Author's Note: If you made it this far, you've decided to trust me. Thank you for that. I promise to do right by Osblaine, but what's a story without drama? This story will have lots of it, so buckle up.

Stella Sinclair-Blaine was cursed. At least, that was what the other wives all whispered pitifully whenever she entered the room (or more openly when she'd left it).

She was a beautiful woman, blonde and slim with features common to a classic painting—big, green eyes that slanted upwards in the corners, sloped nose, and full lips that were naturally rich in colour. She was still in the prime of her life at age 23, but despite her envy-inducing appearance and a sizable inheritance accumulated from the death of a wealthy father and two recent widowships, Stella had had more life-changing blows in her young life then all of the wives combined.

In the Great Expulsion of 2018, when Gilead had conquered a resistance stronghold in the former state of Kansas and expelled or executed dissidents, her parents had been slain by their own Guardian, who, it was later determined, was suffering from PTSD.

At age seventeen, shortly before the death of her parents, Stella had been married to one of the richest and most powerful Commanders in Jericho.

The pair had seemed to live a blissful and harmonic life for the entire year that Commander Eldridge had managed to keep himself alive. Unfortunately, the Commander's car had collided with a freight train on a stormy night along the route he always took to conduct business in the Capitol and Stella had been left devastated and alone once again.

When she'd married Commander Robertson after the customary year of mourning had expired, Stella was once again the envy of all the women. Commander Robertson was a man of prestige, wealth and connection. More importantly, he seemed to dote on his new wife—pretty little thing that she was.

Things finally seemed to be going in a more optimistic direction for Stella and the other wives had sunken into a mixture of jealousy and idolization.

...until the first Robertson baby spontaneously aborted after only two months' pregnancy and all while Commander Robertson was away from home.

The grape vine had sighed a collective sigh of relief. Stella Sinclair-Robertson might have the rich, handsome, doting husband and the white picket fenced monolithe of a mansion, but at least she wouldn't have the baby. That, they mused, would be too much blessing to heap onto one skinny, little…girl.

Over the next four years, Stella had become pregnant four more times, a feat in and of itself considering the current state of infertility within Gilead, but had failed to carry any of the pregnancies to term. Each failure to produce an heir had driven a wedge deeper between the power couple, dismantling their romance a little more under the ever watchful, hungry eyes of the gossips.

Commander Robertson, now rather impatiently, wanted a child and he saw his wife's failed pregnancies as setbacks that could be avoided if she'd simply agree to being issued a Handmaid.

But Stella Sinclair-Robertson was stubborn and her pride wouldn't allow her to give up being the only woman in her husband's life and bed so easily. So she'd kept trying.

There were passionate fights, talks of separation, and even a rumour that Commander Robertson had taken up a mistress in Chicago. The gossip mills were a storm of activity every time the Commander was back in town.

Stella soon went from being the envy of Jericho to being known as a hot-tempered and bratty object of scorn and pity. No wonder the Commander stayed away for so long, they all snickered behind her back when she'd attend one of their gatherings. A man has to look after his pride and his name, they reckoned. Pretty on the outside, ugly on the inside, they consoled themselves.

Talk of the curse began just after word spread that Commander Robertson had been killed in an ambush by the resistance in Chicago when Stella was six weeks pregnant for the sixth time.

The Wives, having long ago noticed the pattern of tragedy in Stella Sinclair's life, had immediately read the writing on the wall. They placed wagers on how far along Stella would get before this pregnancy went the way of the previous ones...not one Wife had bet past the month.

Her "shotgun" marriage to Commander Nick Blaine, an obvious necessity because of her current condition, had at first seemed like a reversal of fortune. Who would agree to marry a pregnant widow they had never met? Who would want to link themselves to the cursed Stella Sinclair-Eldridge-Robertson and risk going the way of the past hyphens? He must have heard she was pretty…but still...

It was a long shot, even in Gilead's system of arranged marriages, for Stella Sinclair to find herself so quickly and enviably attached. Stella had clearly and finally had a stroke of luck. The question was, how long would this lucky streak last?

