For the past week, I have had the same dream.

I am standing at the back of the town church – this is when I know I am dreaming, because I am to be wed in another town, at a large estate. Perhaps, since I have never seen this place, my subconscious is substituting it for a place I know. Violins begin to play and I walk silently down an aisle, surrounded by pews that hold the entire town. I vaguely wonder why they are all here; they have never cared much for me in the past. I walk alone; my father is surely passed out somewhere, inebriated.

I reach the altar and face the man I have to marry. He grins at me and my stomach begins to churn; I am merely a prize to him – another trophy to hang on his wall. The minister speaks, and although I refuse to say anything, to make any vows, it is only a moment before the aged man delivers my sentence in a clear voice:

"I now pronounce you husband and wife."

I woke up covered in sweat, my panting barely covering up the hammering of my heart in my chest. Through my window I could see that it was still dark, and I was relieved. I still had a few hours before my fiancé – I shuddered at the thought – and I had to leave for the town across the forest – the town where my free will would die at the altar next to that man. I sighed, climbing out of bed and peeling off my nightgown. I hoped that after a warm bath, I might feel a little better, though I doubted it.

I crossed into the den area of my father's house and lit a fire in the fireplace. Soon, I had several pails of water heating over the fire. I carefully transported them to the porcelain tub in the washroom and filled it up halfway. Gently, I lowered myself into the tub, letting the water rise up to my chin. The heat from the water began to relax my tense muscles, and I calmed down bit by bit. Closing my eyes, I allowed my mind to wander to the events of this past week that had led me to my betrothal….

It had been last Friday night. My father was sitting in his favorite armchair, unusually sober for the late hour. I stifled a yawn, closing the book I was reading.

"It's late, Papa," I said softly. "I think I'll turn in." I turned, preparing to head to my bedroom when he stopped me.

"Wait, Belle," he said. I stood, paralyzed by the sound of his voice. It had been so long – a year perhaps – since I had heard him speak with such clarity. Generally his voice was slurred, tainted by the alcohol he loved so much. I spun around to face him, shock painting my face. If he noticed the surprise, he ignored it.

"Sit down, dear," he began again. "I have something we must discuss." Taking my seat, I looked at his face. My father wasn't very old, not even forty yet, but his face was worn from suffering and liquor. In this moment, however, his face set with determination, I could see him as he had been ten years ago – a serious, hard-working man. Before tragedy ruined my father's life, he had been a trusted and important man in our small town. He was a jack of all trades, really, and people came to him with a myriad of problems – he was the local handyman, and made quite a living from it. He had this house built for my mother on her 27th birthday, and it was still one of the largest and most furnished houses in the town. He had provided so well for his family that, despite the fact he had made almost no money in the past ten years, we were still able to live comfortably.

My father couldn't protect his reputation, however. He had become the town drunk, and people had stopped coming by with broken clocks and farming questions years ago.

"Belle," he declared, breaking me from my reverie, "you're not a child any longer. Your eighteenth birthday has come and passed. You're old enough to – well, to marry." I blanched at his words. I wasn't opposed to marriage in any way, but there was no one in the town I would consider marrying for even a moment.

"You're smart, hard-working, determined," he continued. "You'll make someone a very good wife. Any man would be happy to marry you." I scoffed, and he glared at me. He had to realize the absurdity of his words. If being the town drunk's daughter didn't make me enough of a pariah, my personality certainly did. I was smart, like my father had said, but women weren't supposed to be smart or think for themselves. People stared when they saw me in the small library our town housed.

I never socialized, never dolled myself up in frilly dresses or ridiculous makeup and flaunted my curves around town like so many of the other girls. I wasn't eager to make myself a housewife, to have to submit to a man who couldn't care less what I dreamed of doing with my life. My oddities might have been forgiven if my father had still been a successful and respectable handyman, but his alcoholism had ruined any chance I had at acceptance; oddly enough, I found that I didn't mind either way. I preferred to keep to myself; I encountered much less stupidity that way.

My father's eyes bore into mine. "You're so beautiful, Belle," he said, and I thought I saw tears pooling at the corners of his eyes. "You look just like your mother." At his words, a few tears threatened to brim over in my own eyes; my mother hadn't been mentioned in the house for years. After her passing, I learned quickly not to ask my father about her; to mention him would send him straight to the bottom of a bottle.

"Papa, be that as it may, there is no one in this town who would ever marry me," I insisted. "I'm too…odd." It stung to call myself that; I didn't think it was odd that I thought for myself and dreamed of a much bigger life than this town could offer me. My father was already shaking his head.

"You are not odd," he said sternly. "You're spirited, just like your mother. And you're wrong," he added quietly. He squirmed in his seat, and his eyes flickered to a bottle on the end table. I had to try not to smile; I imagined he wished he had a little help with whatever speech he was about to make. He took in a deep breath, steadied himself, and went on.

"Someone does want to marry you," he shot out quickly. I gaped at him in disbelief, shaking my head. He just stared at me, worry evident on his face. I waited for him to go on, but then I realized that he was waiting, gauging my reaction.

"Me?" I choked out. My head began to spin, all of the men I knew from town blurring in front of my eyes. "Who?" I demanded. "Who wants to marry me?"

At that moment, the front door slammed open. A gust of cold wind spun into the house, making me shiver.

