After the chaos of the morning—the estate finally fell into an uneasy quiet. Mary had left, armed with a strategy and three backup statements.
My father broke the silence in the study by pouring whiskey into two heavy tumblers. "Drink up, son," he said, pushing one across the table. "So—three weeks for the wedding, huh? You ready to be a married man?"
I stared at the glass, then at him. "I don't know. I'm not sure." I swirled the whiskey, watching it catch the light, as if the answer might rise from the golden liquid. "One minute, I'm having greasy burgers, laughing at how she rolls her eyes at my tie, and the next minute I'm planning a wedding to a woman who thinks my cologne is overwhelming and my suit looks ridiculous." My lips twisted. "Doesn't exactly scream 'happily ever after.'"
My father's laugh was low and unbothered. "She's not wrong," he said, raising his glass. "You did look stupid in that picture." His eyes glittered with amusement, knowing full well how much the press photos had gotten under my skin.
I groaned and tossed back half the whiskey, letting it burn down my throat. "Thanks for the pep talk, Dad. Really motivational. Maybe you should moonlight as a therapist—charge five hundred bucks an hour just to insult people until they confess their deepest insecurities."
He chuckled, then leaned back in his chair, gaze thoughtful now. "She's a good girl, Richard. You should see it too."
I sighed. "I know, Dad. That's the problem." I set the glass down harder than I meant to. "She's good. Too good. And I don't know if she can handle the pressure. Sometimes, I feel like I'm going to break her. How is she supposed to deal with a world full of sharks, circling, waiting for blood—waiting for the one mistake that'll wreck your reputation? My life chews people up and spits them out, and I—" I broke off, running a hand through my hair. "I don't want her to be one of them."
"Sounds like you already like this girl," my father said, his smile creeping across his weathered face. His laugh followed. "I am so glad I'm about to be retired," he added with a smirk. "I'll have nothing but time, son. Time to sit back, sip good liquor, and watch this whole circus unfold like one of those soap operas your mother pretends she doesn't watch."
My father had a way of making everything seem both ridiculous and monumental. Standing up, I picked up my glass and muttered, "Glad my impending marriage is your new favorite sport." The whiskey was half gone, and it hummed in my veins. I told myself I was heading to the kitchen to drop off the glass, but truthfully, I needed to walk, to shake off the suffocating weight of my father's knowing grin.
That's when I heard my mother's voice. Instinct overrode reason. I didn't know why I did it, but I stayed where I was, pressed against the shadows behind the half-open door, eavesdropping. Maybe, deep down, I was hoping to glimpse the side of Nita she so carefully guarded from me.
"I know this must all seem overwhelming," my mother was saying. "And I also know that I haven't been helping. The way I push you… the way I expect you to fit neatly into all of this." There was a pause, and I could almost picture her, hands clasped. "I also know this marriage isn't something you want. I'm old, not stupid, dear."
Of course my mother saw it—she saw everything. But hearing it aloud made the air in my chest thin.
"I just need you to know that Junior is a good boy," she continued. That caught me off guard. "He'll do right by you. Just…" Another pause, longer this time. "Just please take care of him for me. Because he won't let me do it."
I realized then how rare it was for her to show such vulnerability, and how selfish I had been.
I strained to hear Nita's response, desperate for even a whisper. But there was nothing. She hadn't said a word.
The not-knowing clawed at me, so I pushed the door open. Nita was standing there, arms wrapped around my mother in a hug that looked… real. Her head rested against my mother's shoulder, her dark hair spilling like ink over silk.
I stood in the doorway for a moment.
"A hug! You must be feeling generous today. You won't even let me hold you," I said, arching a brow as if I had just caught her smuggling state secrets.
Nita shot me a warning glare. But before she could reply, my mother swooped in.
"Well, no holding until the wedding night," Mum snapped. She didn't wait for a response, simply gathered her cup of tea and stalked out of the kitchen.
"Wedding night? I totally forgot about that. What are we supposed to do?"
I smirked, leaning casually against the counter, trying to lighten the heaviness in her tone. "Take a chill pill, woman! I know what to do. I can teach you…" I let the tease hang in the air, just to watch her cheeks flame that soft pink I'd begun to crave seeing.
Her eyes widened. "Don't even play, Jun… Richard." She corrected herself quickly. "We had an agreement."
I lifted my hands in mock surrender. "I know, I know. We'll work something out, don't worry."
But Nita wasn't letting me off that easy. Her gaze hardened. "How can we work something out when it feels like someone is always watching your stupid ass at every corner?" She folded her arms, her frustration flaring. "What if the press gets suspicious and uncovers our arrangement? What then?"
I chuckled softly. "Now you're just being paranoid. It's going to be fine. Trust me."
Her eyes searched mine, as if she wanted to believe me but couldn't quite let herself. That mistrust hurt more than the prospect of tabloids tearing me apart. She didn't realize that her belief in me mattered more than the headlines, more than the carefully staged lies of this wedding.