CLEXAWEEK22 — day four: arranged marriage
or, an old money au
“How are you so calm?”
She’s not.
She’s furious.
The anger coursing through her veins has turned her blood black and it’s taking her every ounce of self control not to storm back into the sitting room to throw a proper fit.
But Lexa was raised to discuss these matters in private, after she’s had time to calm down her heart and think it through with her head. No good comes from making decisions in the heat of the moment.
Clarke —her fiancée, apparently— was not taught the same.
Sitting in her chaise with as much poise as her exhaustion lets her, Lexa breathes through her urge to throttle someone and schools her features into something more appropriate. Chin up, shoulders back, forehead muscles relaxed. The only thing that gives her away is the muscle ticking in her cheek, but the woman pacing in front of her hardly knows her well enough to notice it.
“It is what it is, Clarke.” Lexa waves a hand, sounding almost bored.
“Like hell it is!” Clarke stops in her tracks to shoot her a glare and Lexa sees all the fury boiling inside her reflected in blue. It’s only a moment before she goes back to walking the length of Lexa’s bedroom to and fro, as if wearing the hardwood down would get them out of this situation.
Clarke is… loud.
Dragging her away from their mothers to the office downstairs had been Lexa’s first instinct after Abby suggested “the girls” got to know each other while she and Eleanor discussed the details of their engagement. But Clarke looked so ready to grab the silver teaspoon and use it to gauge someone’s eyes out it was clear one set of doors wouldn’t be enough to keep her at bay. Two floors barely seem to be getting the job done.
And the worst part is, Lexa can’t even fault her for this.
When Clarke walked into the room where Eleanor had summoned Lexa to, she had looked annoyed, at best. Now, she looks like a wild animal, pacing in their enclosure, plotting their next move. “This isn’t the nineteenth century, they can’t just marry us off for political gain.”
The words political gain set Lexa’s teeth on edge — if only things were that elegant.
It didn’t take long for Lexa to understand the motivations behind this arrangement and they are a far cry from uniting two enemy countries through marriage.
Boston is a large city where anonymity is hardly a difficult feat. But the circles worth being a part of are few and way too akin to a small town for word not to travel — the Griffins are filthy rich. Flashy and lacking any form of social poise, but richer than most families that helped build this country.
Considering what the last couple financial years had told her, Lexa should be thankful for the distraction. As long as the influential families got together for tea to gossip about Abby’s failed attempt at joining their country club, they wouldn’t notice the land belonging to the Woods name dwindling.
So no, they’re not marrying off their daughters for any political reasons.
For the Griffins, it’ll be social gain. For the Woods, financial gain.
“I wouldn’t say it’s quite like that,” Lexa says, working her jaw to get rid of the bitter taste of failure stinging her throat. Perhaps her father should have been attending the same financial literacy classes he’d force her into since Lexa was eight years old.
Clarke gives up on pacing now, coming to a stop in front of Lexa. She’s been running her hands through her hair, tugging and twisting her curls — a nervous tick she better get rid of if she wants any chance of succeeding in the cutthroat world that is high society. “I’m sorry, are we in love?”
“No. But it doesn’t mean it’ll be a disaster.” Lexa gets up in one fluid motion with a sigh trapped in her throat. Her mind is racing ahead and it takes her a moment to settle back into the fact that her future wife is probably planning her murder. “Arranged marriages throughout history resulted in content couples.”
Content is hardly what Lexa hoped she’d be on her wedding day. But she’s been taught since a young age that love is something you grow into, that passion that sprouts from a look or a kiss is a dangerous thing.
Still, she hoped her future partner would be someone she got to choose — if from a small pool of approved candidates.
“I can’t believe you’re actually considering it,” Clarke scoffs, as if the idea of leading a content life is particularly offensive. Lexa can imagine how it would be, for someone like her.
The headache Lexa has been fighting off since her mother brought up the “wonderful plans” she had to share locks its tendrils around her temples “It is done.”
“No, Lexa.” Clarke stomps her foot, gets even closer to her face — the notion of personal space seems like a foreign concept to her. “We’re both grown adults. We have a say in who we marry.”
The volume of her voice isn’t helping Lexa’s predicament, and her patience wears thin. She yearns for a flat white that would do wonders for oncoming migraine and time alone — to decompress, to process, to readjust her expectations for the future.
“We are from different worlds, Clarke.” Her tone is matter-of-factly — she’s simply stating the reality of their upbringing. Clarke probably grew up playing catch with the neighbors on their little cul-de-sac. Lexa had etiquette classes where she’d mingle with future —business and romantic— partners since she were five years old. “You wouldn’t understand.”
With a finality in her tone that should be clear even to Clarke, Lexa turns to leave her room in search for a quiet place in the sprawling lawn, maybe a spot near the lake where the afternoon sun isn’t bothering her.
But she only takes two steps before a hand wraps around her wrist and halts her movements.
Clarke has the same look to her that she did in the sitting room.
“Fucking enlighten me then.”
