Trillion

by Renshaw, Winter

  “I’m getting married,” I blurt. I steady myself for her reaction, only to be met with her signature silent response.

  “What? When?” Emmeline asks from the other side of the kitchen table. “And to who?”

  “To whom,” my mother corrects before turning to me. Her brows lift as she awaits my answer.

  “His name is Trey.” I clear my throat. “Trey Westcott.”

  “Wait,” Emmeline says. “Isn’t that your boss?”

  “My boss’ boss’ boss’ boss,” I say, “Or something like that … but yes. He owns Westcott Corp.”

  Mom takes a seat, practically collapsing in the wooden chair. I should’ve told her to sit before I broke the news. I haven’t dated anyone since Nolan, not seriously anyway, and that was nearly a decade ago. And while I’ve had my fair share of hook-ups and a couple semi long-term friends with benefits, I’ve never allowed a single one to step foot inside my mother’s home.

  “How did this happen?” she asks. “I didn’t even know you were seeing someone.”

  “I’m just as shocked as you are … we ran into each other in the hallway at work one day.” I don’t tell her it was just the other week. “Next thing I know, we’re spending time together outside the office. It all took off from there.”

  “And now you’re getting married?” Her expression twists in disbelief. “Don’t you think you’re moving a little fast? We haven’t even met him.”

  “You will,” I say. “Soon. I’m actually moving in with him.”

  “This is so exciting,” Emmeline claps. “I can’t wait to go wedding dress shopping!”

  Mom shoots her a look before turning back to me. “Have you set a date yet?”

  I shake my head. “We’re still working out the details.”

  “Where’s your ring?” Her attention descends to my hands, which are still hidden beneath my thighs.

  “I don’t have one yet. Everything happened this morning …”

  Mom rests her elbows on the table, staring out the tiny window beyond our kitchen table. She doesn’t congratulate me, doesn’t manufacture an ounce of feigned joy. Not that I expected her to. I know where she stands on things like marriage and men. They’re nothing but dirty words in her vocabulary.

  “You’ll love him,” I tell her, placing my hand on hers. I need to sell this.

  She won’t look at me. “I’m sure you think that or you wouldn’t be marrying him.”

  “He’s excited to meet you. I’ve told him so much about you both,” I say. Silence rests between us. “It would mean the world to me if you’d give him a chance.”

  “Would you change your mind if I didn’t?” she asks.

  Emmeline’s watchful stare passes from Mom to me and back.

  “No,” I say. I already signed the contract, though I don’t dare mention it to her. If Trey and I divorce in a couple of years, I can chalk up the millions in my bank account to a prenuptial agreement. She won’t think twice given the infinite wealth that accompanies his name.

  I lace my words with a hint of enthusiasm, ignoring the tension in my shoulders and the swirl of nausea in my center.

  I remind myself of his words to reaffirm my decision. And even if I changed my mind, it’d be a breach of contract, and to be honest I didn’t read the fine print. I have no idea what kind of repercussions I’d face if I backed out. A part of me didn’t want to know.

  Life is fucking short.

  The number of good, humanitarian things I could do with those millions is endless. Charity work. Donating to Third World countries. Orphanages. Animal shelters. Unable to sleep last night, I sprang up and made a list of everything I could do with that money.

  Personal happiness aside, I could spend the rest of my life making the world a better place.

  I wouldn’t be able to do that if I dedicated those years to a corporation.

  Not to mention, I’d be able to ensure Emmeline would always be cared for should Mom get sick again.

  “You really want this?” Mom asks. Her tea has cooled, untouched, though her hands wrap the powder blue mug tightly. Her body language holds words she won’t dare say. I’m almost certain she’s thinking about Nolan and the aftershocks of my time with him.

  At least Westcott is upfront about what he wants.

  He’s not pretending like most men do.

  He’s stated exactly what he expects from this arrangement, even going so far as to put it in writing—unlike Nolan.

  Nolan lied.

