by J. J. McAvoy
“You’re lying, Yvonne, and it’s so sad. But I guess it doesn’t matter now. At least I’m not the mistake that killed him.”
The winner was my mother. Of course.
Yvonne stood there frozen, her jaw tight—most likely from that verbal slap across the face. It took her a second, but she just grabbed her clutch.
“We’re done here,” was all she said before marching out of the conference room with Augusta, as well as their lawyers, right behind her.
My mom took a deep breath, finally, and then sat down, leaning back into her chair.
“You crossed a line.”
“How many times do I have to tell you, Odette? There are no lines in a ring. She punched, and I punched back. It’s not my fault she couldn’t take it,” she uttered gently, crossing her arms over her chest.
I looked away because, apparently, she needed a minute to get off her high horse. So, I faced Mr. Greensboro, who sat calmly, looking over the documents in front of him. He had handled her divorce, so I was sure he was used to her by now.
“Mr. Greensboro?”
“Yes, Ms. Wyntor?”
“I know you can’t stop rumors. But if there are any videos or audio about what happened here today, we will sue and do so with a new firm.”
“Relax, Odette. Charles is—”
“Mom, you’ve done enough!” I held my hand out to stop her. Luckily, she didn’t say anything back.
“Don’t worry, Ms. Wyntor. I had all cell phones confiscated on this level for the duration of this meeting, and should anyone try anything, we will personally deal with it harshly,” he reassured me.
I checked the doors to see no one standing or even daring to look inside. Nodding, I sat down at the head of the table beside my mother. “Okay, so what happened in the few minutes I was gone? What led to their fight?”
“She was—”
“Mom, say one more thing, and I will give it all up!” I threatened, and Mr. Greensboro’s face paled worse than hers. I offered a smile. “Well, sir?”
“They brought proof of your father’s conditions to the inheritance. It’s iron tight. I’m guessing it’s a second draft he created before his untimely death. But it is newer than the will we were aware of.”
“Are you sure it is real?”
“Yes. Everything is the same, but with conditions, and it has the same signature, which we verified, as well as his personal assistant’s.”
I took a breath. “Okay, so what are these conditions?”
“Marriage.”
“Say what?”
“You need to be married and have a child.”
I felt something. Maybe it was the earth rattling under my feet. Maybe it was my soul leaving my body. But I definitely felt something. “Are you serious?” I couldn’t believe it.
“And this is why I told you to stop telling him you didn’t want to get married,” my mother grumbled. “He was always going on about continuing the Wyntor legacy. You thought I was being harsh, but he never said anything to you. Apparently, he was always planning on getting the last laugh.”
That was what it was.
That feeling I felt.
It was my father laughing at me from beyond the grave.
Chapter 3
“The assets totaling fifty-one point eight billion dollars will be divided equally between Odette Rochelle Wyntor and Augusta Pearl Wyntor, for a total of twenty-five point nine billion each. Of which, the first one-third of their inheritance will be received upon their marriages to a person of respectable integrity, morality, and standing, lasting more than one year. After the first three years of said marriage, they shall receive the second third of their inheritance. And the last third shall be given upon the birth of their first child—”
“No matter how many times you read it, Odette, it’s not going to change,” my mother called out from her bathroom.
I couldn’t believe it. The more I read it, the more I shook. “He can’t do this!” I hollered across her room, waving the paper above my head like a crazy woman. “It’s chauvinistic! It’s archaic! It’s wrong!”
“It’s his money, Odette. He can make the rules for whoever gets it,” she said, coming back out with a facial mask all over her.
“I know, but these are dumb rules. He should be the last person to advocate marriage. I mean...ugh. I’m so angry! How could he do this?” I lifted the paper back up to my face. “And what does ‘a person of respectable integrity, morality, and standing’ mean.”
“It means, don’t go marry a hobo off the street to get the money,” she clarified, moving to sit at her vanity.
“I get what it means! What I don’t get is who the hell is going to decide what a ‘person of respectable integrity, morality, and standing’ is?” And listen to this. Dad must have had a ball coming up with is part. ‘Should either daughter fail to marry, the assets totaling fifty-one point eight billion dollars will be divided. The first half shall be given to the Marvin Wyntor Global Foundation, and the second reinvested in Etheus.’ He’s threatening us!”
“You have to love your father. He said his money was either going back to him or going back to his company, which is also him.” Wilhelmina snickered before rubbing cream onto her neck.
“Exactly. No matter what, his money stays connected to everything he created. That is selfish and conceited! But no, he’s not done.” I smacked the paper bitterly. “Should only one daughter fail to marry and provide a child, the full sum and assets will pass on to the child of the other daughter under the same aforementioned conditions—so much for not pitting Augusta and me against each other!”
“At least he didn’t put a time frame on it,” she replied calmly, patting under her eyelids.
I paused, staring as she comfortably prepped and primed her face.
Her eyes shifted and met mine in the mirror when I was silent. “What?”
“Why am I the only one upset, pacing, and yelling?”
