A Lesson in Marriage

The Night of our Wedding

Matilda Williams

After our wedding, I was a bit drunk. As soon as we entered the house, Mr. Crayson showed me around.

"My things are already moved in here," I noted with surprise.

"Yes, they are," Mr. Crayson  confirmed. "This is the living room," he said, gesturing to the spacious area. "And this is the kitchen."

He then led me down a hallway. "And here," he continued, "are our two different bedrooms. As I said, we'll be sleeping in separate rooms."

I nodded, feeling a mix of relief and uncertainty. "Okay," I replied, trying to steady myself.

I entered my room quickly and came out of my wedding gown. I slipped into a short black dress that barely covered my chest or ass, accentuating my curves provocatively. My makeup was heavy, with dark eyeliner and bold red lipstick, and my sparkling earrings caught the light with every movement. I looked at myself in the mirror and felt a surge of defiance.

As I reached the door, I heard Mr. Crayson's voice, stern and disapproving. "Where are you going?"

I turned to see him standing in the hallway, his eyes narrowing as he took in my appearance. "To a party," I replied nonchalantly.

"Are you serious, Matilda? You want to attend a party on the night of our wedding?" Mr. Crayson asked, his tone a mix of disbelief and concern.

"Yes, Mr. Crayson," I replied confidently, not wanting to back down.

"Turn around," he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.

"Why?" I shot back, but I did as he said, turning slowly to show him the full view.

He looked me up and down, his expression unreadable. "Are you sure you want to wear this?"

"Yes, I thought you wouldn't care," I said, a hint of challenge in my voice.

"Of course, I don't care," he replied, but his voice carried a hint of something else—perhaps disapproval. "Don't stay out too late."

I sighed and left the house, feeling his eyes on my back as I walked away. The night air was cool against my bare skin, and I felt a thrill of excitement as I headed to the party. For a few hours, I could forget about the marriage of convenience and the strict professor who was now my husband.

The party was in full swing when I arrived, music pounding and lights flashing. I lost myself in the crowd, dancing and drinking, letting the alcohol blur the edges of reality. Boys surrounded me, eager for my attention, and I welcomed their advances. Hands grabbed at me, pulling me closer, and I reveled in the freedom of the moment.

It was nearly 3 a.m. when I finally stumbled home, drunk and disheveled. I expected Mr. Crayson to be asleep, but as I entered the living room, I saw him sitting on the couch, his expression stern and disapproving.

"Didn't you sleep?" I slurred, trying to steady myself.

"Nope," he replied, his voice cold. "I want you to be home by 11 p.m. from now on."

"I won't," I shot back defiantly. "I'll do whatever I want."

Noah's jaw tightened, and for a moment, I thought he might explode. But instead, he took a deep breath and said, "I have to talk with you tomorrow. Goodnight."

Without another word, he stood up and walked to his room, leaving me standing in the middle of the living room, swaying slightly. I felt a pang of guilt mixed with anger. Who was he to tell me what to do? But deep down, I knew this confrontation was only the beginning.

The next morning, I woke up with a pounding headache and a heavy sense of dread. Mr. Crayson was already up, moving about the house with his usual efficiency. I dragged myself out of bed and headed to the kitchen, where he was making coffee.

"Good morning," I muttered, barely able to meet his eyes, my voice trembling with apprehension.

Mr. Crayson's response was a curt nod before he gestured for me to sit at the dining table. As I took my seat, a sense of dread settled over me like a heavy shroud.

Mr. Crayson's demeanor was icy as he sat me down, his posture rigid with pent-up fury. "Matilda, we need to have a serious discussion about your behavior last night," he began, his voice low and controlled, barely masking his simmering rage.

I bristled at his tone, feeling the heat of indignation rising within me. "What's the problem, Mr. Crayson? I went out and had some fun. It's not like I committed a crime," I retorted defensively, my voice tinged with defiance.

Mr. Crayson's jaw clenched visibly, his eyes flashing with anger. "The problem, Matilda, is that you completely disregarded our agreement and stayed out until 3 am without so much as a text. In a marriage, trust and respect are non-negotiable. You can't just flout our boundaries whenever it suits you," he scolded, his voice laced with barely-contained fury.

I felt a surge of rebellion coursing through me, fueling my defiance. "Oh, please! Don't act like you're the king of the castle, Mr. Crayson. I'm an adult, and I can make my own decisions. I don't need you policing my every move," I shot back, my tone dripping with sarcasm.

Mr. Crayson's nostrils flared, his anger palpable. "You're damn right I'll 'police' your behavior when you act like a child! You married me, Matilda, which means you agreed to certain expectations and responsibilities. Part of that includes communicating with me and respecting the boundaries we've set," he thundered, his voice rising with each word.

I scoffed, feeling the weight of his words pressing down on me. "Oh, spare me the lecture, Mr. Crayson. I'm sick of you treating me like some kind of wayward student," I snapped, my patience wearing thin.

Mr. Crayson's eyes blazed with fury, his voice reaching a crescendo. "You think this is a joke, Matilda? You think our marriage is some kind of game? Well, let me make one thing crystal clear: if you can't start taking this seriously, then maybe we need to reconsider why we're even together!" he roared, his voice echoing off the walls.

I recoiled at his words, stunned into silence by the force of his anger. For a moment, the room seemed to crackle with tension, the air thick with unspoken accusations and simmering resentment. And in that moment, I realized just how close we were to the edge, teetering on the brink of something irreparable.

As the intensity of our argument began to ebb away, I swallowed my pride and offered a hesitant apology. "I'm sorry, Mr. Crayson. I didn't mean to upset you," I murmured, my voice tinged with contrition.

Mr. Crayson's features softened slightly, his expression thawing from its previous rigidity. "Apology accepted, Matilda," he replied, his tone gentler now, though the underlying tension still lingered.

Feeling a weight lift from my shoulders, I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. "Thank you," I said quietly, grateful for the chance to make amends.

Mr. Crayson cleared his throat, shifting the focus away from our earlier altercation. "I've already made breakfast for you. It's on the table. There are some groceries in the fridge in case you want to make lunch later. I'll be returning home around 6 pm after work," he added, his tone matter-of-fact as he laid out the plan for the rest of the day.

I nodded, taking in the information. "Okay, I'll keep that in mind," I said.

With a nod of farewell, Mr. Crayson gathered his things and headed out the door, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the promise of a fresh start to the day. As I sat down to breakfast, I couldn't help but feel a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, we could find a way to navigate this marriage together.