the longing for a hot bath, followed by a marathon session of sleep, takes center stage. Plus I'd pay money to set those torturous shoes on fire.

"Well, congratulations, Mrs. Rizo."

It takes me a second to realize that the voice is talking to me. Changing my name to Miguel's last name has never even occurred to me. With a frown, I turn my head to look at the guest. It's the guy from the warehouse.

"I failed to introduce myself the last time we met. I'm Devon O'Farrell." He extends his hand. "I like your smile. You look like a very happy bride. Good job."

I ignore his hand. "I'm surprised you had the guts to show your face."

"I had to make sure you followed—" When Miguel heads in our direction, his sentence is cut short. "Boy, your husband is quite protective of you."

Miguel reaches us and pushes himself in front of me.

Devon throws up his hands. "Hey, I'm just congratulating your wife."

I raise my brows. Why does he feel he owes my husband an explanation?

If they were swords, Miguel's eyes would've beheaded him. "A word of advice. Stay away from her or your days in Malaguay will be numbered."

Devon takes a step back. "Relax. I have work at the embassy and was about to leave. Enjoy the rest of your special day."

He spins on his heel and strolls toward the exit.

I nudge my husband's arm. "What was that all about?"

His glare still burns holes into Devon's back. "What did he want?"

"Like he said, he congratulated me on our wedding. Why?"

"That guy is CIA. He causes nothing but trouble. If he ever talks to you again, tell me immediately."

"CIA?" My forehead wrinkles. "I thought he worked for the embassy."

"That's just a front. I wish my dad would tell the Americans to take a hike, but he's afraid of more economic sanctions. If it were up to me, they could all go to hell."

"Calm down, Miguel." I rest my hand on his forearm. "He left. Don't let him spoil our day."

"You're right." He smiles and pulls himself onto the bar stool next to me. Leaning into me, his breath grazes my neck. "I can't wait to get you on my own."

On his own is only a few hours later, after the guests said their goodbyes and Miguel has led me to our suite at the hotel. I'm sitting at the old-fashioned vanity table, brushing through the strands of my hair over and over again. My whole scalp itches from the pins that held up my braid. I've peeled myself out of the wedding gown; now I'm dressed in nothing but the lingerie Naiara talked me into buying for my wedding night. My gaze is empty, the unease replaced by a new calmness. I've accepted this as my new fate and I'm determined to make the best of it.

The shower in the bathroom turns off and I expect Miguel to reappear any minute. A few tears well in my throat. Tonight should've been the night to give myself to him. Will it hurt now that it's the second time? Will I enjoy it or will his violent act hang over our relationship every time we have sex?

He steps behind me and my gaze gets stuck on the water droplets that glisten in the reflection of the mirror like little gemstones on his bronze skin. I feel obliged to stand and face him. He traces his fingers along my jaw, his eyes filled with desire. The black pupils are so dilated that his dark irises are no longer distinguishable.

When he leans forward, our lips meet. He is tender, his tongue carefully probing for a kiss. When he hooks his thumb into my bra, my hand flies up to stop him.

It's okay.

He's my husband and has the right to touch me.

It's still nerve-wracking.

He drops the towel around his waist. Lifting me onto his hips, he carries me over to the bed and sets me down gently. When he covers me with his body, my mind is overtaken by my racing pulse. We join as one.

One heart.

One soul.

One body.

Hours later, I lie awake in the dark, listening to Miguel's even breath. The stubborn curl behind his ear proves too tempting and I let the silky hair glide through my fingertips. His full lips are like a magnet; I bend over for a quick peck. He stirs, his arms wrapping me in a tight embrace, pulling me, shifting me, until my upper back rests against his chest. There, in the warmth of his body, my eyes fall shut. Exhaustion finally gets the better of me. What an exhilarating experience.

~~~~

© Sal Mason 2017

This work is protected by copyright and should not be copied, downloaded, translated or used in any way without my expressed consent. Please don't steal it. Thank you!