by Hazel Parker
The more I thought about it, the more paranoid I became. It felt like there was no good answer, and in the absence of even a half-decent answer, I had to err on the side of caution. And really, regardless of any amount of caution or any amount of feelings I had, I had become so paranoid that by the time I started to wash my hands, I’d lost any of my arousal for Brett.
I emerged from the bathroom scared. I wasn’t just looking at Brett anymore. I was looking at everyone in the room. What if one of them were from the family and evaluating me? What if they weren’t and I was just driving myself crazy?
And what did it say that my actions were dictated such that it was like I was going to take the offer?
Maybe I really did want money in return for selling my availability to one man, regardless of what type of man he was. What did that say about me?
I could hear Brett calling my name, but it sounded distant, like I could only hear the echo and not the original sound source. I looked at the bartender, who paid no attention to him or me...but I just felt like he was listening in. I looked at the crowd of people. One girl looked at me out of the corner of her eye, objectively just confused why I was looking at her, but in my head…
I took off without saying a word to Brett. I felt terrible. I really did.
You’ll lose...everything.
I could lose Brett now and keep so much more, or I could keep Brett and lose everything. It wasn’t a hard choice framed in that light.
A funny thing happened, though, once I got out of the bar.
It felt like I had reached the de facto light at the end of the tunnel, like I had emerged from my old life and into a new one. All of the clues had suggested that I would marry a guy who wasn’t that much older than me, and all of the “knowns” stated I’d be marrying into a family of great means. I had wanted something more, and now, it was like karma was saying, “You want more? How about you get everything?”
I’d live in luxury. I would never, ever have to worry if I was saving enough for retirement, if I could afford a new car down the line, if I’d ever have to buy a home…
And if the guy was an asshole, I only had to outlive two senior citizens, who were probably in their eighties or maybe even nineties anyway.
And as for Brett? Well, in my head, I kept repeating “a part of the past.” He would have been a great way to cap the night off, but…
He was more than that.
Even when I spoke to Brett as I walked out, even when he tried to engage me in conversation, it all felt like a blur. I spoke to him, yes, but as I drove home, I couldn’t remember what I had said. I just knew I had dodged a bullet, perhaps more literally than I cared to admit.
When I got home, I found a bundle of papers waiting for me at my apartment. I knew what they were even before I had the chance to read them.
It was the contract for my marriage.
My hands just felt dirty holding it. If I could somehow verbally agree to this arranged marriage and then have a family lawyer keep the documents in a safe somewhere, then I could live this out, but having to have the evidence that what I was engaged in was a sham tarnished the exuberance that had carried me out of the bar.
Nevertheless, I told myself that I needed to review this as thoroughly as possible at least once. I needed to know, for example, if I was expected to have sex with this guy a certain amount of times, or if I was going to have to change my name.
But to my surprise, while the whole concept of “arranged marriage” didn’t exactly equal “freedom” in my head, I had to admit that it was actually pretty lenient and freeing. In public, I was expected to play the part of doting housewife, but in private, any and all physical contact was optional and not expected. In other words, if I saw him and was immediately repulsed, I wouldn’t ever have to have sex with him. Granted, if this went on for several years, he might get lucky, but it was nice to have this.
The rest was the same as well. At any event in which the client was going to be meeting and greeting people, I was expected to act as his wife would, but in his home, I could do whatever I wanted. I was essentially being paid to be an actress.
Well, there were worse things in life to receive compensation for, I supposed.
I got to the last page of the contract, and I saw a note. It was written by my father.
“Chelsea—I wrote this, not the other side,” it said. “I needed to protect you as best as I could. They’re not going to care about details, but they do care that you act like a wife in public and with his family. That’s all that they will care about. I hope I gave you protection otherwise. -Dad”
There was something both unsettling and oddly sweet about knowing that my father had written this contract. On the one hand, I felt reassured that my father, even in this odd spot, was doing what he could to make sure I had as much freedom as possible. But on the other hand, the sentence “my father wrote a contract for me to be married in an arranged fashion to a mobster” was not exactly something that inspired confidence.
I saw the line where I had to sign. Someone had already scribbled a signature from earlier in the day; there was no point in trying to make sense of the scratchy writing. I thought I saw an F in there somewhere, but it could have just as easily been a T or a P or maybe even some hurried E.
I picked up my pen.
You do this, you cannot turn back. You do this, and you try to turn back, you’ll lose everything.
Everything.
I gulped. What did I have to lose?
I looked around my apartment. It wasn’t a shithole, but it was by no means a wealthy or even a middle-class person’s place. I thought about my job, working for my father. That was fine, but it wasn’t like there was some massive ceiling where I could become a high-paid CFO. I thought about my dating scene.
That was really what it came down to, wasn’t it? Did I want to continue the mediocre train of Tinder, Bumble, and Match and hope that an occasional great guy would show up? Or did I want to throw the heaviest die of my life and hope that the numbers came up as I dreamed they would?
I called my father.
“Sweetie?”
The answer came to me immediately as I had hoped it would.
