Political Love

Union Of Duty

Lucas Pov:

FOUR MONTHS AGO: 

"For the first time in my life, I felt heartbroken. My parents had arranged my engagement to a stranger, a twist I never saw coming. I had thought they approved of my girlfriend, but it turns out it's all about connections here in DC. It's a ruthless world where having strong allies is paramount to survival.

I had to send back the ring I had planned to give to my longtime girlfriend. Despite her repeatedly expressing her aversion to marriage, I cherished her presence in my life. She brought me happiness, with her beauty and spontaneity. Perhaps her reluctance to marry turned out to be a blessing in disguise, because now I had to break up with her. Flying to Russia was necessary; this wasn't something I could do over the phone.

I arrived at her flat and knocked on the door. She answered with a frown, already aware of what had transpired. "I heard," she stated, motioning me inside. Her flat exuded an art deco style, adorned with her modeling pictures framed on the walls. As I entered, I heard the door shut behind me. I couldn't bring myself to sit down; I felt out of place, like I didn't belong there. I noticed all the picture frames of us were gone. Was she ready to leave me behind? "How did it even get to Russia? It happened just yesterday," I groaned, running my hands through my black hair in frustration.  "Your mother," she states firmly, her anger palpable. Her hands rest on her hips as she keeps her distance from me, her Russian accent thick. I'm prepared to switch languages if she wants to argue in our native tongue.

"Silvia, I tried to protest. I really did. I don't know this woman. I don't want to get to know her, I really don't," I say, taking a hesitant step towards her. She shakes her head and heads to her kitchen.

"Just go for it, I've moved on already. It's fine. We had two different ideas. You wanted marriage. I did not," she declares, her voice tinged with resignation.

Frustration wells up inside me. "Why are you like this? You can't give up on me. I can run away here. I have money and I can do so many things other than being an attorney," I plead, following her into the kitchen. I place my hands on her waist, pulling her closer so our bodies touch. With my left hand under her chin, I tilt her head up to meet my gaze.

"We can run away. We can even get married to stop this. I want you, not this new woman," I implore. Silvia's light blue eyes meet my dark green ones, and she smiles slightly. Maybe, just maybe, I can convince her to agree with me.

"I don't want to get married because I'm just twenty-nine. I don't want to settle down with anyone," she says, her hands landing on my chest. Despite her words, I can't help but smirk. I know where this is going, and I'm ready to challenge it. "Then let's run away," I interject, my hands starting to caress her waist.

"I don't want to. You want this, I want something else. It's best if we..." she trails off, uncertainty evident in her voice.

"We what?" I press, leaning down toward her face, my hand still on her chin, ready to kiss her. "You want to officially break up and not even try? Want to leave me out in the cold?" I ask softly, caressing her chin with my thumb. "I'll be anything you need me to be," I whisper into her ear, my voice tinged with seriousness and a hint of sensual undertone. It's a stark contrast to the vulnerability I feel after crying so many times last night. I gaze into her eyes, waiting for her response.

"Let's stay friends. Let's stay in touch. Let's stay very in touch.~," she finally says, her voice soft yet resolute.

PRESENT:

I watch Alison walk down the aisle, tears silently trailing behind her veil. The sight breaks my heart. The dress she wears is undeniably beautiful, but I know it's not what she wanted. My mother, Irina, handpicked every detail. The elegant mermaid silhouette accentuates her curves, and the train cascades behind her with grace. The sequins shimmer under the soft church lights, and the off-the-shoulder neckline highlights the delicate curve of her collarbones. The photographers and videographers capture every moment, immortalizing this bittersweet occasion.

We're in a stunning Catholic church, its grandeur reflected in the towering pane windows that bathe the space in ethereal light. The pews are filled with my associates, as I lack true friends, alongside family who traveled from Russia and whoever else James Miller, Alison's father, deemed worthy of an invitation. Everyone is dressed in somber black, a stark contrast to Alison's radiant gown. James walks her down the aisle with deliberate steps, the haunting melody of Mitski's "My Love, Mine All Mine" playing softly on the piano. As I watch them, my mind drifts back to our conversation from just a month ago, when everything was so different.