  Nolan manipulated.

  Nolan obliterated my heart and changed me forever.

  This arrangement isn’t forever—it’s two years with a side of co-parenting.

  I could do a hell of a lot worse than Westcott.

  Lord knows I once gave my heart to the devil himself.

  Twenty-Seven

  Trey

  Present

  She’s in silk pajamas, hair back, face free of makeup. Still the fascinating beauty who first intrigued me, but there’s a vulnerable quality to her now. As if she’s removed a mask and stripped down to a more natural state.

  She climbs into bed beside me, tense as she get situated. And she fusses with the covers, getting them just so.

  It’s awkward, sure. But we’re separated by a continent-sized space. She’ll survive.

  I get the lamp. The room succumbs to darkness.

  “Relax, Sophie,” I say, exhaling.

  “I am relaxed.”

  “You really need to practice this lying thing. You’re terrible at it.”

  She rolls to her side. I can almost see her smiling in the dark. “All right. Fine. This is weird for me.”

  “You’ll get used to it.”

  “This isn’t weird for you?” she asks.

  “Of course it is. Think of it as a sleepover with your best friend.”

  “Best friend?” She laughs. “We’re moving at breakneck speed, but I don’t think we’re there yet.”

  “Then we’ll fake it until we make it …”

  She yawns. “I told my mom about … us.”

  “What’d she say?”

  “She wasn’t thrilled. But I told them they could meet you this weekend.”

  “I’m actually going to Seattle this weekend …”

  “Oh. I didn’t know.”

  “Of course not. I hadn’t mentioned it yet. I was going to ask you to join me. I’ll be working most of the time, but you can explore the city and we’ll reconvene at night,” I say. “The following weekend, I’d be happy to meet your mother and sister.”

  Sophie yawns. “Sounds good …”

  “So you’ll come?” I ask. “On the trip?”

  “Sure …” she’s checked out, giving into the day’s exhaustion. It’s easy to forget that not everyone crams a million life-altering decisions into their day and sleeps like a baby at night.

  A minute later, she rolls to her side, covers pulled just beneath her chin. I could reach across the bed and feel her warmth, and yet she couldn’t be more untouchable.

  Twenty-Eight

  Sophie

  Past

  “Your mother called me today,” Nolan says.

  “What?” My stomach sinks. She had to have gone through my phone when I was sleeping to get his number. She’s never done anything like that before. Then again, I’ve never given her a reason not to trust me until recently.

  “She doesn’t want us to be together. She thinks I’m using you.” He scoffs. “You know I’m not using you, Soph. Right?”

  “God, yes.” I climb into his lap and kiss him to prove that I know.

  His eyes examine mine in the dark.

  “Don’t listen to her,” I say. “My dad broke her heart. She’s worried you’re going to break mine.”

  “I would never.” He cradles my face in the warmth of his palms, a light trail of cologne wafting from his wrists.

  I breathe him in. “I know.”

  “I promised her I’d take care of you.”

  “What�
�d she say?”

  “She hung up on me.”

  I laugh. That sounds exactly like something she’d do. Whenever she’s upset about something, silence is her primary response. Sometimes it’s a relief, knowing the argument is over. Other times it’s terrifying, wondering what she might be thinking or if it’s tearing her up inside.

  There’s more weight in the things people don’t say than what they do say.

  “Don’t let her get to you,” I tell him. “I’m an adult. She can’t tell me who to be with.”

  He rolls me to my back, pinning me beneath him. His hardness presses between my thighs as he kisses my neck. “Enough about her.”

  If he doesn’t care, then I won’t either.

  Tonight, it’s us against the world.

  Twenty-Nine

  Sophie

  Present

  The Westcott mansion comes to life shortly before sunrise the next morning. The scent of coffee and eggs permeate the air the closer I get to the hustle and bustle of the kitchen. When I pass the main foyer, a woman in a gray uniform arranges a fresh assortment of flowers in an oversized vase. I offer her a nod and a quiet, “Good morning.” She nearly does a double take before offering me the same.

