FORCED MARRIAGE | Jenna Ortega x Female Reader

09

A little baby. -Y/N

Today marks our departure from Honolulu. Four days of enduring Emma and Joy's constant presence, clinging to Jenna from morning till night. In a peculiar twist, their company afforded me more time with Gideon, though the knowledge of Jenna's affection for her felt oddly discordant. How does she bear it, knowing the woman she loves is bound to another who shows no regard for her?

Jenna and I converse, albeit sparingly. It's usually she who initiates, and we've fallen into a routine of sorts, sharing snippets of our lives over the table. We delve into discussions about our mothers, our reactions to being betrothed to strangers at tender ages, and the like. Jenna confided in me, revealing that, like myself, her mother had pledged her to a young man when she was merely four. However, at thirteen, she discovered her truth — her orientation as a lesbian. Jenna harbored reluctance in disclosing this to her mother, fearing the pain it would inflict upon her intended husband. Yet, her mother deemed it fitting to seek a match with someone she could genuinely love. And so, at thirteen, Jenna became my future wife, while I, at fifteen, stood oblivious to it all.

In Jenna, I've discerned no malice, only an earnest endeavor to bring me joy. She even offered her bed, suggesting she take the couch instead. I declined, assuring her of my comfort on the couch, albeit it being a tad snug for me. Gideon, Emma, and Joy departed a day prior, allowing Jenna and me one last day on the beach. She proposed various activities — swimming, volleyball, refreshments, even lending her headphones for music. I declined them all. Though she is my wife, Jenna and I are not friends. I feel more ensnared than anything else. And so, I basked upon a lounge chair, soaking in the splendor of a Hawaiian beach. Jenna ventured into the ocean, reveling in the company of children, her affection for them evident.

"Do you fancy more tea?" Jenna's voice interrupts my reverie.

I do enjoy tea, and it seems she's caught on, preparing it each morning and evening for the past days. I'm not sure how she discerned my fondness, but it matters not. I have tea whenever I desire.

"Yes, please, Mrs. Ortega," I jest, extending my cup.

She rolls her eyes, a gesture I've come to anticipate, and refills my cup with the rosy brew before setting it down.

Morning has arrived, and our departure looms within the hour. Our destination: Nice, in the south of France, a prospect I eagerly anticipate. Jenna is already prepared, having packed not only her four suitcases but also my two smaller ones. It's considerate of her, affording me additional time for repose.

"Y/N?" Jenna's voice beckons from the living room. "The car is waiting. Can you hurry?"

I deposit my tea in the sink, slip on my shoes, and make my way to the awaiting vehicle.

"You'll adore France," I assure Jenna as we embark on the journey.

En route to the hotel my mother has arranged, we traverse from Nice airport to Cannes. I'm eager to unveil the beauty of this country to Jenna, who chuckles beside me, sharing in my anticipation.

My first encounter with France was at five, visiting Paris to visit my mother's relatives. While Paris might have been her preference, she understands my penchant for the south. The car halts before a grandiose hotel, its doors emblazoned with the name "Carlton" in bold red lettering. A week in France beckons, promising an abundance of joy, enough to overshadow the arduous fourteen-hour flight.

It was well past midnight, and the streets lay deserted under the dim glow of street lamps. The large clock adorning the hotel entrance read "3:45". Almost 4 in the morning, a late hour indeed. Jenna must be exhausted. Exiting the car, I approached the reception where a lady handed me our room keys. We trudged wearily up to the 8th floor, fatigue creeping upon us. Jenna appeared drained, her gaze fixed downward. Finally, the attendant ushered us into our room—a pristine space, awash in white and ample in size. It was truly lovely.