“I’m in,” I said. “I’m signing. I’m in.”
“Great. Bring it to work tomorrow. And Chelsea, guard it with your life.”
“I will.”
When I hung up, I signed the papers, felt a sort of euphoria lift my spirits, and turned on some music and started dancing.
But by the time I headed to bed, I began to feel some serious fear. I hadn’t ever actually established this man’s age; I had just assumed on my own, perhaps wanting to assume, that he was someone my age. What if he wasn’t? What if he was someone close to me?
Well, all I knew was that I could delete all the dating apps and cancel all my subscriptions. I could have a ring on my finger in six months. I could be wealthy maybe in six years.
Hopefully, I had not sold my soul in the process.
* * *
I walked into work the next day with a backpack, ostentatiously because I had a ton of financial material mailed to the house that I needed to review. No one really questioned me; all of the floor people usually kept to themselves aside from a friendly hello and goodbye, and my father already knew what was inside.
I got into my office, shut the door, and pulled out the paperwork. It was as thick as an encyclopedia. I was sure I’d missed some things, but I had read every page the night before; anything glaring or unsettling would have caught my eye.
Then the door opened, and I scrambled to hide the papers.
“Relax, dear, it’s just me,” my father said. “I just wanted to see how you are feeling.”
I let my heart rate settle down first.
“All over the place,” I said. “I really hope this guy isn’t some fat slob that I’m going to feel gross being with for the next few years.”
“I doubt it,” he said. “Like I said, I don’t know everything, but
if I had to guess, I’d say he’s probably a young adult feeling pressure to get married. Most of the men my age are already married or are appalled by the idea of getting married. And they wouldn’t need to make their elderly parents happy either.”
Good point.
“But, I don’t know,” he said. “Still, I’m happy for you. I’ve worked hard for you to be financially settled, done more than you can ever know—”
I know more than you think.
“And made a lot of sacrifices. And sometimes, fate intervenes in a positive way. We’ll have to celebrate with some food later.”
“You know I won’t say no to that.”
Dad left a short while later. I leaned back in my chair. If I had to guess...a young adult feeling pressure to get married. Dad probably wasn’t wrong here. But then that left me with two possibilities, neither of which seemed that great.
One was that it was someone who had no game, no social skills, and no positive physical attributes, and he had to rely on his family money.
The other was that it was someone who was on the other end of the spectrum, someone who had too much game, too much charisma, and the body of a Greek god. He would never want to settle, but had to do so for some reason. Someone like Brett.
I laughed out loud when that thought popped into my head. Fate had been kind to me, but that didn’t mean fate would be perfect to me. And besides, while Brett did not strike me as poor, he did not strike me as so wealthy that he was bleeding money.
Neither scenario was perfect, but then again, if I was being hired to be an actress, I suppose there were worse types of actors to play a part with.
Chapter 9: Brett
I really need that fucking assistant today.
Not even the wife, I’d just take the damn assistant.
Reams and reams of paperwork sat before me, even more than the day that I felt Alf had dumped some on me as a sort of passive-aggressive way of showing me who was in charge. Apparently, we were considering partnering with some European winery, and while Layla had gone overseas to do much of the initial wooing and dining, I now had the joy of reviewing their documents to see if their products aligned with ours.
Fucking wonderful.
I had become a sommelier just for this reason—to do paperwork. Maybe I should have become a damn accountant so I could tell people about the various types of wines at Ferrari Wines. Or maybe I should have gotten a degree in physics so I could own a business.
I took the first page and started to look at it, but my eyes glazed over, barely able to stay open. I hadn’t fallen asleep well last night; Chelsea’s sudden and quick flight out had left me in a bit of a confidence daze.
By the end of the night—and to this point still—I was convinced I had just misread her entirely. Instead of being “something else,” she’d proved to be “something else” of a very different kind—the bitch kind. I had made a rare mistake in getting swept up in the moment and by a woman, but now with her gone, I could see as clear as day the mistake. I could see that she was your typical hot girl who wanted to have fun but was so uptight and so rigid inside that the moment she approached the line, she fled in the other direction.
I had no patience for women like that. Either own your sexuality or own your selectiveness, but don’t try and get the best of both. It was a waste of my time, it was a waste of her time, and it was a waste of energy that could have been spent on someone who would have actually slept with me. If I saw Chelsea again…
Well, it wasn’t like I would do anything awful to her. I wasn’t a bad person. But I definitely wasn’t going to acknowledge her or do anything to try and win her attention back.
It was easier to say that she was just a flighty bitch than it was to acknowledge the possibility that I had fucked up somehow. And in any case, assuming Uncle Nick managed to pull off our little game, it’s not like it would matter in the end.
“You look like death.”
I looked up at the unexpected feminine voice in my doorway to see my sister, Layla, standing there.
“Shouldn’t you be flirting with some French guys or something to help us break into Europe?”
“Funny, real funny,” Layla said. I knew exactly how to strike a nerve with her. “I got back super early this morning. At least I have an excuse. What’s yours? Were you out flirting with some girl that you took home, and now you wish you hadn’t gone in at two a.m.?”