The young Commander was a handsome man, and though less prestigious or well-stationed, had recently secured a position on the Gilead Security Council as a military consultant. He was clearly on the rise and Stella, with her mansion in Jericho and her network of high ranking acquaintances, would propel him to heights he could only previously imagine.

The marriage had seemed promising to everyone. The gossips were gearing themselves up to live in the vicarious world of new romance, to indulge themselves with the swoon-worthy details of the strapping Commander and his feisty, but tameable shrew of a wife. Jericho-turned-Stratford-upon-Avon was abuzz.

…until word spread that Commander Blaine spent more time away from home than he did in it and whispers of an illicit association with the dastardly Rebel Handmaid doused the fire. The Commander was clearly easily misled, if nothing else. With the prospect of another whirlwind romance diminishing before their eyes, the wives simply focused their jealousy on Stella's rounding midsection.

To their complete surprise and a little bitterness, Stella passed the two month mark, then the third and fourth ones and, when the fifth month mark came and went, they resigned themselves to throwing her a baby shower.

When the order had come down for him to remarry a little over three months ago, Nick had been less shocked and blindsided than he had been at the Prayvaganza but no less horrified. He knew the day would come eventually, but when it finally snuck up on him, he wasn't ready.

They'd had Joseph Lawrence, of all people, deliver him the news. In his usual style, Joseph had turned up at Nick's office in Chicago, the same one Nick usually slept in when he wasn't down at the barracks, with ten burgundy-coloured folders in hand.

"The council sent a singing telegram for you," Lawrence began, "Do you prefer the song, 'Get Ye to the Chapel, Your Time Has Come' or the more solemn, 'Bachelorhood Is a Short-Lived Dream?' Or is it 'Your Short-Lived Dream'? I can't quite…recall…" Lawrence shook his head, feigning reflection. "Doesn't matter much all things considered."

"What are you talking about, Lawrence?" Nick had questioned him tiredly from behind his desk, eyes narrowed at the insinuations. He wasn't in the mood for Lawrence's dry humour or pseudo-intellectual riddles today.

Lawrence threw the folders on the desk, sinking into a chair in front of him. "The council had a mini stroke when it realized that the year on the terribly untimely annulment of your last marriage had come and gone and you were still keeping your young, potent self locked away in here."

Nick scoffs, "What?"

"Yeah," Lawrence nods, looking at the younger man over the rim of his glasses, "Now that the council knows your little guys can swim, they want you to share the wealth. Create a small, furry-browed army for the nation," Nick gave the older man an annoyed glare. Lawrence continued more sombrely, "They've issued orders for your immediate nuptials."

Nick shook his head, blanching. The thought of bringing any more children into the darkness he was witness to every day in Chicago was almost as disturbing as having them with a random woman. "No," He told Lawrence, wanting to indulge the fantasy that it was a request and not an order, "It's not a good time."

Despite having a multitude of reasons for why this was the worst possible thing the council could heap on him, June's face was the first image that popped up in his mind.

June was in Canada, with Luke, and it wasn't so much that he was holding out hope for their love to survive the distance and her return to her marriage—he knew that was a long shot—so much as his mind and heart were already in tatters and the thought of having to pretend he wasn't slowly dying inside was exhausting enough.

He'd learned the first time around how intrusive a forced marriage could be. How suffocating. It felt like he was adopting a maze of defenses. Already wearing layer upon layer of masks. He was starting to forget who he was beneath them all.

"It'll never be a good time," Lawrence tells him sympathetically, not making eye contact. Compassion and kindness don't seem to come easily to the man and Nick can tell the older man is struggling not to resort to his standard defenses. "You might as well bite the bullet and get it over with. June—she isn't coming back."

"You don't miss an opportunity to remind me," Nick tells him bitterly.

"I'm just trying to keep you grounded," Lawrence shrugs, "You've got some pretty big fish to fry. Still planning on springing out your not-so-little step-daughter? They're getting kind of restless north of the border..."

Nick hesitates. Lawrence isn't a threat, but confessing his persistence in trying to reunite Hannah with her mother feels like a secret he has to protect. Old habit. It's been a plan he's been working on since June had been holed up at the Boston Globe. There's been some progress lately, but it's been minimal at best. Still, Hannah is as much a part of June as Holly is, and that makes her a part of him. The plan to find her and get her out of Gilead has always been on the table. He finally relents with a simple, "Yes."