  I get the sense Trey isn’t the closest with his staff. The way he’s always coming and going probably leaves little time for small talk or pleasantries.

  I won’t be like that.

  Trey woke over an hour ago, leaving me to sleep, nestled deep in the silky, imported linens tousled across the vast expanse of his enormous bed as he hit the shower and selected a dark gray suit and silky black tie from his closet.

  I read in a Westcott newsletter interview once that he doesn’t like patterns or busyness when he dresses for work. They distract him, pull him away from his zone. I’m sure there’s a whole world of particulars when it comes to him. And with time, I’ll become familiar with them.

  One of his staffers is supposed to give me a tour today, taking me to the fourth floor, which I’ve yet to see, except for the night he took me to the conservatory.

  “Coffee, Ms. Bristol?” One of the housekeepers asks when I wander into the butler’s pantry. I was going to help myself, hoping to stay out of their way. But if she’s offering …

  “Yes, please,” I say. “Thank you.”

  “Mr. Westcott takes his in the drawing room,” she says. “He’ll be in shortly.”

  I don’t know where that is …

  As if sensing my hesitation, she points behind me. “Fourth door on the left, just down that hall. Do you take cream and sugar?”

  “A little of both would be perfect. Thank you so much,” I say before adding, “I don’t think I caught your name?”

  Her eyes sparkle. She reminds me of my grandmother. “Eulalia. I’ll have your coffee for you in a moment. Breakfast will be served shortly.”

  “There you are.” Trey finds me settled near the head of the table and takes the chair beside me. The windows along the wall display the back of his mother’s rose garden.

  It’s sweet that he’s maintained it all these years.

  And that he’s been saving his father’s beloved cigars.

  “Sleep well?” he asks, sipping the coffee Eulalia has just delivered. She steals a glimpse of the two of us together before disappearing.

  I nod. “It was like sleeping on a cloud.”

  Out of nowhere, more staff begin laying out an elaborate breakfast spread, enough to feed a small gathering of people, more than the two of us could possibly eat. Scrambled eggs with parsley. Fresh-cut melon. Pastries galore. Buttered toast.

  “Do you always feast like a king?” I ask.

  He laughs through his nose. “I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I had them prepare a little bit of everything. When you get a chance, you can meet with my head chef and let him know what you like. He’d be happy to prepare a personal menu for you.”

  Westcott dabs the corners of his mouth with a pristine cloth napkin when he’s finished. I’m mid bite when he places a red velvet ring box on the table.

  “I hope this will suffice.” He slides it to me.

  I swallow my toast, wipe the crumbs from my fingers, and prop the lid up.

  A triangular-shaped diamond glimmers at me, almost too perfect to be real.

  “It’s a trillion cut,” he says. “Each point represents past, present, and future. Three flawless carats, ethically sourced and hand-selected by my family’s personal jeweler.”

  The diamond pendant Nolan gave me when I was eighteen was three carats—past, present, and future, though it was a brilliant cut … round to signify eternity.

  What a joke that turned out to be …

  When I was twenty-three, I sold it.

  I’d planned to use the proceeds to buy a car, as the one I had was on its last leg. But then I figured every time I got behind the wheel I’d think of him, and I didn’t want that, so I put the money into a retirement account instead and purchased a used and practical Nissan.

  “I hope it’s to your liking.” He mistakes my silence for disapproval. “We can get you something bigger …”

  “No, no.” I don’t need a stamp-sized rock on my finger. I take it out of the box and slide it on. It fits like a glove, effortless perfection. “It’s beautiful, Trey. Thank you.”

  “I’m heading out. When I get home tonight, we can talk dates for the ceremony.”

  “We should elope,” I say without hesitation. The idea of standing before a congregation of hundreds of watchful eyes in a virginal white gown makes me cringe. I’ve never been one to fantasize about wedding cakes and lace veils and being carried over the threshold. “Would make sense with how fast we’re moving … people would just chalk it up to a couple of people caught up in the excitement of a new relationship.”