“Good question. Will you sit down and relax? Try this new golden banana and orchid facemask I just got—”
“Let me rephrase the question,” I cut in because she obviously didn’t understand where I was going or understood perfectly and was trying to distract me. “Why don’t you seem surprised, Mom?”
“I told you. Your father always spoke about wanting to continue his legacy. I’m surprised he didn’t insist you take his last name after marriage,” she replied and got up quickly, moving to leave the room.
Something is off.
“Yeah, but Yvonne just brought Dad’s new will today. You should at least be surprised.” She should be angrier than me, in fact.
“I was surprised, which is why Yvonne and I fought before you came back from your abnormally long bathroom break,” she said as we walked down the staircase.
“You always had fights, so that was normal for you, Mom. You didn’t say anything as Mr. Greensboro explained the will. You just kept texting. Who were you texting?”
“You know, it’s very rude for you to question your mother like this. You’re making me feel like some sort of criminal.” She huffed and rubbed her earlobe.
That was her tell! She always did that when she was up to something or knew she’d get in a little bit of trouble.
“Mom, what did you do!”
“Nothing! So stop accusing me,” she snapped before marching into the living room and taking her seat on her chaise lounge, which overlooked all of Seattle.
The view always took my breath away, but right now, it was the anxiousness that made my chest constrict. I thought back throughout the day, trying to see if there was anything she could have done if she’d left any clues—wait.
“Oh, don’t just stand there, Odette. I think the chef made us some yogurt for an evening snack. Why don’t we have that and—”
“This afternoon, you said, ‘The plan is to trust your mother.’ You weren’t expecting Yvonne to show today, but you knew about the new will, didn’t you?”
“Odette.”
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“I know you, Mom—better than anyone—so, I know you won’t stop until I have that money. If you’re this calm, if you tell me to trust you, it’s because you have a plan.”
She lifted her issue of Vogue, flipping the pages casually. “Will you please uncover the yogurt, Sherlock Holmes, instead of interrogating me?”
“Okay, then.” I pulled out my phone, already dialing.
“What are you doing?” she questioned.
Ignoring her, I lifted the phone to my ear.
“Odette.”
“Mr. Greensboro, I’m sorry for calling so late, but I’ve decided to give up on—”
“Have you lost your mind!” She snatched the phone. “Charles, she’s just kidding...” Her face fell when she realized I hadn’t actually hit call. “You are not funny.”
“I wasn’t trying to be funny,” I said back. “I’m just trying to remind you that it’s my money, it’s my life, and if you’re making plans, you need to tell me. I’m not a kid anymore.”
She exhaled and rolled her eyes, sitting back down. “Where is all this boldness when we’re in front of other people? You are always too timid and quiet with them. Then you come and act all tough in front of me.”
“You steal all the oxygen in the room. How can I get a word in?” I shot back. “Now, what are you planning?”
“Will you get the yogurt first? Then we’ll talk.”
“Fine.” I reached for my phone back, but she just held it to herself.
“I’m confiscating this for now.”
“Whatever, and take off the mask already, Mom. Your face is fine,” I replied, then walked around the coffee table and out of the living room to the kitchen to get her beloved fat-free, vanilla and fruit-blended yogurt.
I was about seven when I realized my mom wasn’t like other moms. Maybe it was because I was around that same age when I stopped doing pageants and spent time with “regular” kids, as regular as they could be, anyway. She’d had me at twenty, but my dad said she sometimes acted like a teenager. She was goofy, stubborn, vain, loud, and blunt—unapologetically blunt. When I gained weight, she was the first to let me know. If I were getting too skinny, she’d let me know that, too. If I woke up late for school because she’d let me stay up all night with her to watch a movie, she’d refuse to let me go to school until I was perfectly presentable. There was no such thing as a bad hair day. It was just something that stressed and lazy people made up so as not to put in any effort. She was strict in only one thing, appearance.
If I got a bad grade, all she would ask was whether or not I had tried, and when I said yes, she’d say, “Well, that’s all you can do. Good job.” My father, on the other hand, would lecture me for a solid hour until my mom came to save me.
When I was nine, she and I both realized I had a gift and love for the piano and singing. She put all her effort into making sure I had the best teachers and took classes. She became my biggest cheerleader, and every time my father would begin to voice his disapproval, she’d unleash hell. He’d said she was always too carefree with me. And she was. Even I noticed back then that most girls had issues with their moms as teenagers. But mine was more like my friend. I wanted to grow up to help her, to prove that she was a good mom, just different. But somewhere along the line, I think I became more of the parent, and I was stricter with her so she didn’t anger my dad or get into an argument with anyone else.
“Did he not leave any?” she called out loudly, snapping me from my thoughts.
“No, he did. Coming.” I grabbed the yogurt from the fridge as well as two spoons from the drawer. Entering the living room, I saw she’d now taken off her mask and was scrolling through my messages.
“Are you looking through my phone?”
“Yes, and I’m very disappointed!” she called out dramatically. “How do you not have a more interesting life? I’ve nearly fallen asleep reading through your texts!”
“Excuse you; I have a life. Thank you. It’s just not a crazy one,” I replied, giving her the yogurt and snatching back my phone.
