"Oh, pish posh!" she exclaimed, snatching her hand back and sitting straighter. "She's practically family now! She should know what she's getting into." Her eyes glittered with unshed tears. Then, without missing a beat, she pivoted to her husband. "Besides, you're the one who spoiled him, Richard. You let him get away with everything! Taking him to work instead of letting me raise him properly. That's how children lose their values!" She paused for dramatic effect, stabbing a finger toward him as though he were on trial. "Raised by secretaries and accountants!"
As Mrs. Numero launched into another tirade, my mother leaned toward me. She cupped her hand around her mouth in a faux whisper, though her eyes gleamed with mischief. "Remind me to use this next time on your father," she murmured, her lips twitching in suppressed laughter.
I stifled a snort, covering it with a cough, while my father—sitting two chairs down—shot us a look that clearly said, Don't you dare encourage her. My thin smile wavered as I stared down at my plate, poking absently at my food. This was the circus I'd agreed to walk into: grieving matriarchs, guilty patriarchs, my mother playing cheerleader, my father sinking into martyrdom. And somewhere in the middle of all this chaos was Junior—the man I hadn't even met, the man they wanted me to tether my life to.
Mr. Numero, clearly desperate to restore order before his wife went full opera on the dining table, threw down his napkin. He snatched up his phone, his large hand practically swallowing the sleek device, and jabbed at the screen with military precision. "Junior," he barked into the receiver, "do you have any idea how aggravated you are making your mother? You have fifteen minutes to show up in this house, or I swear I'll make your life a living nightmare." He cast another glance at his wife, whose lips trembled in righteous fury, then added with chilling emphasis, "And trust me, I'm very motivated."
The table went so still I could hear the faint hum of the chandelier bulbs overhead. For a fleeting second, I pitied this mysterious Junior. It wasn't every day you got threatened with both eternal maternal disappointment and paternal wrath at the same time. Yet another part of me wondered if he'd even care.
Mrs. Numero leaned toward me suddenly, breaking my train of thought. A wicked smile curled on her lips, a conspiratorial gleam lighting her eyes. "Numero wife rule number one," she whispered, winking as though we were co-conspirators in some long-running game, "a little drama goes a long way."
"Good to know," I said, arching a brow, unsure whether she was teaching me a survival tactic or initiating me into the dark arts of wifehood.
She nodded gravely, as though passing on sacred wisdom. "If you can cry on cue," she added, lowering her voice theatrically, "you're already halfway there."
I nearly choked on my water.
Just then, the doors creaked open. The butler stepped into the dining room. He bowed ever so slightly, then announced in a crisp, carrying tone, "Mr. Richard Junior has arrived."
My heart thudded in my chest. I straightened involuntarily, fork forgotten.
About time, I thought grimly, though my pulse betrayed me. If lateness were an Olympic sport, he'd have a gold medal. But as the sound of approaching footsteps echoed down the hall, another thought intruded, softer and far more dangerous: Please, let him be worth the wait.
Mrs. Numero sprang into action the moment the butler's words left the air, moving with the manic determination of a stage mother seconds before curtain call. Before I could register what was happening, her jeweled fingers were in my hair, fluffing, tugging, rearranging like she was styling a reluctant Barbie doll. I tried to dodge, but she was faster than a hawk. Then—horror of horrors—she whipped a tube of lipstick out of her purse and lunged. I barely had time to part my lips in protest before she was smearing firetruck red across them.
"There, now you're perfect!" she announced triumphantly. She beamed at me, her eyes gleaming with maternal pride, though I had the sneaking suspicion she was more invested in her son's conquest than my comfort.
"Save me," I mouthed desperately to my dad across the table. For the first time that evening, his lips actually curved upward. A real smile. It struck me then: it took his daughter being mauled by a woman armed with red lipstick to coax genuine laughter out of him.
Maybe he smiled so little these days because there wasn't much left to smile about. His company was teetering on the brink of bankruptcy, our lives had become a constant tightrope walk over financial ruin, and now here he was—Abraham once again—leading me, Isaac, to the altar.
"Oh, darling," Mrs. Numero said suddenly, pulling me back to the present. Her hands cupped my face. Her eyes softened, and for a fleeting second, she looked less like the formidable matriarch and more like a mother. "I hope he likes you."
I swallowed hard. I hope not, I thought viciously.
"Good evening, everyone," came his smooth, authoritative voice as he entered the dining room. "Apologies for my tardiness," he continued, a faint, amused smirk tugging at his lips, "I was busy tying up loose ends at work. There was no need to threaten my balls."
Mrs. Numero let out a small groan, dragging her hand down her face. "Richard," she hissed, glaring at him from between her fingers, "must you always do this?" It was clear her son had an impressive talent for pushing her buttons, and even clearer that he relished every second of it.
Junior, completely unfazed, strode across the room. Tall, broad-shouldered.
He stopped at my left side, but instead of acknowledging me—the girl he was apparently supposed to marry—he went straight for my mother. With a graceful bow, he took her hand and brushed it. "Mrs. Williams," he said, his lips curving into a devastating smile, "you're as radiant as ever. Tell me, are you sure I'm marrying the right woman?"