"I do," said a man who had appeared in the doorway. The triumphant arrogance in his voice made my heart sink. His long black hair was pulled neatly back into a ponytail, giving me a full view of his face. His cold, icy blue eyes were dancing with certainty on his handsome face. He leaned against the door frame, his bulging arms crossed over his massive chest. He shot me his trademark cat that ate the canary grin, clearly under the impression that I would simper under his good looks.

"Gaston," I said breathlessly. He mistook my tone for one of endearment rather than shock and his grin widened. Stunned, I turned to look at my father; his face was resigned.

I racked my brain to think back to a time when Gaston and I had engaged in a real conversation, but I drew a blank. However, I didn't need to have spoken directly to him to know that he was the last person I would ever want to marry. He spent his time hunting, or at the tavern, showing off his trophies and rippling muscles. Although he was extremely handsome, his beauty masked his inner atrocities.

He cruelly killed wildlife from the forest that bordered our town, often leaving the meat to rot and plastering their heads on the tavern walls. He often got drunk and picked fights with smaller men at the tavern, humiliating them and sometimes even leaving lasting physical damage. I didn't often listen to town gossip, but it was impossible not to hear the shrill girls exclaiming over how he had bedded them; it made me nauseous. I saw him several times a week when I had to go pry my father away from a barstool at the tavern. We never spoke, but I would have to be blind to miss the way he looked me over every night – it was the same look I saw people use at the butcher's before purchasing their meat.

"That's right, it's me," he said with a grin and a wink. "The way I see it, you and I are the perfect pair. You're the best looking girl in town, and I'm the best looking person in France. Our sons will be strapping young men." My brain shouted at me to protest, to stop this before he went any further, but I couldn't do anything but listen, dumbfounded. "I can picture it now," he went on. "Our boys will play on the floor with the dogs while you cook the buck I just killed and skinned." He smiled and looked into the air, envisioning the scene he had concocted. I shuddered as I tried to imagine it, too.

"So Belle," Gaston declared loudly. "What'll it be? Will you marry me?" I was floored and slightly insulted by his impersonal, arrogant proposal. I opened my mouth to puncture his inflated ego, but my father's voice sounded before I could speak.

"Of course she will!" he announced with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. A small whimper escaped my lips as my father's betrayal washed over me. Gaston bounded into the house, grabbed my father's hand, and pumped it up and down, beaming.

"Excellent, Maurice!" Gaston shouted, shooting me a wink that made my skin crawl. My mouth shot open to protest, but my throat had suddenly become so dry that I couldn't make a noise. My head began to spin as Gaston and my father chattered cheerfully about the wedding. I clutched my stomach when a date was mentioned.

"Wait," I said, and they both stared at me. "That's next week." Gaston let out a roar of laughter.

"My dear Belle, I can't marry you any faster than that!" Gaston exclaimed, taking my hand in his. "We'll marry next week, at my parent's house in Roux. Then we'll come back here and start trying for a family." He shot me another roguish wink and bile rose up to my throat.

"Tell your parents to build me a house next to their wine cellar!" my father joked, but the jibe was too close to the truth for me to find humorous. Was my father encouraging this marriage because of Gaston's money? I shook my head slightly, unwilling to believe that.

Gaston shook my father's hand a few more times before kissing me roughly on the cheek and leaving with a slam of the door. I ran across the den, lifted the window, and was violently sick. I kept my head hanging out of the window, eyes clamped shut, letting the cool October air calm me down. I felt a hand on my back and stood up, turning and shooting my father a desperate look.

"Papa, how could you?" I asked, full of sorrow. "Belle, can't you just trust that I have your best interest at heart?"

"My best interest!" I said scornfully. "My best interest has nothing to do with this! I don't want to marry Gaston! I can barely stand to be around him. I'll be miserable my whole life, Papa! He's rude, arrogant, and cruel."

"You might be a good influence on him," my father said, trying to reason with me. "Give the man a chance! You've hardly even spoken to him."

"And I'm supposed to marry him? He knows nothing about me, my hopes, my dreams…" I trailed off, fighting back tears.

"Then let him get to know you, and you get to know him! You might find he's not that bad."

"I'm not marrying him," I said loudly, shaking my head. My father glared at me with intensity I had never seen on his face.

"I am your father!" he shouted, his voice rumbling. "You will marry whomever I say you'll marry!" At that, I lost control. Tears flooded down my face and my chest shook violently as sobs racked my body. My father's fury dissipated instantly.

"Belle, please," my father pleaded. "Gaston has influence in town. He's young, powerful, respected. His family is extremely wealthy. With Gaston, you will want for nothing. Gaston can give you everything."

Papa claimed to have my best interest at heart. Couldn't he see that he was wrong, though? Gaston could give me material goods, but he could never give me happiness.

"I won't be happy," I said softly, my resistance fading. My father sighed in relief.

"If you wouldn't be so stubborn, you might be able to find happiness with him," he said with a slight chuckle. If only it were that simple. I stood up silently.

"I'll marry him, if that is what you wish, Papa," I said flatly. He sighed in relief.

"It won't be as bad as you think, Belle. I promise. Marriage brings out things in people they never knew were there. Gaston will be a good husband." Papa smiled at me, but I couldn't force my muscles up to return even a grimace. Slowly, I began to stagger back to my room. When Papa thought I wasn't looking, I stole a glance in time to see him down half of the bottle of whiskey in one gulp.