Bound: A BWWM Fake Marriage Romance

Part I

Tied Up

1

Victoria

My mother’s smooth, melodic voice wafts into my room from the threshold.

Did you decide between the Dolce and Gabbana and the Valentino yet? she asks with a light smile, most likely genuinely in a good mood rather than playing her usual unbothered part.

I think I’ll go with Dolce and Gabbana, I reply.

Excellent choice! my mother chirps, clapping the tips of her fingers.

She would’ve said that either way—both dresses are stunning and would work just fine for the upcoming debutante ball.

I don’t feel like wearing either of them.

It’s not that I want to show up in my birthday suit or anything—although that would be pretty funny and almost worth all the disowning I’d get—I just don’t want to go.

Okay, part of me wants to go because the whole thing is such a spectacle, and the location is awesome—why not take a trip to France? But it feels kind of icky at this stage for me to be like: Hello, young male dignitaries and royalty—both political and Hollywood. Here I am! Available for pickup at my twenty-one-year-old prime.

And let’s keep it real—the show isn’t necessarily for the guys in our age group; some of their dads are keeping an eye out for potential third and fourth wives among us seventeen- to twenty-two-year-olds.

And your escort? my mom queries.

Probably Andrew.

Love it, she says with a brilliant smile, perfect teeth on display before sashaying away.

I settled on my friend Andrew pretty quickly once I committed to attending this ball, but as I considered the arm candy possibilities, my mind briefly flashed to Grant Frye.

It was a flash of insanity—I haven’t seen or talked to Grant in years.

I met him about seven years ago at a ranch my parents took me to for horseback riding lessons. Grant was my instructor, and we regularly saw each other for about a year and a half, getting closer and closer each time I showed up to ride.

The spark between us was immediate and constant—until the day he disappeared without a trace.

Heartbroken as I was, I figured it was for the best—my parents would never have been on board with me dating a stable boy. They didn’t pay all that money to send me to prep schools, get me tutors in violin and French, put me through ballet and etiquette lessons, and arrange for me to rub shoulders with the wealthy and powerful for me to turn around and date someone who shovels horse shit.

Personally, I don’t care that he’s super blue-collar or whatever; I don’t give a shit now, and I didn’t back then, but at that age, I wasn’t willing to test my parents, so we kept our romantic relationship secret. I’ve had my parents wrapped around my little finger for the longest time, but underneath their indulgences, I sense a dark power I don’t want to disturb.

How does the saying go? Let sleeping dogs lie? No: Don’t poke a fucking bear—that’s more like it.

And there’s validity to my fears—I saw how they went off on my sister, Candace, when she made the mistake of falling in love with someone outside of our social class. Man, did she pay for that shit—in so many ways!

Sure, all’s fine now, and things ultimately worked out for her, but I wasn’t ready to rock the boat in those days; I don’t even know how to live outside of the means I’m accustomed to.

Don’t think I haven’t thought about it—living with the expectations and demands of my parents has made me think about it a lot—but as soon as I start doing the math, I realize I’m fucked.

I’m not in my teens anymore, and I’m not even under their roof anymore, but they’re paying for my college education, my living accommodations, and even give me an allowance for meals, books, and such.

I want to complete my degree stress-free, so if I have to put up with them for a few more months, fine.

This upcoming international debutante ball is pretty much the last demand they have of me, and it’ll make them feel they got a solid return on their investment, that they did all they could for their living doll.

If I play my part and act right, they might even give me access to my trust fund earlier. But even that gets turned over to me on my twenty-fifth birthday—as long as I don’t fuck shit up.

Darling?

I jump at my mom’s voice. She’s like a frickin’ ninja sometimes; I didn’t hear her double back to my room.

Yes, Mom?

I’m so glad to see you; we’ve missed you so much!

I’ve missed you guys too.

She pauses, her gaze intent. You are…behaving yourself? Staying away from too much partying and such?

Translation: You’re not drinking, smoking, doing drugs, or having sex, are you? You’ll be a wholesome choice for a rich man?

Yes, Mother. I’m so focused on my studies, I barely have time for anything else except volunteer work here and there.

Oh, I knew I didn’t have to worry about you, she says with a sparkling grin.

You don’t, Mom—you guys raised me well.