  His dark brows angle. “This is true. Plus the quicker we marry, the sooner we can begin the next item on the agenda ...”

  Having a baby.

  A sharp twist cuts through my center. I reach for my coffee, nodding. “Sounds like a plan.”

  We haven’t discussed the method, whether we try the old-fashioned way or involve a fertility clinic. Either way, my body, my choice.

  I place a hand on my lower belly, imagining it swollen and kicking with life. The tiniest piece of my glass-shard heart aches, but I keep that to myself—as I’ve always done.

  As I’ll always do.

  “Enjoy your day,” I tell him on his way out.

  He turns in the doorway. “You as well.”

  The dining room grows hollow with his absence. Domiciliary staff move about the estate, cooking, cleaning, arranging. The noise comes in echoes and waves. The amount of time and energy it takes to maintain this place is mind blowing.

  Trey’s got to be lonely, living here by himself. Though I suppose he likes it that way. No one to bother you. No one to fill your head with silly, meaningless words, tease you with cheesy pet names, or leave wet towels on the floor in the morning.

  I’m one of those rare forms who enjoy being single.

  From what I’ve gleaned, he’s not much different.

  They say similar attracts similar, like attracts like.

  In the strangest, most inexplicable way, it makes sense—he and I together.

  Thirty

  Trey

  Present

  “Ames speaking.” Nolan comes on the line after a time-sucking twelve-minute wait despite the fact that our call was scheduled in advance.

  Ass.

  Broderick and I trade looks across the desk.

  “Nolan, it’s Trey. Wanted to give you an update regarding the progress of your contract stipulations,” I say.

  “So soon?” He chuckles from the other end. “It’s been what, two weeks since we last spoke? Don’t tell me you found your soul mate already. What agency did you use?”

  My jaw tightens.

  “It’s rather sudden, I know. But when it feels right …” I try to keep a straight face knowing I sound like a l
ove-drunk sap. If he knew me better, he’d see through the act.

  Don’t get me wrong—Sophie’s incredible.

  But I’m not pussy-whipped.

  And certainly not in love.

  “I was actually calling to tell you personally, that we intend to marry in the coming months,” I say. “Thought you should hear it from me first before you read about it in the Times.”

  “Trey …” He exhales into the phone. “You really think I’m that big of a moron? I know what you’re doing. You can’t tell me you met a girl two weeks ago and now you’re running off into the sunset together. Pretty convenient timing, wouldn’t you say?”

  “This sort of thing happens all the time. It’s nothing new. We’re not the first. We won’t be the last. If you’d like to question the authenticity of our relationship, then I invite you to come to Chicago for a visit and meet her.”

  “Hm.” His voice is muffled, as if his hand covers his mouth. “That’s actually not a bad idea. Though I’m not a huge fan of the Midwest. Why don’t the two of you come east? Just bought a place in Martha’s Vineyard. We’re taking the kids there next month. You could spend the weekend as our guests …”

  Fuck.

  I’m not worried about selling our relationship as authentic, but the idea of “vacationing” with Ames and his family is about as appealing as stabbing my cock with a blunt butter knife.

  “What do you say? Anabelle loves entertaining,” he says, referring to his wife. “Could be a good time.”

  Doubtful.

  Broderick’s brows rise, a silent coaxing, and he nods, letting me know where he stands on this proposal. We’ve come this far. Now we don’t have a choice.

  “Email me the dates, and we’ll make it happen.” I feign excitement.

  “Excellent,” Nolan says. “Can’t wait to meet the lucky girl.”

  I stab the red button on the intercom to end the call.

  “Think of it this way,” Broderick says, “it’ll put you that much closer to the end goal. A week with Ames and his family. A quickie wedding. A baby … What’d I tell you? You always get what you want. Somehow it works out for you every damn time.”