AWARD

The City of Dreams Brightrie Brooks' river runs far, extending for a length of 50 miles, then curves and slopes into a lower terrain, emptying itself into a dam close to a small neighborhood called Eden.

Eden was not known for anything aberrant, the wealthy citizens that lived there exuded an iota of what respect in a modern-day society should look like, and on most days, they seldom achieved it, the rest were just carefully hidden from the news, just like their neighborhood. But on a small Tuesday in NY, Channel 5 broke headline news that would soon be carried across the nation, "Michael Bryce marries your ol' next-door neighbor: Could this be another philanthropic event of the eccentric billionaire?" Boldly printed with the name of their Editor, Foy Channey, on the front page, and pretty much five minutes later, every News channel covered the news.

The car rounded the corner of Dennysville, taking a left, following the path curved out by the river's flow sloping downward into terrain, and arrived at the small neighborhood reserved for the ultra-rich. At first glance, I understood why it was called Eden. After a few drives around the gated neighborhood, we arrived at our stop. The driver scanned for face ID, and we were through the gates of my new home - an 1800-acre Georgian-style mansion.

Michael led my hand through the entrance of his home and introduced me to his estate workers. On the far left stood a woman in her mid-50s, the house's organizer Miss Phillips. When Michael's mother went off on a business trip for three years in the Caribbean, Miss Phillips was the closest thing he had to a mom, and soon she never saw a need to marry or have children, as she had practically raised Michael.

The butler, Thomas Thadeau, held no familial connection to Michael, but the positive and calm approach which he served him must have pretty much earned him his place on Michael's will. Michael introduced me to the rest of his house as his wife, who should be attended to at any point in time and with the utmost urgency. It did go without saying that I would be treated that way, but hearing him say it, made my heartbeat thud a little faster.

Michael dismissed his workers when he was done introducing me, all except Miss Phillips. She stayed behind, offering to show me to the bath to ready myself for dinner, but Michael insisted with a warm smile that made Miss Phillips retrace her steps like a scared dog.

This was the first moment tonight that I would spend with the billionaire, and it would be an understatement to say I was shaking in my boots if I was wearing any. We walked the long hallways to our room in silence. The thought of being intimate or lying on the same bed with a total stranger mortified me, and I wasn't a prude, but this feeling was different, usually, I'd be long gone in the morning, but this, this I couldn't run from.

We walked in awkward silence and past the door. The room had a minimalist decor with antique paintings neatly hung on the porcelain walls, I darted my eyes and refocused my gaze at the walk-in closet, every other girl would jump at the sight of it, with dresses and shoes from every other luxurious brand, Michael Bryce surely knew his ways around women, disappointingly, the models that flocked him, were never the type he sought, which made me question the real reason he chose me. I knew it was far from the legal purposes of a business, there was something more to this eccentric man than wealth.

I looked around the room and noticed a door sharing a wall with where the tan couch was kept. Michael caught my gaze and finally spoke up, breaking the endless silence,

"It's the door to my room" "I reckoned you'd need your privacy. We have to present ourselves as the ideal couple. We have to appear happy and real", he said in a monotone voice, his notions, although empathetic, appeared condescending and authoritative. I knew I didn't share the semblance of the regular models that flocked to him, but I had a captivating beauty that hid beneath my denim jeans and blouse.

Nervous as I was, I half-expected my husband to make a move on me. He had an irresistible charm that was soon growing on me, but all he said was, "Sleep well, Lauren," leaving me tensed with the heat that slowly filled my body and enraged at his arrogance. "Happy?" This was the last word anyone would use to describe my situation.

However, I complied with his instruction. It was easier to sell the image of being a happy couple than give the media any reasons to doubt our union and inadvertently affect our marriage and put my family's business and reputation at stake.

The following day began slowly, I awoke and tried to situate myself. For some brief moment, I believed I was at home until I opened my eyes and looked around.

A knock on the door preceded it, opening slightly, revealing my husband in a black tee with the sleeves rolled up and his hair tousled from being in bed. The top buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing his toned chest peeking through, and my mind betrayed me - lusting after him.

"I came to check on you before I head off to work," he said indifferently. His gaze drifted towards my bare shoulder, and he flinched, appearing uneasy.

"My sister, Emily, arrives today. Try to make a good impression", he stated, almost like a warning, and walked away.

There was a particular class of girls that I often disliked, the party-rich girls, country club brats who coined every situation to be about them, blurring the fine line between narcissism and egomaniac. These girls reminded me of everything I used to be - being the heir of Brooks Paper and Logistics company, everything I now ran from.

I spent my life on the road, dodging certain privileges I had, hiding behind justifiable reasons for being an artist, of exploring views and perspectives. All these in a bout to escape the pain of ever having someone to lose, someone that can break me. But six years later and I was getting ready to entertain a girl, whom I assumed was not far from being the party-rich narcissist type. I was wrong.

After hastily taking a shower, I made my way downstairs for breakfast. As I approached the dining table, my eyes widened at the sight of the extensive spread of dishes from around the world, fit for a king or queen.

"Good morning, Mrs. Bryce," Antonio, the half-Italian head chef, greeted me with a proud smile, clearly eager for me to taste his culinary creations.

I couldn't help but inquire, "Are we expecting any special guests?"

"No, Mrs. Bryce. This meal is just for you," he replied.

Although I was bothered by using a surname I never chose for myself, I tried to suppress my annoyance, just as I had done on my wedding day.

"Mr. Bryce ordered that I prepare something special for you," Antonio said.

I was puzzled. This man, who had previously been sharp and distant, had gone out of his way for me. As I examined the tray, I noticed a neatly folded note resting beside it. Upon opening it, I discovered that it was a handwritten note from my husband - "I didn't know your favorite, so I had Antonio make everything.

PS: you looked terrific this morning".

To my surprise, my cheeks flushed with embarrassment as I read the note, wondering what had brought about these unexpected emotions.

As I was lost in thought, a tall woman with an hourglass figure elegantly burst into the dining room, interrupting my reverie. "There you are!"