I smile at her and direct my attention back to my laptop screen. She’ll get the hint and fade away.

I’m starting to regret coming home instead of taking an exciting trip like I did last year. I love my mother, but I’m only home for spring break because I missed my old room so much, and my childhood home seemed like a more appetizing option than Tijuana with college buddies.

I seriously just want to relax for a while; I didn’t realize how much I was going and going at school until I stopped.

It’s only day two of spring break, so I’m happy to chill for the rest of the day after traveling back here.

Unfortunately, traveling home doesn’t give me Instagram-worthy photo options. What’ll I do—take a photo of my legs stretched out my bed? Hashtag: Ballinginmychildhoodbedroom!

Yeah, right. That’s not the kind of content people signed up for.

Luckily, I get bored too easily doing nothing, so photo-worthy moments will come once I get up and about.

I’ll probably volunteer somewhere, brush up on my violin. Maybe get refreshers in other lessons.

Excitement fills me as I consider returning to Frye Equestrian for horse-riding, but I remember Grant is no longer there, and that he’s apparently somewhere I can never reach him. My spirits fall.

Am I seriously never going to look into his hazel-green eyes again? Feel his strong arms close around me? Hear his warm, deep voice outside of that one voicemail I saved?

Every time I feel like I’m starting forgetting what he looks like, my mind failing to conjure up a more detailed representation of him, I turn to photos.

The Frye Equestrian social media accounts have photos of the grounds, horses, the senior Mr. Frye, and thankfully, several photos of Grant. I’ve saved my favorite photos of him on my computer, but I check the accounts intermittently in case the ranch posts an update on him.

I’ve scanned those accounts probably hundreds of times.

When Grant first disappeared, I searched them for clues constantly. Then I started examining his photos obsessively, staring at them as if that would help conjure him up in person and bring him back.

Then other things in my life happened, and I sought the Frye pages less and less.

These days, I’m down to checking in two to three times per month.

I do that now—pulling up one of the last photos posted of Grant from years ago. My chest warms as I study his familiar handsome face, then other parts of me warm as my eyes drift to his broad shoulders, his strong, muscular arms.

I so wish I knew what he looked like under those ranch clothes, and I’m definitely still curious what his dick would feel like moving inside me.

Crap. I got myself going again.

Something has to be wrong with me—staring at a photo of Grant in a pair of jeans, a flannel shirt, and dusty boots, with dirt beneath him, a horse behind him—and thinking about what’s in his pants!

Imagining Grant’s dick causes a tingle between my legs, curiosity about being filled rearing its head again, and there aren’t many ways I can deal with it—no boyfriend, and no sex toys around.

I usually end up touching myself—directly or indirectly—to calm back down, even though it feels like instead of calming the beast deep inside me, I’m actually feeding it. Then one day, I’ll get surprised by how much it has grown despite me working to shrink it.

I click away from Frye Equestrian to return my attention to my fashion and lifestyle-filled Instagram feed, then shut my computer a little too hard.

I sure as fuck will be attending kickboxing classes over the next few days—they help me burn off frustration and aggression, leaving my parents none the wiser about the emotional extremes I go through trying to hide my real self from them.

My parents don’t know about the kickboxing classes; I suspect my mother wouldn’t approve since it sounds so undignified, though I could just tell her it’s an extension of self-defense classes. That would shut her up.

I’ve been sneaking off to classes for years; in fact, I’ll do that shit right now. I definitely need to blow off some steam.

Ireturn from my kickboxing class energized, but my spirits haven’t lifted much.

I’m no longer weighed down by the thought of the upcoming ball or my parents, but something is still weighing heavily on me.

I guess suddenly being alone can do that to you.

My sister is living her best life with her husband and their two kids in a mansion elsewhere, so I’m in this big house with just my mom fluttering around, and my dad popping up in the evenings; no one my age I can hang out with.

I hop in and out of the shower, slip on a robe, then head back to my computer and pull up Instagram again.

I didn’t expect anything interesting in my inbox, but besides a few DMs from friends, there’s suddenly a message from the Frye Equestrian account.

My heart immediately beats faster, my breaths shortening as I click to open it.

The message could be from Grant’s father—we’ve been following each other’s account for years. I’m not sure if business is booming for him or anything, but Mr. Frye could be checking to see if I want to come by for