He chuckled under his breath. "Hey! That was my line," he shot back, eyes glinting with amusement. It was as if he'd been waiting years just for this moment—for me to play verbal tennis with him again. I refused to admit, even to myself, that some twisted part of me relished putting him in his place.
As I glanced around the room, my chest tightened. My mother's face was glowing, her hands clasped tightly with Mrs. Numero's. The Numeros themselves looked like lottery winners, buzzing with excitement, already spinning dreams of an empire tied neatly together by a wedding band. My father, sat stiffly, his eyes darting to me every so often with a kind of worried softness. He didn't smile much but right now, he looked less like a man celebrating his daughter's engagement and more like one calculating if he had just sold her soul.
And me? I was stuck here, in this gilded prison of polite laughter and champagne toasts, realizing there was no turning back now. The fact was, I was going to marry the man who once cornered me, pressed me against a wall, and tried to take what wasn't his. And no one in this room fucking knew. To them, he was charming, the golden boy. To me, he was the embodiment of every nightmare I'd buried under forced smiles.
******
The next morning, I woke up to my phone buzzing angrily against my nightstand. For a moment, I considered ignoring it, burying myself under the covers, and pretending none of this nightmare existed. I had barely gotten any sleep anyway. My mother had pounced on me the second we arrived home last night, fluttering around my room.
And then there was my father lingering at the doorway after Mom finally left me alone. "You know," he'd said, "you don't have to go through with it. If you can't do this, we'll… we'll find another way."
So, I'd lain awake half the night staring at the ceiling, my mind replaying the scene over and over, wondering how the universe could be so cruel. How did I end up in this corner, forced into a deal with the devil just to keep my father's head above water? Was this fate?
By the time my phone buzzed again, more insistent this time, I groaned, dragging myself upright. My throat was dry, my eyes puffy.
I picked up my phone. My screen glowed with a notification from Junior, and of course, his arrogance practically oozed through the words. 'Let's impress some old men in suits, tonight. Be ready by 6 PM. - Richard.' He even signed his name as though I might forget who he was. Pretentious bastard. I couldn't decide what irritated me more: the fact that he texted me like I was his personal secretary, or that he assumed I'd willingly play arm candy for him without complaint. I sighed, locked the phone, and tossed it onto the bed, muttering, "And thus begins my glamorous life as a reluctant fiancée."
With no chance of getting back to sleep, I decided to spend some time googling the Numeros. I curled up with my laptop, the screen glowing far too cheerfully for the pit of dread in my stomach. I knew my mother was close to them and I vaguely remembered meeting Mrs. Numero when I was a child. But I had never actually cared enough to follow their dynasty in the corporate world.
The search results were endless. Glossy headlines. Shiny magazine spreads. Pictures of Mr. Numero senior himself, stern-jawed and immaculately dressed, shaking hands with presidents and celebrities. His reputation screamed ruthless businessman. Then came the articles on Junior—because of course, Richard Numero wasn't immune to gossip. One tabloid speculated he was dating a popular supermodel, complete with blurry paparazzi photos of him stepping into a car beside a woman with legs for days. Just speculation, the article said. But the comments section had already christened them "New York's golden couple." Great. My soon-to-be husband is already a national heartthrob with a harem of fans. Just my luck.
And then, I stumbled on an older headline that made my stomach clench. Rachel Numero dies after a brief illness. Their first daughter. The photo showed a smiling young woman, her eyes startlingly similar to Richard's. She couldn't have been more than twenty.
Dragging myself out of bed, I shuffled into the kitchen in search of caffeine and found my mother in the living room area. In her arms, she held up a dress. "Abby sent this," she said. Her eyes glittered, and she smoothed the fabric as though she were already picturing me walking down an aisle in it.
"Abby?" I echoed, rubbing sleep from my eyes.
"Your mother-in-law to be." Mom beamed. "She thought green would flatter your skin tone."
I blinked at her. "Wow. She's already picking my wardrobe. What's next, my underwear? Should I expect matching emerald-green lingerie to arrive by noon?"
My mother laid the dress carefully across the couch. "A makeup artist will be here later today," she added, as if announcing the arrival of royalty.
"Oh joy," I muttered, dragging the words out. "There isn't much difference between the both of you, is there?" I walked to the kitchen.
My mother's face softened, nostalgia crinkling the corners of her eyes. "Oh, you should have seen us when we were younger," she said, a wistful twinkle in her gaze. "Abby and I were thick as thieves. Always sneaking out, always planning ridiculous stunts. We made life an adventure."
"Well, congratulations," I said, scooping coffee grounds into the filter. "You've graduated from sneaking out of windows to sneaking your kids into arranged marriages. A real glow-up."
She didn't rise to the bait the way I expected. Instead, she gave me that calm, motherly smile that meant she thought I was being dramatic. "You know, you could at least pretend to be happier about this arrangement. Do you have any idea how many girls would kill to be in your shoes right now?"