With This Curse, I Thee Wed

By Elle Driver

WITH THIS CURSE, I THEE WED is a gothic suspense that focuses on the tense romance builty upon a number of mysterious happenings that occur as Tiffany, the protagonist, is trying to settle into her new, strange life as kept wife of a reclusive and wealthy businessman. In a twist of fate that seems more fantasy and reality, she’s given the hand up she absolutely needed in the form of a marriage proposal. Initially, her employer’s proposition is what most would consider a godsend. A marriage in name alone? Financial security? All the medical attention her ailing, little brother could need. But the godsend also lands her married to a strange, though kind man in the middle of nowhere. And apparently his first wife died under mysterious conditions. Even the people who have lived and worked at the remote manor for years can’t seem to shed any light of the situation, which is only one of the many problems Tiffany encounters as she begins to realize she may actually be falling for her recluse husband-in-name only. But is it dangerous to love him? Is the marriage more of a curse than a blessing?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Street Shorts
• Release date: Oct 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9781094435121

Elle Driver

Elle Driver is a mild-mannered civil servant who adores her husband and kid, and loves writing different romance tales to share with others when she can.

Book preview

1

Tiffany Baelish wasn’t sure if she was going to make it.

Not that she was going to die, but she definitely felt like she could die sometimes. And going through the stages of grief really was just part of her routine of waking up.

Her therapist had recommended making things smaller, so they were easier to digest, easier to accept. First one task and then another. First one day and then the next. One more morning. And then another. But maybe they were piling up faster that way. She couldn’t tell. Things were easier to swallow, that was true. The taste was still sludge.

But Tiffany was learning how to compartmentalize better when the days started to stack in her mind’s eye. When the calendar pages began to flap, she felt them fluttering in her chest, but they were stuffed inside her to the gills, crushing each other and writhing in this constant throe of death. They kept her chained to her bed, a world of weight inside her ribs.

The truth was, she was in a particular state of depression, where she was quite functional, while being entirely lackadaisical about caring for any part of herself. She’d managed to finish school — her bachelor’s and master’s — by the skin of her teeth. She remembered the moment when she’d sat on the floor in her late parents’ office, crying because she had realized she had gotten the wrong grade of paper to print her thesis on. She’d wanted to quit. She was at the finish line, she only had to drag herself through the tape, tear it. Be done. But instead she’d sat on the floor and cried and missed her parents and hated being the only adult responsible for Matthew… and then he’d found her on the floor.

He’d reminded her of what their parents would have thought about her quitting right before the end. He said he couldn’t imagine how tired she was, but surely they could figure out how to get the right paper in time for her defense. The first thing Tiffany had done was wail about how no one would want to read a thesis about the underlying implications that accompanied the use of poisonous plants in literature anyway, but then she’d gotten up and located the right sort of paper on the website of the closest office supply store.

Matthew really was the best brother.

It was a lot of work to take care of anyone. And he had a heart arrhythmia that made that care even more difficult. But he was such a good kid, it was impossible to not want to pour everything into making sure he was as happy as possible. Because yeah, she had to take care of all of the moving parts, but he had to deal with his body fighting to not… do what it needed to make his life bearable.

Matthew was the reason to get up.

Matthew was almost the only reason to get up.

Because all that awaited her was more days filled with work for distraction from the missing things in her life, more bills she couldn’t pay, more calls to ignore, voicemails she wouldn’t listen to…

But she couldn’t just stay in bed all day. She couldn’t hide from the world. And there were chiefly two reasons for that: 1) things tended to get worse when ignored, and 2) she really needed to keep her job to keep paying her brother’s medical bills.

Those were the tenets of her life. They remained true, year after year.

So instead of sleeping the day away like the rotting princess she felt like, she got ready for work. She checked in on her fourteen-year-old brother Matthew. He was already playing on his PS4.

Don’t you have school? Tiffany asked, crossing her arms.

He nodded, but didn’t look at her. His glasses were balanced at the tip of his nose. I do, but in like thirty minutes. I’m totally good. I turned in my essay already, too.

She narrowed her eyes at him and stared at his profile until he paused his game and turned to look at her.

What? he demanded, laughing.

I was making sure you weren’t lying, she answered. Pizza night tonight. Choose your fighter wisely. Even as she said it, Tiffany felt her stomach twist a bit. Even thirty bucks for pizza felt like a major hit to her wallet when they were so broke. She didn’t focus on that, though. Instead, she focused on the excitement on his face, because he was only a fucking kid and pizza night really made his day. She nodded at him seriously, and then closed his door.

