The Proposal

by Kitty Thomas

  She continues on, starting to sound a little like Macy. “Do you not understand the history of Crane? This paper is used for our currency. It's 100% cotton. Paul Revere used it. Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt used it. Even the Queen of England has favored this brand.”

  “Why even give me the other books then, if everybody's so sold on Crane?”

  She shrugs and sighs. “It's your day.” She says this almost half-heartedly, and I wonder if she's got stock in Crane.

  “Oh and do be sure to go with the engraved stationery. This is very important. Under no circumstances should you go with thermography. I don't care if there are more color options. This isn't a high school bake sale; it's your wedding.”

  I sigh. Apparently this woman thinks I'm some country bumpkin who needs to be schooled in these things.

  “I need you up bright and early tomorrow to meet with the florist. And dear, do try to get a handle on what kind of dress you'd like. It's the most important part after all. All eyes will be on you. And to be honest I'm not even sure if it's safe to decide on the flowers if the dress isn't in place. We only have five months,” she reminds me.

  Yes, the countdown clock has been running through my head since the date was set, but thanks for that update, Patrice.

  17

  Livia

  The Pre-nup

  Four months ago. February.

  When I walk into the conference room of Blake, Darcy, Henley, and Associates, seven men—mine, plus attorneys—turn their gazes to me in one sharp predatory swivel of heads. All eyes lock on mine as though honing in on a target to destroy. They stand as a collective when I step into the room, and it's as though the room itself takes a deep, cleansing breath. Soren pulls out the burgundy leather chair at the head of the table. I murmur a thank you and sit in it.

  It's strange because this seat should be the position of power in a room, but in this case it isn't because the person with the least power is sitting in it. Soren, Griffin, and Dayne each have their own attorney to handle their own legal contracts with me. Today we are finalizing a complicated web of private contracts and trusts that ostensibly protect all parties.

  Their attorneys are the three gentlemen whose names are on the sign out front. My attorney sits to my left. He isn't with this firm, but was hired by Soren. And I get the distinct impression that he takes his real marching orders from Soren—not me—though we've all decided to engage in this fiction that I'm being represented in a true and legal way.

  I know this is not normal. When signing a pre-nup, my own interests should be defended. I should have a real attorney who only answers to me. But I know I have no negotiating or bargaining power here. I know these men would make good on their threats. I can never break these contracts, so any argument over the sordid details is the equivalent of crying and flailing about while being walked down death row. All it will get me is embarrassment.

  This is only a formality to protect them if they ever decide they're finished with me. In private last night, Soren actually made reference to the crazy attic wife in Jane Eyre—intimating that if I tried to leave them, he'd literally lock me in a tower to prevent my escape. Charming. He actually has a tower on his estate. Two, in fact. Soren is every little girl's fairy tale gone wrong.

  I take a steadying breath, willing myself to not start crying at this table. Soren is sitting to my right. His hand covers mine, and then his thumb begins to move almost imperceptibly in soothing strokes over the back of my hand. I look up to find those deep dark fathomless pools of green. No one but this man has eyes this color and they suck me into their depths each time I fall helplessly into his gaze.

  I had been so sure about all three of these men when they were just some guys I was dating. I'd eliminated so many others before them. I'd dropped every man who didn't treat me with respect, wanted to split the bill, or had some obvious deep-seated and barely disguised misogyny or weird mommy issues.

  Griffin, Dayne, and Soren all got past every test I set up. They each slipped beneath my radar, and charmed their way into my heart. They were such gentlemen, so patient, so respectful, so generous and kind. Well, Griffin and Dayne were. It was touch-and-go with Soren for a bit.

  And now here we are.

  I want to run and never stop running. At the same time, my body longs to be claimed by theirs in such an all-encompassing way that I can't do anything but sit frozen in place, waiting for my fate to unfold according to their designs, waiting to read their terms in stark black and white.

  I don't even know why they're putting me through this meeting except for the sheer pleasure of humiliating me. I fucking hate all three of them right now. I can't believe I thought I loved them little more than two months ago.

  I can't believe I still thought I loved Soren when we made the fake video proposal. I glance down at the Tiffany diamond on my finger. The proposal may have been a fake, but this ring most certainly isn't. I want to believe in this fairy tale so badly. I think back to all the losers who wasted my time playing boyfriend while trying to gain wifey privileges from me. And I wonder if they were really so bad after all. Because this feels so much worse—this lie they've sucked me into. And I can't understand why they're doing it. Are they just that bored with the luxury and ease of their lives?

  Maybe they do all three in fact want me. Maybe their declarations of love were once sincere. But they didn't give me a choice in any of this, and somehow ever since that night in Capri Bella it feels as though our relationship is some sort of twisted revenge against me.

  “Ms. Fairchild all the contracts have been finalized. We just need you to read over them with your attorney, initial in all the marked places, sign, and date. Then we can all get out of here,” one of the attorneys says.

