{GIANNA}
It's a strange feeling, waking up on a strange bed, in a strange house, knowing it's your wedding day to a stranger—no matter how devastatingly attractive he is. Not that looks matter in the grand scheme of things when he basically delivered me to my uncle on a silver platter.
I roll onto my side, blinking at the framed painting of flowers on the wall. Tulips. A huge, delicate arrangement of them. Weirdly enough, it comforts me.
After my conversation with Michael yesterday—after agreeing to marry him—I told him I needed my own space. That I would not be sleeping in his room. He argued, of course, but in the end, he grudgingly brought me here.
Did he do so knowing the painting is in here and that seeing something that reminds me of my parents—since my middle name literally means tulips—would give me some comfort?
Or am I just reaching?
What the hell am I even doing trying to see Michael in a good light?