She made sure his nurse Brenda was somewhere in the apartment, dutifully ignored the growing stack of medical bills on the table, and grabbed a protein bar out of the bowl on the counter. Right, one step. And then the other.

Tiffany drove to work in silence.

She’d looked for music to listen to, but nothing sounded right. No podcasts appealed, either. And then she was too pissed to try to figure out what else to listen to. She hated being angry, but it was happening a lot more lately — an anger she almost couldn’t deal with. There was the thinnest membrane between her mostly-controlled exterior, and the anger simmering beneath; there was a rage in her, built upon so many layers of things, that she didn’t really like to spend time thinking about it. And as time went on, the rage only grew, roots slithering into her veins, into her bones. The more exhausted she was, the deeper the roots grew, winding tightly around her.

She had so much to be angry about, when she did make the mistake of thinking about it.

She was angry that her parents weren’t there to help, although their deaths hadn’t been their fault. Sometimes car accidents just happened, and it was no one’s fault.

She was angry that her brother hadn’t had the opportunity to get to know them better. Because really, parents revealed more about themselves, the older you got. Or maybe it was just that you discovered more about them. But Matthew would never get to see their mom roll a joint. Or get an early, secret beer from their dad. He would only ever hear it from his sister, only experience a shadow of it with her. It just wasn’t the same.

She was angry that she had to figure out how to be a sister and a parent, when she hadn’t even been sure she ever wanted to be a mom.

She was angry that she never even had the energy to look for someone to spend time with — friends or otherwise. She was angry about everything.

So every day… she had to sit in her car for long moments when she arrived. To rip the rage away from her eyes, out of her fingers and hands. She had to be level at work; she had to be calm, pleasant. She was a personal assistant. No one wanted a wrathful personal assistant.

Working for Erick James really was a full-time job — both literally and metaphorically. Tiffany Baelish hadn’t realized that at first, but she’d caught on quickly. Initially, Tiffany had thought she’d be his secretary. The job posting was vague. There hadn’t been a title, just clerical tasks listed. Along with an etc. But Erick had a receptionist: June. Tiffany often helped June, but she was also frequently in charge of directing June. She also had a lot of tasks or projects that didn’t involve anything clerical, but ranged from compiling a dossier to grabbing Erick’s lunch or dry-cleaning.

He could be particular. It wasn’t just a he-didn’t-want-nuts-in-any-salad kind of particular. He didn’t like when certain things were handed to him a certain way. He hated condensation on the outside of glasses, insisting on using a cup or Thermos to prevent it. He was never mean or cruel about it, but it was clear when he wasn’t happy. He did grow short-tempered, and apparently, he’d moved through personal assistants quite quickly until he landed on Tiffany, who responded the moment his thick (though well-sculpted) blond brows knitted into a furrow. She wasn’t sure what it was exactly, but there was certainly something about him that made her pay attention to every little change in his face. Tiffany wasn’t sure how anyone could be in his presence and not do the same.

In the morning, he liked coffee with his morning reports. He liked his coffee with a muffin. The coffee should still have curls of steam coming off it, the muffin shucked from its wrapper. Each item should be on its own individual plate. The plates were to be white. He liked a smaller spoon to stir his coffee.

When he was done with his coffee, he wanted it out of sight, and he liked to review his itinerary with her standing nearby in case anything needed to be adjusted immediately. If there were policy changes, he wanted his fountain pen to sign them. Then she normally had a couple of hours to herself to schedule meetings, review or draft meeting agendas, especially the ones for the day, and answer calls that had to go to her versus through June.

She was chewing on her pen when June walked up.

Morning, Tiff, she said, yawning. June had a short blond bob that normally looked very sleek and perfectly fit her round, adorable face. Today there was some static happening, and it didn’t quite fall like it normally did. She had bags under her green eyes and her skin was a little splotchy. But as usual, her outfit was outrageously sharp: a plaid pencil skirt and white blouse with a big bow at the neck. She always looked like she was walking off the set of The Devil Wears Prada.

Good morning, Junie B. Jones, Tiffany said, stifling a yawn now that she’d seen June do it, dammit. Her name obviously wasn’t Junie B. Jones, but the nickname had stuck. Long night?

And a long morning, she answered, leaning