“A.k.a. boring. Why don’t you do what other rich girls do like—”
“Drugs, alcohol, and men,” I asked, taking a bite of my own yogurt as I sat down on the floor. “Sorry, but I don’t have bad enough daddy issues for that. Consider that a credit to you and Dad.”
“I’ll accept it as credit. Now, just say thank you for being an amazing mom.” She leaned her ear to me.
I cleared my throat and leaned in. “Can we get to the part where you tell me what is going on?”
She sighed and leaned back, licking her spoon. “You’re no fun.”
“Nope. Licensed fun-killer here, and you are stalling.”
“Fine. Fine. Fine. I was hoping to wear you down slowly, but someone just won’t let me have any peace tonight.”
“Wear me down to what?” I hope she didn’t mean what I thought she meant.
“Marriage.”
“Mom!” It was exactly what I thought she’d meant. “I don’t want to get married.”
“See, this is why I wanted to work slowly. You’re always so stubborn.”
“I’m stubborn? You are the Queen of Stubborn, the Miss Universe of Stubborn!”
She turned her head and ate while ignoring me completely because she knew I was right.
“I’m not getting married, especially for money.”
“Odette, we need the money,” she reminded me. “You especially. Over the last year, you’ve tried to manage with just the money you were making off your music. How is that working out? How much do you have left?”
I looked away. “It’s not my fault, and you are not helping, Miss I-need-a-personal-driver. I’m perfectly fine selling off—”
“You’d rather sell off everything your father gave you than get married and get the money he wants you to have? We have bills and debts we need to pay.” When she put it like that, it sounded bad.
“You make it sound so easy! Like I’m just supposed to pick some random guy and get married to them for a year. Who would I even marry?”
“I found someone,” she whispered sheepishly.
What? “You found someone?” I repeated in disbelief. “What did you do? Go to a grocery store of eligible bachelors or something?”
“No, of course not. But if a place like that existed, it would be helpful.”
I shook my head and ate. “I’m not taking you seriously. You. Dad. Nope. I refuse to be made crazy today.”
“Odette, hear me out.”
“No need. I get it now. You knew about the second will, and you had some trust-fund brat waiting in the wings. That’s why you weren’t angry. Got it. Not happening,” I told her comfortably, already reaching for the remote control.
“Winter is coming early this year. Grab your—”
She grabbed the remote, turning it right back off. “He’s not a trust-fund brat, per se.”
“Don’t care, not interested,” I replied, taking the control back and flipping to the movies. “Do you want to watch The Notebook or If Beale Street Could Talk?”
“Fine, if you don’t want to be the princess of Ersovia, I can’t force you.” She huffed.
“The what of where?” I stared at her, my mouth agape, and of course, she was only pretending to be uninterested as she ate.
But the smug grin on her face couldn’t help but break out as she whipped back to me. A smile broke out widely across her face. “Anyone can get a trust-fund brat. Your mother, however, got you a prince.” She grinned, shaking with excitement.
“I’m leaning more toward If Beale Street Could Talk,” I replied, turning back to the television.
“Odette, didn’t you hear me? A prince! He’s Prince Galahad Fitzhugh Cornelius Edgar of Ersovia!”
“Good for him. I don’t care,” I said, pressing play.
“You would be a princess! Not just some wife of a trust fund or rich kid—”
“A prince is actually worse. Why the hell would I want to be a
princess?” Did she not see or read all the historical reasons why that seemed like hell? Even if I didn’t have bills and debts to pay, that didn’t seem worth it.
She groaned and held out her hands to me as if she wanted to strangle me. “If not for your face, I would wonder if you were my daughter!”
“Shh...the movie is starting.” I held my finger to my lips.
Instead of getting the hint, she held her phone to my face. There was a picture of a very handsome man with curly bronze hair, a square jaw, broad shoulders, and blue eyes. I could tell he was tall, too. He looked like the type of man who collected pieces of the hearts he broke as souvenirs.
“I can’t see the movie, Mom.”
“I’ve already signed an agreement with them.”
“You did what?” I yelled. “Without talking to me? It’s about me!”
“I knew you would say no!”
“Of course, I would say no!”
“We need the money!”
“So? It’s my life. If you have contacted them about me once, you can do it again to tell them I said no to the agreement.”
“No.”
My head shot to her. “What do you mean, no? You can’t say no.”
“As your mother, I can. I am going to put my heart and soul into this for your own good! So that if it fails, you will have to bury me!” she snapped, rising to her feet.
I rolled my eyes. “You’re a little late putting down your foot, Mom. My answer is no, and it’s not changing.”
“Not if the ‘Queen of Stubborn,’ the ‘Miss Universe of Stubborn,’ has anything to say about it!” she called back as she headed upstairs.
Great, I thought when she disappeared from sight. My mother never missed a chance to have the last word.
A prince? Really? Where did she get these ideas from? Me, a princess? As if.
And where the hell is Ersovia?
“No, don’t even think about it. That’s what she wants,” I muttered to myself. I wasn’t going to think about it. I wasn’t even going to remember his face.
Though...he was cute.