"Then you need the council looking the other way. Check out your options. I threw a few picks in there myself," Lawrence puts his index fingers in a 'V' against his lips.

"Well, now I've moving from feeling repulsed to frightened," Nick tells him.

They'd offered him a choice this time, a list of ten of their 'finest' selections for a Commander's wife. As a Guardian, it was luck of the draw. Commanders, however, needed trophy wives, and so the matchmaking process was far more selective. Naturally, elitism endures against all else.

Most of the women in the list were predictably underaged and he'd immediately put their profiles at the bottom of the pile. That left him with only three others to choose from. One profile was for a homely, middle-aged widow in the Northwest, another for a serious-looking twenty-seven year-old in the capitol, and the third for a slightly younger widow from the Mid-regions.

Like a disclaimer, written in bold print at the top of the page, it read: Pregnant. The word immediately stuck out to him. He didn't even bother turning the page to see her picture. This one was already pregnant. That meant—

"Ah, I knew it!" Lawrence said excitedly as Nick lingered on the last file. "You're getting predictable, Commander. You've clearly got a thing for those blonde, barbie-doll types."

"Huh?" He looks at Lawrence in confusion before flipping over the profile in his hands. There's a picture of a blonde woman. She's undeniably pretty, though he can't help thinking that her eyes are the wrong colour and her lips aren't the right shape. He flips back to the first page. "She's pregnant," he states.

"Sure is," Lawrence's eyes twinkle. "Don't get too excited about the express on fatherhood though. Rumour has it her pregnancies don't exactly pan out...also, there's probably a bigger disclaimer I should tell you. I couldn't write it on there, but our Southern Belle here is on to husband number three...the last two died fairly violently."

"She killed them?" He asks incredulously, wondering why Lawrence would try and match him with a serial killer.

"Nope. Well...the Alibis check out anyway. If she sends these men to an early grave, it's not in any direct way. Grapevine says she's difficult and has a lot of trouble making friends. Likely a personality disorder, if you want to get technical." Lawrence breaks it down. "Some people say she's cursed." He waves his hands in front of him dismissively. "Gossip mill hogwash, that one."

"Why her, then?" Nick questions the older man, knowing there's an angle Lawrence has already seen.

"I thought you'd appreciate the advanced circumstances. This little lady is already at fourth base. It's like a 'get out of jail free' card, Commander. You get to skip all that procreation mumbo jumbo and stay true to your other blonde babe in Canada," Lawrence says mockingly. "I mean little Nichole, of course, because I doubt June is saving herself for your when-pigs-fly reunion."

Nick has already considered this dark probability himself, that June's relationship with her husband will pick up right where it left off and wipe out any sign that Nick had ever been a blip on her radar. That they'd once been in love. That he still loved her. He'd have considered that she may have forgotten him entirely by now, if it wasn't for the reminder that Nichole's existence would at least keep his memory alive to some degree for June. It doesn't stop Lawrence's jab from stinging, though, and Nick feels a painful pinch in his chest.

Lawrence continues, "Pregnant wives are forbidden to have intercourse. Not to mention it eliminates the need for a Handmaid—although, don't you have a thing for—"

"I get it." Nick says bitingly, "I don't have to sleep with her." Nick has to admit it was the reason the red print had appealed to him on sight too.

"Well, I'm a civilized man, but there are ways around every law. Like if she doesn't tell and you keep it hush-hush," Lawrence answers wryly, not bothering to disguise his enjoyment of Nick's discomfort, before adding, "but not if you don't want to, no. For some men, the law is sacred."

There is nothing more that Nick could want than to separate himself from this sham of a marriage in every way possible. It's clear Lawrence knows it too. The Commander probably knew this was the only way Nick would ever agree to following the council's orders without a fight to begin with. He has a feeling that, pessimism aside, the older man is actually a lot more like himself than he lets on. Despite the older man's pretence of nonchalance, he knows the Commander was very devoted to his late wife. The council will be calling for Commander Lawrence to marry soon enough. Maybe the man needs a guinea pig for his own 'get out of jail free card'...

"But she's crazy?" Nick repeats.