  Finalized. The contracts have been finalized. Yes, I know this is not in any way normal. That's not how these things work. It's supposed to be a negotiation. I'm supposed to receive an opening offer where I mark out the changes I'd like to see, and we discuss things until we come to an agreement that works for everyone. But no, this is only a formality. It's a boilerplate contract—the kind you sign as is or walk away, except I only have that first option.

  My hands shake as I read the contracts. There are ways in which they're all the same, and ways in which each is unique, but all of them cover the basics of property and how it will be divided should these unions break.

  Even though I can't leave, the attorneys don't know that.

  So according to the contracts, if I leave, I get nothing. If I cheat, I get nothing—though I can't imagine the ravenous sexuality of a woman who would need more than three dicks to service her. It's all quite comical. Weirdly, there has been a notation inside each of these contracts that explicitly states sex with any of these three men isn't considered cheating on the others. I wonder how that would hold up in court for the pre-nup?

  Probably it wouldn't, but since it is an agreement we've made beforehand and the pre-nup itself isn't the marriage, maybe? Who knows? I'm sure they've come up with just the right legal language to make all of this work somehow. And I'm equally certain that should any of this ever reach a courtroom, there would be a bought and paid for judge who would go along with whatever they want even if their cleverness in legalese should fail them.

  If they leave, however, I do get things. They are at least ensuring that if they discard me and destroy and ruin me that I won't starve. I'll have a nice life, at least on the outside. I take another deep breath, forcing the gathering tears not to spill out. I will not cry in front of these men and all of our attorneys. It would look far too weak.

  If I were the person I've been pretending to be and convincing myself that I was, I'd view today with triumphant glee, seeing myself as somehow locking down, not one, but three eligible wealthy bachelors and having lifetime access to a lifestyle I only could have dreamed of before. But I'm too worried about what will happen to my body, mind, and soul once I am fully and finally inside their bonds.

  The legal contracts
are only the first layer of the rough tight rope looping around me and squeezing like a vice even in this moment.

  What must these attorneys think of me? Binding myself romantically, sexually, and legally to three different men concurrently? I wonder if they jerked off thinking about it while putting the contracts together—or if they fantasized about somehow getting in on the action. I can only hope that Griffin, Dayne, and Soren have no plans or desires to allow any other man to touch me.

  My mouth falls open when I find in each contract the topic of heirs. Heirs. Are they fucking kidding me? It's not that I don't want babies—of course I do—it's just this archaic caveman language. They are actually demanding heirs, like it's some God given right. In fact, it's another stipulation. Failure to produce an heir forfeits the right to resources should the male with no paternal interest leave the arrangement. What in the fuck?

  I look up from the contracts. “Heirs?” I say, to no one in particular.

  It's no surprise to me when Soren takes the lead here. “Yes, Livia, heirs. We each need an heir. We have generational wealth. Do you know what generational wealth requires?”

  When I just stare at him blankly, he says, “Generations.”

  I roll my eyes at this—the first moderately brave thing I've done in weeks with these men. “Must these heirs be male? If they aren't, are you going to lock me in the tower and chop off my head?”

  “Don't be ridiculous,” Soren says. “Of course they don't have to be male. They just need to be ours.”

  “And how exactly would that work? How would we...” I can't even think of how to phrase this question. How does one juggle the logistics of paternity in this situation?

  Soren arches a brow at me, but it's Griffin who answers from farther down the table.

  “How it would work is... we all fuck you raw—no protection—until you have the first child. Then we do a paternity test, and the father doesn't get further access to your pussy with his dick until you're pregnant again and it's safe. But he can still claim your mouth and ass—so, he'll live. After we each have an heir you can get your tubes tied if you so choose. It's always nice to have backup heirs, but even we thought six pregnancies was cruel. Though twins run in Dayne's family, so there's that.”

  My face flames at these crude words, though the attorneys remain stoic as if nothing happened. I can't believe Griffin just said these things to me in front of these strangers. And yet. There's the part of me that is excited by all the things I should be shocked and horrified by. My libido is the biggest chain that binds me to these men because I'm pretty sure they're offering me every dark fantasy my mind has ever concocted.

  I glance back down at the contracts to find that, in fact, a statement about the right to a tubal ligation has been mentioned after I've done my breeding duty. Though it is stated in the classier “heir” language.

  I don't know what the hell is wrong with me, but my body practically sings and begs for each of them to take their turn impregnating me. It's so sick and twisted, this demand that I be their broodmare—livestock so they can pass their money along using me as a mere container for this wealth transfer. But it makes me so fucking wet I can barely stand to have the eyes of so many strangers on me while I process all of this.

  “And what if I can't have children?” I ask.

  “That's the next clause,” Soren says.

  He's right. I look down to find a place I have to initial regarding submitting to fertility tests with a doctor of their choosing as well as steps which will be taken to ensure heirs.

  “This is insanity,” I say. “You do realize that infertility isn't just a woman problem, right? Men can be infertile as well.”

  “We've already had all the appropriate tests. All of our swimmers are in top competition shape, I assure you,” Soren says.

  I look over to Dayne who hasn't said a word about all this, but I swear he's imagining my belly swollen with his child—or children, if Griffin's comment about twins is correct.

