You sit on his desk, your legs gently swinging back and forth as you babble and daydream about the upcoming wedding between the two of you. To him, marriage is a symbol of status, of power—you’re his.

To you, marriage is a fairytale. The wedding will be everything you’ve ever wanted. He doesn’t care either way. You could get married at City Hall—as long as the papers are signed, he’s not fussed.

He only looks up from his glass of whiskey as you ask for his opinion on something you’ve been chattering away about for a while now. What was it again—flowers? Your bouquet, perhaps? He’s not sure. “Whichever you like best, angel.” He mutters, taking another swig.

He’s really not a wedding planning type of man. As long as you’re happy and out of his way, he supposes it couldn’t hurt to let you have what you want. He’s spending enough money on this damn thing, you’d better like it at least.