You Belong With Me (With Me in Seattle 14)

Prologue

~Elena~

Twelve Years Ago

I’ve always hated this room. My father’s office is grand, full of honey oak bookcases, a massive chandelier, and a desk in the center of the space that’s bigger than the bed I sleep on. Floor-to-ceiling windows are at his back and look out over the estate that he insisted on but, in large part, ignores.

Whenever I’m due for a massive lecture, this is where he drags me.

“May I please speak with you?”

“What is it?” He doesn’t look up from his computer, which doesn’t surprise me. Paying attention to his daughter has never been a priority for this man. I’ll just share my news and go straight to my room, pack my things, and be out of here for good.

I can almost smell the freedom. I can’t wait to move in with my husband. My husband. That word makes me want to spin in circles of excitement. Archer and I will make a home and have babies. His family is wonderful, and there will be so much love in our household. Our kids will never question whether we love them. They’ll never be afraid. And when the time comes, they’ll be able to marry whomever they please.

“I got married.” I square my shoulders and lift my chin. “Three days ago.”

I’m not afraid of my father. Not now. But my stomach quivers with butterflies. I’m eighteen years old. An adult. And I’m able to make my own decisions without influence from my parents.

What can he do? What’s done is done.

He looks up from his desk, and his cold eyes narrow.

“And who, exactly, did you marry, Elena?”

“Archer Montgomery.”

He sets his pen aside and leans back in his big, black chair, silently watching me. His calculating stare makes me want to squirm, but I hold steady.

“Isn’t that the boy I told you to stop seeing a year ago?”

“He’s a good man, Dad. If you’d just give him a chance—”

He stands and paces behind the desk, looking out the windows and shoving his hands into his pockets.

Maybe he’ll just tell me to leave. That would be the best-case scenario.

“What is your last name, Elena?”

“Montgomery.”

“Don’t.” His voice isn’t loud, but it’s firm.

“Watkins.”

He turns and stares at me impassively. “That’s right. And that last name, along with the Martinellis’, holds more weight than you can ever fully understand. It means that, as my daughter, you don’t have the freedom to marry whomever you choose, whenever you decide to do it.”

“I’m an adult.”

“You’re my daughter!”

I blink at the spurt of anger. He’s not impassive now. His eyes shoot daggers at me, and sweat breaks out across my skin.

“Dad, I love him.”

He shakes his head and waves off my comment as if it’s an annoying fly buzzing around his head.

“We’ll have it annulled immediately.”

“No.”

He lifts an eyebrow. I’ve never told my father no. I don’t think anyone in his life ever has.

No one would dare.

“Excuse me?”

I lift my chin again. “No.”

He stalks around his desk and grips my arm just above my elbow, almost painfully, and drags me through the house, up the stairs, and into my bedroom.

“You’re putting me in time out?”

“I should have done this a long time ago. You’re too spoiled. Too indulged. You think you can defy me, go against what’s best for the family like this?” We keep moving quickly through the room to my closet, where he pulls a sash off my robe, yanks my arms above my head, and ties me to the light fixture in the middle of the room. He steps back, barely breathing hard. “This is where you’ll stay until you come to your senses.”

And then he walks out.

* * *

“Wake up.”

I open my eyes and moan in pain. My shoulders are screaming. My hands are numb.

“Uncomfortable?” my father asks.

I don’t reply.

“Was sixteen hours enough time for you to reevaluate your decisions?”

“Dad.” I lick my lips. My voice isn’t whiny. I’m not a little girl begging for a pony. I’m a grown woman, trying to reason with another adult. “What’s done is done. We’re married. We love each other. I didn’t do anything to hurt anyone, and I didn’t want to defy you. If you’d just give him a chance, I know you’d like him.”

“It’s not about liking him, daughter.” He sits on my bench. He’s in his usual uniform of slacks, a dress shirt, and a tie. He wears this every day of his life. “You’re betrothed to Alexander Tarenkov. You’ve known that since you were twelve.”

“I’ve never met that man in my life.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“This is ridiculous. I’m not marrying a stranger. This is the twenty-first century. Women can marry who they want.”

“Not mafia women.”

“I didn’t choose this.”

“It’s a privilege,” he insists. “You were blessed with this by birthright, whether you like it or not.”

“I’m not divorcing Archer. I’m not giving him up, no matter what you say.” I’m breathing hard now. The tears want to come, but I will them back. Just the thought of losing Archer sends searing pain through my heart. I can’t live without him.