  I continue reading. Should these unions break by their choice, I will be allowed to keep the children with me, but Griffin, Dayne, and Soren will have access to their children whenever they choose. All needs for the children and for me will be taken care of and amounts and percentages are stipulated. If I leave, they get full custody and I get visitation.

  I wonder if they're worried their past threats aren't strong enough to hold me. Maybe they need the future threat of surrendered custody of my own children to superglue my life to theirs. Or maybe even Soren isn't cruel enough to put the mother of his child in prison.

  “You won't have to do all the childcare duties. And of course we'll want to have access to you whenever we please, so there will be help at the estate to take some of the burden of motherhood off you,” Soren says.

  Of course. After all, three little heirs could get in the way of the men getting all their depraved needs met inside my body. I cross and recross my legs, trying to stop the throbbing ache that's been going since this meeting started.

  I don't say anything more. I just finish reading the contracts, then I hand them to my placeholder attorney because I'm supposed to. I'm mortified for him to also be consuming these words. He takes out a pair of reading glasses and takes his sweet time poring over each word—probably getting off on it. The room is pin-drop silent while he engages in this show trial.

  Soren is back to stroking the back of my hand. I wish he would stop. It does things to me. It makes me want to be his little spoon for the rest of time. And I can't feel that for this man. I don't understand why these small acts of kindness—if they are kindness—ignites an urge in me to please him, to be close to him.

  I'm confused by how things have shifted or what any of it means. Both Dayne and Griffin still inspire the same feelings in me as before. And we still have our time together, time that is just ours. But increasingly Soren is taking up more and more space in my mind.

  Maybe it's because he's the one who will be my husband and the other two are... what? Illicit lovers? Extras on our porn set? I don't understand how any of this can work. But I just sit quietly like the good girl I apparently am, while my attorney finishes reading the contracts.

  Finally he slides them back over to me and nods as if this means anything—as if my interests have really been taken into account in this joke of a meeting. But in truth, the contracts are better than I expected. They do protect me if these men abandon me, and while they want heirs, these would be my children as well. And they'd be going into a life far better than I did. I always wanted children—three, coincidentally—and now those children have a future. I have a future. If I can survive it.

  I dutifully initial on all the pages marked by a thin neon sticky note, then I sign and date the last page of each contract. I stack them together and place them in front of me on the conference table. I stare at the papers. A strange visual pops into my head of me transforming into a dragon and burning the contracts to ash with my flaming breath.

  “Livia,” Soren says, interrupting this brief fantasy interlude.

  I look up. “Yes?”

  “I'd like you to wait out in the hallway for us. We have some business to discuss that doesn't concern you.”

  Yeah, right. But I only nod, too dazed to argue or fight after legally binding myself to these men, after the words that just passed across this table and the strangers who heard it all. My face flames again, but I stand. Everyone else in the room stands as well, and I walk out, shutting the door softly behind me.

  After the meeting with the attorneys, I'm taken directly to a doctor of their choosing to get those fertility tests. I expected it to be some creepy frail man—part of their old boys network. But it isn't. It's a kind, middle-aged woman with curly brown hair and delicate gold-framed glasses. She explains all the tests she's running before doing the exam and taking samples for testing. She reassures me and tells me about the new developments in fertility treatments should they become necessary, including options like surrogates, even
donor eggs if I really and truly were infertile. Depending on the circumstances I could carry the baby or someone else could. My egg or someone else's.

  Soren briefly outlined some of these options on the ride over. They want the babies to be ours together biologically, but they need heirs. My biological material isn't strictly required.

  The sky really is the limit here. At this point fertility tests seem like just another humiliating exercise, reminding me of the totality of their ownership over my body.

  All three men have chosen to be with me in the room. The doctor makes zero comment about this—even though, just like the pre-nup meeting, this is highly irregular. Every time some weird thing like this happens, I'm reminded of just how much power these men have and how little they care for any laws or rules of society, how easy it is for them to bend all of those laws and rules. Money talks, and all they need is the right people to listen.

  I'm not in a paper gown like I might be in a normal gynecological setting. This is what I can only describe as a luxury medical spa and fertility clinic. I had no idea such things existed, but here I am, so clearly they do.

  So no, it's not a paper gown.

  When everything is finished, I'm directed to get dressed and meet the doctor back in her office. The men and doctor leave me, and I put my clothes back on. When I get to the doctor's private office, a cup of hot tea in a delicate porcelain cup along with a couple of what appear to be bakery-fresh shortbread cookies are waiting for me.

  The teacup has three delicate light blue robin eggs nestled inside a small nest hand-painted on the side. I wonder briefly if this was a thematic choice on the part of the fertility clinic or if they just liked the design. It does, after all match the office's décor. At the same time... eggs are a little on the nose.

  “Do you have any questions Ms. Fairchild?” the doctor asks turning her attention finally from her conversation with Griffin, Dayne, and Soren over to me. Finally, I exist again. It's only my body which will be bearing the burden of these heirs after all.