“Christ, am I that predictable?”
Layla’s laugh said it all.
“For the record, no, I did not sleep with anyone last night.”
“Oh, so you fucked her and made her leave, classy.”
“Yes, Layla, that’s exactly what I did,” I said, rolling my eyes. “No. Just a long night.”
“Huh, that sucks. Sorry. Well, I assume you’ll have plenty of chances to get rest before Saturday night.”
“What’s…”
I pulled out my phone as I spoke. Sure enough, I saw I had two new messages. One from my brother Nick.
And one from Uncle Nick.
I opened the one from my sibling first. It was a text in the sibling thread.
“Family dinner on Saturday—do not miss no matter what. Leo, that goes for you too!”
“Well, I didn’t have any plans Saturday, so that’s good,” I said.
“I’m going to assume you’re just playing dumb so you don’t acknowledge the real reason for that text,” Layla said with a groan.
“Which is?”
“Seriously? What has Nick been talking about for the last several weeks?”
Oh! Right, that.
“You mean his engagement that’s sure to set off a flurry of questions about why I haven’t found anyone yet? About why the oldest Ferrari sibling is single and the second-oldest is now going to be married?”
“Yes, because it’s all about you,” Layla said. “Yes.”
“I know, I know, I’m just playing,” I said. “But you do know the grandparents are going to first congratulate him and Izzy—even if Izzy brings her kid—and then glare at the two of us.”
Layla actually dropped her serious demeanor, shut the door behind her, and took a seat across from me.
“I’m as tired of it as you are,” she said.
I grimaced. She must have not had the same setup as I did—not that she needed to, still being in her mid-twenties. And in any case, asking Layla about love was a really great way to ensure that you got your ass kicked. None of us knew all the details, but all of us knew she’d gotten burned bad by the last man she had fallen for.
“You’d think that you’d have, say, at least until thirty before you got asked to get married, let alone expected to be married by then,” I said with a sad chuckle. “But I guess in the world of Alf and Mary Ferrari, that isn’t the case.”
Layla bit her lip.
“Fuck it, I’m going the Leo route,” I said. “Don’t get a job. Smoke cigars each day. Drink too much. Be a general lazy piece of shit.”
“Hey, easy,” Layla said. “He’s got problems, but he’s got a good heart.”
“Is he going to be there Saturday?” I said, blowing right past what Layla had said.
“I don’t know, did he say anything in the sibling chat?”
“Does he ever?”
Layla’s silence conceded the point. It was just as well. I really did not like my youngest brother. Somehow, despite being the most outcast of the group, despite being the black sheep of the family, not only did Layla have a soft spot for him, so did, of all people, grandma.
I could not fucking understand it for the life of me, and it pissed me off. Apparently, the secret to staying in the will when not married was to be a cliché rebel against authority. Maybe I was the giant fool for thinking that acting like a civilized adult would do the trick.
“Do you at least have any options?” Layla said. “Any women prospects at all?”
“Kind of?” I said, which felt like an honest answer. “I’m...I’m more aware of it. B
ut it would take someone awfully special and unique to make me fall in love. I have a feeling if one of the senior citizens winds up in the hospital, I’m going to be quite the actor for their eyes.”
I wished Layla laughed so that she could show she saw the humor in it.
Unfortunately, she didn’t even smile.
“Well, if you need help, let me know,” she said. “I’m sure one of my friends is desperate enough to go for you.”
“They could only wish.”
Layla rolled her eyes with a smile as she stood up from my chair.
“So great talking to you, bro.”
“It was all my pleasure, sis,” I said before both of us laughed.
Ah, Layla. Not even Nick and I talked shit like she and I did. She was probably the only person that could talk to me that way and keep it light.
I went back to my phone. Uncle Nick’s text.
“Your order has been delivered.”
There it was.
The wheels were turning.
The woman was arriving one way or another.
Was it worth tens of millions of dollars?
Only time would tell.
* * *
Four Days Later
The Ferrari Estate where my grandparents resided always felt like walking into the Vatican.
Growing up, the four of us—yes, there was a time when I didn’t objectively despise Leo—would always scream and laugh and hit and cry in my parents’ house. But we learned very quickly that the estate was where one had to act like a lady and a gentleman. If we so much as ran up the stairs, the grandparents would yell at us, demanding that we calm down and stop acting like hooligans.
Today felt no different. I had thrown on a suit and slacks—I had to get rid of the tie, but otherwise, I looked every bit the part of working-class man—and made sure to mentally prepare myself for what lay inside.
I said hello to Mom and Dad, giving them a hug. I also hugged my grandfather and grandmother, giving a kiss on the side of the cheek to each of them. Nick, Izzy, and Layla and I all exchanged hugs. To my surprise, even Leo had shown up...albeit on the back porch, headphones in, drinking a canned beer. I decided that that was someone best left alone, that if we interacted, we should keep it as brief and simple as possible.