You had tried screaming. You had tried crying. You had trying running away. You had tried fighting. You had tried begging, bargaining, threatening, everything you could possibly think of to stop this from happening, but your parents simply wouldn't listen. Deep down, you know they love you and only want what is best for you, but this is not how you envisioned them showing it. Seriously, an arranged marriage? To some random business partner's kid? Were they joking?
No, apparently, as you found out the hard way. Your wedding day was not what you dreamed it would be as a young girl. You barely even had a say in the proceedings – although as you had no say in your husband, this is hardly surprising. At the last minute, you nearly ruined your make up crying in your mother's arms, pleading with her not to do this. You hadn't even met the man and you already hate him! Anyone who goes along with this is a terrible person in your eyes and you had no desire of meeting them, let alone marrying them.
Mint green hair. Bad first impression. He couldn't even give you enough respect to have a reasonable hair colour on your wedding day! Insane. It made you hate him even more. The ceremony passed torturously slowly, and you didn't look him in the eyes at all in fear you'd burst into tears all over again. You barely managed to choke out your vows, and your hands shook uncontrollably as you exchanged rings. In the blink of an eye but also after an eternity, you were pronounced married, and your new husband (you nearly retch at the thought) pressed a gentle kiss to your lips to seal the deal.
You barely exchanged words for the rest of the night, other than such comments as 'excuse me', or 'no thank you'. All in all, it was just as much of a horrible experience as you expected. You knew then you would never forgive your parents for handing you off in such a way, no matter how lovely they think he is, or whatever good it does for your family's business and reputation. When your husband opened the car door for you so you could go back to the hotel where you were to be spending the night, you didn't so much as thank him. At least he had the sense to book a night somewhere with two separate bedrooms, and all you could do was pray he didn't hear your sobs when you closed your bedroom door behind you, tearing your dress off as you found yourself unable to hold back the tears anymore.
A few weeks passed in much the same way. You didn't speak to your new husband, and you spent most of your time locked up in one bedroom or another just crying. The two of you were going to the Caribbean for a 'Let's Get to Know Each Other' honeymoon, but you didn't leave the hotel. When you left your room to use the bathroom, you found warm food on a silver platter, probably put there by room service. So that's what you did for a week. You probably saw your husband three times in total over that 2-week holiday. Once on the plane out, once on the plane back, and once you accidentally ran into him when you were going back to your room from the bathroom. He had looked at you with wide eyes, filled with a concern you were sure was faked. By the time he had managed to stutter out an apology, you had locked the bedroom door again.
You're going to have to talk to him soon. You're married now, just try to make the most of it.
The words ring inside your head now as you sit in what you assume to be one of the guest bedrooms at your new house. You know it's what your mother would say to you, but you try to cast it out of your head. You haven't answered any of her texts or calls since the wedding. Nevertheless, though, whoever's advice it is, it's right. You've sulked for nearly a month now, and you're getting a bad case of cabin fever locking yourself up all day. It's becoming hard to remember the last time you felt the sun on your face. With the new resolve that you may be overreacting a tad, you get up and dressed into presentable clothing. Even now you have no desire to seek out your new husband, so you decide to start by walking around the garden. The two of you have been (very generously) gifted a large estate as a wedding present from your families. It has a few acres of land, with ample room to get lost in if you so wish. And you do so wish.
It's bright outside, and you wince a little as it stings your eyes. You get over the sensation quickly and set off towards the orchard section of the grounds. It's very well cared for, and when you reach the freshly mowed grass, you can't help kicking your shoes off to venture further. As a young girl, you loved the feeling of grass tickling your feet, and it brings a ghost of a smile to your face. In hindsight, you always knew this was going to happen. You parents had an arranged marriage, all of your friends too, and the fact has never been hidden from you. It just feels... wrong. It feels like everything was stolen from you. The first date; the first stolen kiss under the moonlight; the butterflies and the shaky knees when he picks you up from your house; meeting his family and being adored by them; him meeting your parents and being given the age-old 'DAD TALK'; a surprise proposal at a meaningful place; the giddiness of telling everyone, of planning a perfect wedding with the perfect man. Love. You feel like love was stolen from you,
"Your mother told me that the blossom trees are your favourite," You hear a low voice utter from behind you. You nearly jump out of your skin as your lurch around to see who had followed you so quietly out here. It's him. Of course, its him. Who else could it have been? With his stupid green hair and his too-expensive tailored suit, "I can see why. This time of year is perfect for them," He offers you a shy smile. You can see he's standing at a respectful distance, hands carefully folded in front of him. Very non-threatening. You want to scoff, but something in his face looks a little wary. Nervous,
"Is that why you had them put in? Thought it might soften the blow of a glorified kidnapping?" You question plainly. There's no venom or harshness in your tone, but the man's face falls ever so slightly anyway. You should feel bad, but you don't. He's as much a part of this as your parents, you're sure, "It doesn't," You turn away and look back to the tress that rustle gently in the summer breeze, "But they are calming. I've always thought so," You add quietly. The most you've ever said to your husband. A little longer than your vows, which you had kept blunt and bare. You hear the man shift behind you, his polished shoes making noise on the fallen blossoms as he walks to stand in your eyesight again,
"Look," He sighs, his composure cracking ever so slightly, "I know this isn't what you wanted. Your father explained it to my parents very simply that you did not want to wed. I get it. I wasn't all for having my life picked out for me either," Your eyes meet his with shock. You didn't know. You thought he wanted this just as much as they did, "But this is the hand we've been dealt. If you want to ignore me and hide away from me, be my guest. By all means, do it. But I'm prepared to make the effort to get on with you. I don't expect you to fall for me or even particularly like me, but if we can just..." He breaks off to roll his eyes and move his hair out of his face, "If we can just talk to each other once in a while, maybe have dinner on occasion, that would make this a hell of a lot easier," You blink as his rant apparently ends, and his words hang in the air, filling your ears. You take your time to process it, thinking about what he's asking. Re-evaluating your assumptions about him. He's stuck in this situation just as much as you are, but he's not sulking or crying or hiding. He's trying to swallow down the truth and get on with it. Could you do the same? Do you want to do the same?
After a while, he assumes you're just not going to respond. You have this blank look on your face, so he sighs again and makes to stride away. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch his purposeful steps, his head held just a little too high, as if he's hiding something. Maybe hurt at your rejection. All he wants is to make this easier for the both of you. As he reaches the edge of the lawn, you find the words to call out,
"Dinner sounds nice. I'm in the mood for Italian," Your husband turns around with a shy smile and nods,
"I could go for some Italian. Come to the dining room at 7. You don't have to dress up or anything," You don't have to dress up? Hmm... maybe you can get along with your new husband. Maybe. It depends what kind of Italian food he gets for you.
Ken gives himself a small smile as he walks away. That wasn't the biggest victory ever, some of his friends who got an arranged marriage didn't have this problem at all, but it was something. He lets himself into the kitchen and asks the on-site chef to take the rest of the night off and return the following morning instead. You've given him a chance to show you this won't be a complete nightmare, being married to him and all, and he doesn't want to blow it. He takes a couple deep breaths as he glances around the kitchen. You can't go wrong with a bit of homemade lasagne. Another tiny smile plays across his lips as he sheds his suit jacket and reaches for an apron. It really has been too long since he last cooked, and what better time to pick it up again that to win over his new wife, the woman he's going to spend the rest of his life with?