TWO MONTHS AGO:

"I don't want to talk about this stupid marriage! We don't know each other, and I don't want any part of it. No offense, but your mother has planned everything. I didn't even get to shop for a dress! Are you kidding me?" Alison whined, her frustration evident as she held the coffee cup in her hand, not even taking a sip.

"Do you not like coffee?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. I had squeezed this meeting into my busy schedule with a client who wanted to meet me here in fifteen minutes, so I chose this place to handle two situations at once. Glancing at my gold watch, then back at Alison, I could see the annoyance written all over her face, her nose scrunched in displeasure.

"It's not about the damn coffee, Lucas," I hear her mutter, her Southern accent fully on display. I grin slightly, remembering the first time I ever saw her, bouncing her leg nervously. Glancing under the table, I check to see if she's doing it again. This is only the second time we've met, but I've already learned a few things about her. She bounces her leg when she's nervous, doesn't like coffee, and has a habit of talking with her hands when she's agitated. Right now, she's definitely agitated.

"Hey, I'm not the one you should be directing that attitude towards. We're in the same boat here. I had to leave my girlfriend for this," I remind her, a hint of sarcasm slipping out. "If you could pick one thing you could control at the wedding, what would it be? the song you walk down the aisle to?" I ask, glancing at my watch again before looking back at her. Her curls are pulled up into a bun with a few stray curls escaping, and she wears a head wrap. Her outfit is casual, as if she just wants to blend in as a regular citizen of DC, not the daughter of a politician.

"Hey, you can't tell me—wait, what?" she asks, her voice tinged with the edge of frustration that I anticipated. But my words catch her off guard, and I can see the surprise written all over her face. She does this subtle head tilt when she's caught off guard, and it's endearing in a way. "Are you confused about which part? The girlfriend or the song?" I tease, noticing the slight furrow of her brow as she lets go of her coffee cup. Her legs start to bounce nervously.

"You had a girlfriend? Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry. I can't go through with this! I'm not that type of woman to—" she begins, but I quickly raise a hand to stop her, and she obediently falls silent. It surprises me how easily she listens; her father must have had quite an influence on her. "It's okay, I handled it. She didn't want to marry anyway. Now, about the song..."

"I don't know," she mumbles, her gaze falling to the square-shaped table. The chatter of people ordering at the counter fills the air around us. "I have to go," I say to her say abruptly, and I glance back as the door dings open. Right on time, my client arrives. I stand up, leaving a crisp fifty-dollar bill on the table. "Get a drink you actually like, Alison," I tell her with a small smile, before turning away and walking over to greet my client.

PRESENT: 

I  found one of her top songs secretly behind her back. It was this or something in-between Lana Del Rey. I had watched an interview she did a few days before our parents forced this marriage down our throats. In that interview, they asked her about her favorite song at the moment, and she said 'My Love, All Mine.' So, I convinced the pianist to go against my mother's orders and play it for Alison. As she finally reaches me, I watch her father take his seat in the front row, all eyes on us. Suddenly, I feel something cold hit my warm cheeks, and I realize—I'm crying. People around us break out in awe, but I'm not crying because I'm happy or in love. I'm crying because my freedom is gone. I thought the wedding I would have would be different, with Silvia. Alison didn't want this, and neither did anyone else but our parents. I never thought my parents would do this to me. I feel betrayed, by my own parents. I raise my finger to my tears, wiping them away as my brother and very close associates stand behind me. Behind Alison are her sisters, some of her modeling friends, and a few other women. I stand there, my right hand over my left in a closed fist, hands in front of me as I look at Alison. She looks like she's about to sob and break down. Yet, the wedding continues.