"Ehhhh…unstable," Lawrence negotiates, tipping his hand back and forth in the air. "But there is one other thing. Oh, you're going to love this one…it's a cincher."

Nick waits for him to continue, annoyed by Lawrence's penchant for unnecessary drama.

"She's Commander Mackenzie's little sister."

Nick sucks in a breath. Jackpot.

Lawrence keeps going, "Yeah, they're two little unhinged peas in a pod. She's not willing to relocate either, so you'll have to move in with her. That will put you about two and a half hours from Hannah on any given Sunday." He taps his fingers together under his nose.

Nick finally meets the other man's eye, wheels turning in his mind, and a little bit of fire returning to his chocolate eyes.

"You're welcome," Lawrence says happily.

The first time Nick is due to meet his new bride is made more awkward by the single luggage that his entire life-belongings have fit into. It feels glaringly insubstantial walking into the white marble tiled foyer with little more than the clothes on his back—like he was showing up to a meeting with the president in his pyjamas—but his meager possessions had only been a small part of his discomfort.

For one thing, this feels like he's on enemy turf and like his soon-to-wife is the one holding all of the power. He wonders if she'd meant for it to feel that way. She had insisted that he be brought to her, that their marriage be officiated at her mansion, and that he come prepared to stay. It all felt like he was walking into a previously formulated plan—dare he say, a trap.

Being pushed into a shotgun marriage that he wasn't even responsible for in the first place, and barely a month after June had finally crossed the bridge to freedom and away from him for good, was enough of a soul-crushing reason to keep his spirits in the dumps. None of this is remotely close to the life he'd started to picture for himself. A simple life with June and his daughter.

With his driver and two of his assigned soldier bodyguards stationed outside, Nick follows the Martha who opens the door inside. He's shown to a bright room, richly decorated to receive visitors. The Martha invites him to sit, but Nick chooses to stand, feeling like he has to maintain a semblance of control.

It's only a few minutes later when Stella Sinclair walks in, dressed in an embroidered white gown with a simple cut to the skirt that barely concealed her slightly rounded belly. Her blonde hair had been curled and swept carefully in an up-do that looked both impeccable and effortless. Her youthful face had been slightly matured with carefully crafted make-up.

She looked a lot like her picture, which is why Nick was mostly unimpressed.

He preferred June's natural and unadorned beauty to this stranger who was legally about to be bound to him.

"Commander Blaine," Stella had greeted him, voice smooth and confident. She gave him a once-over, sizing him up. Her expression remained neutral and Nick wasn't sure whether she'd been satisfied with what she saw or had found him lacking. It didn't matter much, the odds of her backing out now were slim, and getting her approval had never been on the agenda.

"Ms. Sinclair," Nick had answered easily. He had no emotional investment in meeting this woman who was about to become his life partner, so his nerves had nothing to be excited by. This was yet another thing he had to do in the name of obedience to the state.

"Oh, please. Do call me Stella."

"Right…Stella then. I'm Nick."

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Nick." She smiled prettily, and then as soon as she seemed to have settled on the degree of brightness the occasion called for, the smile locked into place. "Shall we cut to the chase?" Stella said through the curved set of her lips, green eyes like emerald lakes.

Nick found the measured smile disconcerting, like he was facing off against a masked and disguised opponent. "Um, sure."

Stella let the smile slip away just as easily as she had put it on. "I didn't ask for this and neither did you, but we saw the benefits to this union or we wouldn't be here, am I correct?" The smile resumed its measured degree like it had never faltered in the first place.

Nick hesitated, wondering whether a girl with so many apparent defenses could be trusted with the truth. Not seeing an alternative, he replied, "Yes."

"Then I trust we can keep things amicable. I have only one request: that you maintain our public appearance at all costs. In fact, I have a list of appearances that you'll need to prepare for written down right here." Stella casually holds out a folded note card with a typed list visible on it.

Nick considers the request, weighing it for possible drawbacks and finding none. "That sounds…reasonable." He takes the card.

Stella's smile dialed up a degree at Nick's acquiescence. "Good. Then, please follow me to the study. The lawyer is ready for us to proceed."

Nick had followed, feeling the figurative bars shutting behind him.